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As my illness started to decline, I felt my energy and enthusiam flow back faster than my strength. The malady which had been exacerbated by a couple of nights on the puff while I adjusted to Ma'ayan's absence and failed to adjust to a new timetable, I vanquished a few days later with another night of the same. After the slightest of spliffs, I had a shower, practiced my riff or the guitar, read my book, wrote the end of the previous letter, went to bed, got up for a mango, went to bed, and finally got up and started to convert all my letters so far into this HTML, while planning my new business as multimedia tutor, renouned existentialist author, and back street masseur. A thoroughly enjoyable night. The next day was no less eventful and despite the bulge in my neck and dearth of sleep, I met some Tibetans studying multimedia, entertained Bjorn (who after three days had descended from his party in the mountains and read my sick and lonely injuction to visit which had been scrawled on a piece of paper, hauled up to his village, and scrunched under his door one previous insomniac dawn), introduced a couple of those Tibetans to Director and 3DMAX. Then I discovered that the start of my job would be delayed another fortnight while they prepare the media. Not wishing to inflict this sedentary homo cyberian posture upon me even a week longer than necessary, I needed to think up an adventure, and quickly. Two weeks is enough to become a Reiki Master and to heal any ailments with my bare hands. There was time for a full power Goenka vipassana. I could advertise intensive expensive multimedia courses for curious westerners. But first I would see about an Enfield. At the mechanics I met an Israeli who informed me that his compatriots had left Manali recently in such a hurry, as to completely upset the second hand Enfield Market. There were rows of them he said, all going begging. "Right!" I pledged. "One last busride in all India and I shall have the finest Enfield that e'er graced a roving Shockwave programmers thighs!" I boarded a local bus
(the tourist buses had been canceled owing to lack of interest)and
got to Manali early evening. It was much nicer travelling by day,
but certainly a very circuitous journey. I lept on to a Rickshaw and
demanded to be taken to the nearest Enfield dealer - it was early
evening. Let
me tell you now that an Enfield is a big
bike. It has big wheels, a big
petrol tank and high handlebars. The engine is huge, and chugs rather
than purs, slowly and noisy, especially uphill. All its innards are
exposed to the world and readily accessible for regualar maintenance.
Sitting on the seat, its a struggle to keep the weight of the stationary
bike upright - its only really happy when its cruising, when an extra
passenger and luggage makes no difference to the handling. In town though,
the slow speeds, the width of the roofrack, the spurious gear changing
all contribute to the feeling of being a fish out of water. But if it
starts to fall sideways underneath you, the best you can do is help
it to the ground, and get a passer by to help you up!
By the next morning I
had identified a few things that needed doing, apart from the painting
of the roof rack. One rear indicator had fallen off,
the indicators did not work, there were no
mirrors, the speedo was disconnected, the
handlebars and leg-guard were loose and the front
light had a loose connection. As I rode back into Old Manali
I fell down a hole in the road and bent my front forks,
which cost about 14 pounds to replace. I put all of these complaints
on a list and hung around Old Manali for the day, trying to avoid Israelis.
Managed to buy a second hand manual camera (without a light meter) )for
under the odds. The wind on mechanism was a bit sticky, and it didn't
count the pitures, and the film speed setting device was a bit worn
out but it was a Cannon, and I was pleased.
I went to sit next to
an amicable looking group and was recognised by one of them, Tamara,
whom I had helped to buy a train ticket in Gorackpur. Also were two
English, two French and a Canadian, I sat with them, then ate with them,
and made friends in particular with Ben, 27, from Brighton, who hasn't
chosen a direction in life yet, but who struck me from the first as
open and honest. I said I'd join the group in Parvatti valley and Ben
agreed to ride pillion. Cool!
From the jobs on the
list, only the roof rack had been painted and with several reminders,
the headlamp rewired unconvincingly by a teenager. On the way back to
get my luggage, the bike broke down with a flat battery,
perhaps because I'd been using the headlamp, fortunately next to the
Enfield club. We got a jump start, but when it stalled again I had to
leave it. Bonny picked it up honorably that night.
Next morning Bonny
pointed out that I'd left the choke on and that the bike was fine. I
said ok, but was doubtful. There was an Israeli hanging around
the shop who needed to sell his bike that day.
I conferred with Ben - If he could ride it back to Dharamsala I could sell it at my leisure for a profit. He agreed, but it was nearly evening by the time Bonny had okayed it and changed the clutch. I gave the paperwork to Ben who gave it to the boy, who put it in the compartment of the bike. Legally the carrier of the papers is the carrier of the bike, Bonny told me. You need the registration documents, 3rd party insurance, and a pollution test certificate(not applicable to commercial vehicles since they have unions under whose protection they can run on cooking gas [cough cough].
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My new camera in action! Note that the left side of the picture is clear, while the right side is blurred. [Right] departing on our first leg. [Left] going somewhere to change the battery |
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