Where do I start with this one? It's coming up to Christmas It's dark. It's cold. It's wet. It's time to leave. I've got means, I've got opportunity, I've got to get the hell out of here. Right now. A fellow RTW rider at work is in the same state. We're like 2 animals tied up and straining at the lead, whining and moaning, heads hanging down and desperately needing to go out for a good long walk. A quick escape plan is made, bribes are paid, collars are loosened and we're off. Running out the door and heading hard for the horizon before anyone realises we're missing.
Boxing day, I'm away. Destination is Arunachal Pradesh - The land of the dawn lit mountains - in far north east India. A place I admit I never knew existed. A disputed region that China calls South Tibet, squeezed in between China, Bhutan, Bangladesh and Myanmar.
We saw an off-road Enfield tour advertised and I signed up before the ink was even dry on the screen. Bugger the details, bugger the route, bugger the accommodation. All we were interested in was 'where and when'.
Boxing day, I'm away. I'm travelling in full Mad Max black leathers as I don't have off-road kit. I'm going through customs. The man with the magic wand isn't happy. The wand is going mental and he can't feel my legs. For the first time in my life I'm lead into a private room with 2 blokes wearing rubber gloves. I don't think he's even put any lubrication on. He asks me to remove my trousers - he needs to see what I'm packing. Not much as it happens. They can't decide if its a tiny stick of dynamite or just a very short fuse. Either way they decide it's no threat to man (or woman) or beast and I'm let back on my way without any rubber meets flesh moments. Onto the big silver bird and it's first stop Delhi to meet up with my workmate and her fella who flew out yesterday.
This is just a stopover before heading north so check into a cookie cutter 'Boliday Inn' and head straight for the city. Someone has been round with a dustpan and brush since I was hear last. Lots of new buildings and roads, They've even built a huge bugger off metro system. You don't have to look very far to see where they've tipped all the rubbish though. Head out from the centre and it's quickly shite central. The driving is just as mental and never has the word 'merge' been more appropriate as cars buses and bikes jostle and join together like rubbish flowing down a river. The gaps between vehicles is measured in molecules. If you're claustrophobic this isn't the place for you. Look out any window and there's a bus/lorry/taxi panel pressed right up against you. Quick scoot round the centre, look in at an Enfield shop and eat on a balcony in the sun. Reality is already fading fast. Thank God. Reality is over-rated.
We're heading back in the evening and the driver hits a massive bump - it's like he's fired the ejector seat without opening the roof. I've got my sunglasses on my head and now I've got Oakley embedded in my skull right next to my 666 birthmark. Still, it means I can put my sunglasses on my head and wear my helmet at the same time now.
Up early for a flight up to Dibrugarh. India is a massive country. It's 2700km and 2 and a half hours north east before we land at Dibrugarh to meet the bikes. They've taken 7 days by road on a truck to get here. We meet Gaurav and climb in the truck down to the town to meet the machines. Already the place seems weird. The traffic is suitably mental and there is shit everywhere you look but this is not at all the India I'm expecting. For anyone that's been to India before, you expect chaos all around you all the time. That, and lots and lots and lots of people. People soup. You can't get away from people where ever you go. They're absolutely everywhere. But here... it's different. Arunachal Pradesh is the least populated area in all India and it's immediately apparent. I bought a few cats with me on this trip, just to see if there would be room to swing them. Out here I can swing them by the ends of their tails with room to spare. It's a strange feeling. A bit post apocalyptic.
Out to the hotel and a walk around the mean dark streets where poverty lives. Round past the little shops where all sorts of sounds and smells fight for your attention. Round past a huge train yard where the beasts go to be tended. This place is really isolated and it's the end of the line as far as trains are concerned. We're heading off into that isolation tomorrow. Out across the flood plains and north into the mountains.
After a night haunted by ghost trains clanking and moaning past the door on the way to their beds in the sheds we meet up with the team running the trip. There are only 3 of us but 6 of them! Gaurav is the leader. An indian film maker and big motorcyclist that now runs tours, mostly in Kashmir but occasionally out here in the land that India has forgotten. He has a 'road captain' that will ride with us too plus a mechanic, a cook and a 'helper' plus a driver to bring the travelling party along. There is absolutely no tourist infrastructure up this way. It's really quite refreshing! They've bought 5 bikes so we go and choose our steeds. Enfield 500 Bullets.
