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Banjar Valley

I’m dry on the inside, but my gear is soaked. The Royal Enfield Classic does not have heated grips, and my fingers can barely stretch to cover the controls, which I know is dangerous. I am counting the kilometers as we descend from visiting the Prashar Temple, knowing that lower elevation means warmer temperatures. The rain has turned the dirt roadway slick, and I slide around corners on the bike’s street tires. I barely make it through a herd of water buffalo, which seem more disturbed by my unexpected and noisy presence than the freezing rain.

The lower elevation brings relief, yet it also brings the scariest tunnel I have ever ridden through. It is without illumination except for our headlights, there is no ventilation, and I begin to gasp in diesel fumes in a desperate effort to stay awake. Inside there are people on foot, some vehicles with no lights, and I am sure there are cows or other large quadrupeds just waiting to amble into my path. I focus on the specter of Buddhi’s rain poncho flapping in the breeze in order to keep my focus.

We then follow the river and ride up the Banjar Valley. Buddhi stops at a pullout alongside the river and beeps his horn. I am confused. I see a trolley with a waving man inside gliding towards us up above the narrow raging river, and light dawns. We park the bikes, my gear disappears, and then I gracelessly take a seat in the tiny basket in full motorcycle gear. I hold my breath as I sail across the river, boots up. I am on the other side being escorted to my room before I realize I forgot to take pictures.

His Holiness the Dalai Lama

There is a problem with my bike. I pull over to investigate, and it seems to be a wheel bearing. We have no spare bearings with us, so I have no choice but to ride and to hope that I can get it fixed before whatever happens when bearings fail happens. My mind races with possible outcomes. We eventually find a repair shop, and the mechanic starts into the repair. Evidently the Royal Enfield Classic is a difficult beast from which to remove the rear wheel, and the mechanic tells us he does not want to work on the bike. No amount of persuasion can convince him to help us.

We are forced to ride on, now at a snail’s pace, stopping at each town and asking for a motorcycle mechanic. Ironically, Buddhi’s front wheel bearing chooses this same day to fail, so we both limp along like a raggedy pair. We finally find another mechanic, one who doesn’t want to say no to anyone, and takes on three more customers as he dismembers our bikes. I am fascinated by the mechanic’s two left thumbs and I want to take a picture. I refrain from doing so. The patrons of the shop are equally fascinated by me. They, too, refrain from taking my picture. The mechanic charges us 300 rupies for both repairs, which is about six dollars.

It seems like forever until we reach Dharamshala, which is the home-in-exile of the Dalai Lama and several thousand Tibetans. We have arrived after dark, and it has been my worst day of riding in India—fraught with delays, mind-boggling traffic, and breakdowns, culminating in the dangers of riding after dark in India. Once again Buddhi takes a “back way” into town, traversing terrain similar to that found in an Indiana Jones movie—thin swatches of pavement amidst giant washouts of earth and asphalt. Luckily I arrive unscathed.

My luck holds, and I get a room in a nice hotel with a prime view of the Dalai Lama’s residence. Then, even luckier, I am told that the Dalai Lama will be making a rare public appearance on the next day. I attend the event and am awed to be able to witness the Tibetan ritual of creating a mandala for the long life and the continued good health of His Holiness. I do not personally meet His Holiness the Dalai Lama, but I get close enough to feel his Presence, and I am moved to tears.