WIMA Victoria: Nepal by Motorbike

Nepal by Motorbike

Most tourists travel to the Himalayas to trek up mountains. Straight up them. And then straight down. And then up and then down and then up... ‘Uh-uh', I thought. There must be a better way, and what could be better than touring on a 600cc dirt bike, or maybe an XL 250? It didn't, of course, work out to be quite that easy. We spent the first couple of days in Kathmandu searching for suitable bikes. Combing the maze of alleyways and markets, bustling with people, livestock, car horns and temples, following leads and directions round and round in circles. Finally, we settled for the locals' choice - 100cc Escort 2 stroke road bikes for US $8 each per day. We were a bit sceptical at first, but they turned out to be perfect for the job.

We set off from Kathmandu bright and early, weaving our way amongst the traffic, in the general direction of the Tibetan Border. Amazingly, we fluked our escape from the city quite easily and were soon out on the open road. It was an exhilarating morning - good winding tarred roads with magnificent views of the Himalayas peeping through the clouds. By midday, however, the highway had deteriorated to a muddy track, churned up by a constant barrage of trucks. I don't know who was more surprised that I kept going - me or my husband, Jack. ‘What the hell', I decided. The bike was so small that it wasn't exactly a long way to fall! By the end of the day I was sliding through the muddy sections with a grin from ear to ear.

The road to Tibet climbs its way along a narrow gorge carved through the mountains by a raging river. Villages cling precariously between the road and the water, with the cliff face looming above. The locals are employed in a losing battle to defend the road against the onslaught of monsoons and landslides and a constant barrage of overladen trucks and buses. People line the worst sections of the road, chiselling massive boulders by hand and dumping the chunks into the path of the oncoming trucks. We rode the bikes over the top of landslides, around fallen boulders and across rivers to reach the Tibetan border. We would worm our way to the front of the traffic jam, and then enlist some help to carry the bikes over the worst of the landslides. Jack's big advice was to keep my helmet on, just in case the rest of the cliff suddenly shifted. I felt like Coyote in a Road Runner Cartoon–wearing his pith helmet, as the shadow of a massive boulder looms overhead and squashes him to the size of an ant.

Well, we made it to the Tibetan border. The most bizarre thing about this muddy village outpost was all the meticulously-groomed, fluffy Tibetan lap dogs. We returned back the way we had come, but it was not the same–this time it was all downhill and new landslides to contend with.

Next we were on our way to Jiri, from where the Mount Everest base camp trek begins, chugging our way up a lovely tarred road reminiscent of English country lanes. As we crested the peak, enveloped in cloud, the road disappeared into a slippery clay pan and the world muffled and closed in around us. We kept heading in the general direction and were soon on the way down, coasting around the hairpins to conserve our waning petrol supply, with the wind and sounds of the countryside whistling in our ears (oh, and the bus horns screeching just before they career around blind corners).

We decided to spend a day experiencing the start of the Mount Everest base camp trek. It didn't take long for me to appreciate the advantage of two wheels. Much of the day was spent on rest breaks, being overtaken by a steady stream of human traffic, heading home into the hills. Old and young people alike, carrying virtually their own body weight on their heads.

The bikes could travel for miles on the sniff of an oily rag, but when even that ran out we were in a spot of bother. Luckily, one bike still had a bit in reserve, so I was left to stand guard over our gear in the sweltering midday heat whilst Jack rode back 40 km for petrol. Having run out of rupees, Jack mystified the local bank with a US$20 note. A couple of hours and about 50 bureaucratic forms later he was ready to buy petrol. Only problem was the first three petrol stalls he tried didn't have any! Finally he found some petrol, but then had to search to buy a plastic container to carry it in! Eventually we were on our way again , vowing to keep a closer eye on both petrol and rupee supplies in future. We were now a long way from the usual tourist route.

We decided to avoid the major traffic highway between Nepal and India, and instead take the old road over the mountain. The guide book warned that the road had fallen into a state of disrepair, but positively gushed about the best ever views of the Himalayas, and the wonderful, cheap hospitality at the top. We set off with high spirits, bottoming out in potholes big enough to swallow trucks. The limit of the bikes' suspension soon jarred its way into our bones, but the lure of the perfect view kept us going. As we climbed, however, the weather closed in, drenching us to the core with steady, drizzling rain. We finally arrived at the top, cold and exhausted, stinking of petrol from the makeshift repairs to the fuel lines on the way up. Unfortunately, the downside of tourism had reached the hotel before us. The good hospitality had been replaced with a surly bloke attempting to charge an outrageous fee for a draughty room without any facilities. We were used to staying in local accommodation, but at local prices, and refused to pay such an outrageous sum, heading off to the competitors. There were no competitors. This was the only hotel for miles and we were soaked through. We had to swallow our pride, and grovel back to the hotel pleading for a room. And the view of the Himalayas? I am sure it was very nice behind all those clouds.

It was a relief to leave the mountain behind and reach the hot open plains as we headed for Chitwan National Park for a spot of elephant-riding and rhinoceros- and tiger-spotting. With good flat roads ahead, the race was on. We actually managed a top speed of 100 km/hr with a tail wind, although we had to be careful the engine didn't seize. We raced along, competing with the Ta Ta trucks decorated with tinsel and charms, bearing down behind us, coming straight for us, or overturned down the embankments.

Traffic does, of course, work slightly different than at home. We met an Enfield rider who bought a brand spanking new Enfield from the showroom floor in India and took it for a spin. When he complained that the front brake didn't work, the Indian salesman replied ‘You must not be worrying about that, Sir. We don't use the brake here, but the horn is located on the left'.

Still, nothing beats the sights, smells and sounds of a day in the bike saddle, stopping at roadside cafes for whatever is available. Most days this was only dahl (sloppy lentil stew) but occasionally we would enjoy the luxury of a big town, feasting on spicy samosas and watching the latest Indian musical on TV. Then there was the day we pulled over for a rest and turned to see a Brahman cow had unzipped our baggage with his teeth and was busy searching through our stuff! This cow knew his place on the social scale and wasn't going to give up rights to our luggage easily. Carefully avoiding the head butting and bucking, we were able to extricate our bikes and head on our way.

And that amazing view of the Himalayas? We did find it, completely by accident in the beautiful village of Ghorka. We trekked our way up to a stunning temple, thousands of years old, to be surrounded by a panorama of snow-capped peaks. It was a fitting end to an amazing journey.

Michele Olsen