Good old Enfields. These are the 'Machismo' editions. Electric start, disk brake, 5 forward gears and 5 neutrals. They're a bit small for me though. I reckon I must look like a Shetland shagging a Shih Tzu when I'm riding it but who cares. These things are tough. They're survivors. I reckon they'll be the bikes the coach roaches will be riding after the holocaust.
Saddle up and ride out. From previous experience I'm expecting to be riding in nose to tail traffic in clouds of black smoke and checking my life insurance every 20 seconds out here but it's the complete opposite. Get out of town and the traffic is almost non-existant. Good roads for a few miles then down some lanes through theea plantations. Stunted bushes gleaming with night sweat in the low morning sunshine.
We're heading for the ferry to cross the huge Brahmaputra river. The Indian government is slowly trying to pull this region into the 21st century by building roads and bridges, mainly for military access, and the river is punctuated by towering stubs of concrete that will eventually carry the bridge high over the river but at the moment they just disappear over the horizon like a long row of punctuation marks.
Down into the sand we go. This is where my fear begins. Fear of anything other than tarmac under the wheels. The Enfield is too small for me to comfortably stand up on so I have to sit down and ride the rough stuff. I hate doing that. My backside is exit only for everything. Signals from a saddle, doctor's fingers, foreign objects, anything. Sitting down through the sand gives me anal overload and I can't process it. The Enfield though, that's been there and done that and it just takes over. It's an incredibly stable bike and just pulls on through no problem what so ever. Perhaps this won't be so bad after all.
Get to the ferry terminal and it's all calm and quiet. No swarms of hot people pushing and shoving their way about. No shouting and screaming. No tension. Just odd.
The journey takes about an hour as the huge river meanders it's way east on it's long journey to the Bay of Bengal. I love journeys like this. No health and safety, no briefings, no tannoy announcements, just jump on and hope you get to the other side. It's a really slow ride through very shallow water where a special 'sonar wallah' takes depth readings with a bamboo pole.
A gentle hour spent throbbing through the water and we're at the docks/beach. The bridge supports still run off into the distance in both directions. This is going to be one massive bridge but it just shows how big these flood plains are up here. I take a depth reading using my sandometer before I ride off. It's well into the brown and I'm expecting lots of fartworks but again the bike just wiggles up the beach belching and popping to it's hearts content. The Enfields are possessed by gentle souls. They don't have the power to scare you. They're like riding a mechanical elephant. Slow and a bit ponderous but virtually unstoppable and extremely sure footed.
This really is a beautiful area of the world. Ears used to the constant cacophony of a crowd are being retuned to the quiet of an open landscape and the rush of low speed air on a bike. Riding along tracks built on high ground you look out over the landscape at the stilted houses and the drying crops and remember how lucky you are.
Short ride up to Boleng and camp by a river. Soon as we arrive the little team are sprinting about putting up tents and cooking dinner as we sit in comfy chairs sipping rice wine and feeling guilty. That will soon pass I'm sure! A three course dinner served under head torches, an hour chatting shit by the campfire and the jet lag says its time to shut down for the night.
The tent has been pitched on a slope and I keep waking up in a foetal ball in the bottom corner. I flippin hate camping. I reckon even Houdini would have trouble escaping from my bloody sleeping bag in anything under an hour. And I guarantee he'd have pissed himself in the process. Wake up and unfold myself and head out to the veranda. Lovely fine white sand between my toes and a cup of my chai in my hand before I've finished my first fart. Bliss.
The crew have been up for hours and food smells hang in the air mixed with woodsmoke, water and wine. Sit and watch the mechanic awaken the beasts as they fart and pop and clear their pipes for the day. The accelerator on an Enfield doesn't really make much difference to forward motion. It's mostly just a volume control. The mechanic turns up the noise and the river ripples in response in the distance. Riding behind one is like being fired at with a 12 bore air pistol. You can see the pulses exploding in the dust and if you get one in the face you know about it. The bureautwats in Brussels would have a fit watching and listening to this stuff. They would go into a clipboard frenzy the moment the key was turned. India, you've got to love it! You can't beat the smell of unburnt hydrocarbons with your breakfast.
Destination today is Jenging. Not far, not far on normal roads anyway. Anyone that's been to India will know what the average roads are like so you can imagine what the small roads and tracks in the mountains are like. We were warned about their condition before we came and I'm glad to see they're just as shit as advertised. Shitter in fact. These aren't just rough roads. They're really tough roads. Keep anything shiny or new away from roads. Like 25% finished road jigsaws most of the time. Like they've got a lorry load of road bits and driven along with the back flap open. A lot are just tracks. Often wet and slippery and trying to throw you into the scenery. Not that that would be so bad. Beautiful, lush and often a lovely deep bottle green.
Stop for lunch at a shack next to a suspended bamboo bridge and watch a local ride over. Bloody thing is swinging about everywhere and crunching under his wheels as the bamboo breaks. I go down for a look and head straight out over the water accompanied by creaks and groans and squeaks beneath my feet. I don't think Brunel would be particularly impressed and I doubt it would take one of his trains but it feels safe enough. Give it the old bounce test and get it going like a trampoline in no time. A big Randolph , a front Cody and a set of huge Kabooms with a couple of Full Rudys and I'm ready to eat. Nice.
Sit down to eat something hot and random to the sound of knuckle meeting nose. Some locals have decided to settle a dispute the old fashioned way and trying to twat 7 bells of each other. We're told there are all sorts of tribal disputes up here and they're often falling out. As long as he doesn't get any blood in my rice. Still, there are plenty of people round here to sign my helmet (careful!) and they're all very friendly when they're not punching each other.
On to Jenging we go. The roads just get rougher and rougher as we head further up into the hills. Potholes just don't cover it. More like earth workings. You know those huge mining excavations with 50 tonne yellow earth movers prowling about in them, well they've got nothing on the holes in these roads. The people riding in front keep disappearing into the road then reappear seconds later yomping out the other side of a hole/crevasse/trench. The old Enfield just keeps plugging through though. You chuck it into something you're sure will defeat it and it just comes out laughing and smiling saying "is that all you've got? Bring it on." ****ing incredible really. I've got ties wider than it's tyres and it's ground clearance isn't brilliant but the bloody things are unstoppable.
By the time we get to Jenging my balls are bruised and my arse... my arse feels like a gay hooker whose just finished a 48 hour shift at a love parade. Jesus. I hope we've got nice beds and warm showers tonight. "We're staying in a government house tonight". Great, definitely warm beds, a Jacuzzi, hot showers and possibly a pool then. The region has these government houses that the people stay in when they're up here sorting stuff out. If there is nobody staying there then it's possible to pay and stay there. Here we go. Where is it? I'm looking for whitewashed stones, possibly a gatehouse, and definitely a flagpole. Hang on, we've all stopped. I guess we'll just wait by this derelict abandoned building while we make a phone call and send the chauffeur in to guide us in to the mansion. What? Are you sure? Oh you're such a funny bloke No really? Oh.....
I was not expecting this. Perhaps he meant a government prison house? I can't imagine a UK government official pitching up, washing with a bucket, shitting in a hole and sleeping in a bed of unknown hygienic provenance but apparently it's true here. There is a little bloke on duty that has to jump on his bike and power the generator to provide meagre pulsing power and thats about it. The crew are all over it anyway. Boiling water to wash and commandeering the 'kitchen' to execute and cook the dinner while we wander around and compare damp patches. Fantastic place. We all dare each other to stand on the bamboo balcony built on the edge of the hill and attached to the house by a couple of pieces of string.
My back feels like it's plugged directly into the mains and someone is flicking a switch. I had some huge hits up the jacksee today. Like being arse raped by a buffalo with big lead balls. I think it's re-plumbed my nervous system and I've now got a short. Gaurav makes some enquiries and we get hold of the local doctor/masseur/surgeon/DIY expert. Jenging is just a small village hanging on to the side of a hill. Multi tasking is a necessity! Dr Bob decides the best way to fix my back is to pummel my head with his fists and to rub his hands so hard on my face that I'm worried he's going to rub it all off and I'll just end up looking like "The Scream". He eventually decides that the twatting method can be used on my back too and he punches it into submission. The price? £2. I give him a fiver and his smile is so wide it touches his ears.
Bloody cold at night up here. Jump straight from the campfire to the nearest bed and a couple of crusty blankets. Out like a light.
Wake in the morning. There is something telling me to get up. To go outside. There's something waiting for me. Out of the warm cocoon and out I go. "Thanks" I hear all my senses say. "Thanks a lot". This is why it's worth the pain to get to these places. I just stand and breath it all in. I'm breathing through my eyes, through my ears, through my skin. The sky is busy painting in slow motion. Shadows crawling towards me, clouds hovering and warming themselves in the first morning rays. Land of the dawn lit mountains. This is it. Special moment to treasure forever. Beauty beyond words.
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