Once in Jammu and Kashmir (J&K), the military presence increased significantly. This area borders on Pakistan and has been the site of conflict between Hindi and Muslims for many many years. The Indian Army likes to know exactly who is passing through, and where they are going.

We had stopped at one of the Indian Army check points that keeps track of the comings and goings of various folks in order to slow down the terrorists. Five white guys on bullets, coming down the road from Killar was unusual enough that we were asked to go to the base commanders office.

I was nervous.

My experiences with American police have left me with a slight suspicion of people in positions of authority.

I could not have been more wrong in this case.

We had a long conversation discussing the various local regions and people with the Colonel, and I learned about the Sikhs, the Punjab, the Gujjars, and how many of the peoples have ancient affinities for one another that don’t conform to current political boundaries. It was fascinating. And overwhelming. I know that we only touched the surface of the complexities in this region.

We had a high tea style lunch with an amazing course of local Indian foods on the lawn overlooking the base.

  Then we had a military escort accompany us, front and rear, to the local hotel that the Colonel recommended in Kishtwar.

  The Senten pass was closed and the ride from Kishtwar to Srinagar was a full day on the other route.

  It was only mid afternoon so we decided to go walk around the market area in Kishtwar.  There was an enormous park, with thousands of people, some playing games like football or cricket, others just relaxing, we decided to walk through the park, rather than around it.

Having two Aussies in the group meant that we would finally get someone to explain Cricket, so we walked up to the larger Cricket game and the explainings began.

Basically, theres a group of guys on one team, like 8 or 9, and then 2 guys from the opposing team are up at bat. The pitcher guy throws the ball overhand. The guy with the Cricket bat tries to interfere with the balls flight. Then someone will run back and forth. There are places of importance within the circular Cricket pitch, but defining the circle with Razor wire seems to be specific to this region. Apparently the fans do not normally attack the players in Australia or the UK. Eventually a group of people will decide that one of the teams may have won the game. Or not. A Cricket game can last for days.

After overloading our simple minds with the details of this game we continued on to the market area; our goal was the police station where we hoped to get good news about the possible opening of the pass the next day.

  We made it about 3 blocks before a military jeep pulled up and politely asked us to get in. In the back. All 5 of us. It was cozy.

  We were driven to another military base, in town, a smaller outpost, but conveniently close to our hotel.
  We spent some time with the Major, learning about local issues, and the golden rule. Do not mess with the Indian Army, they will mess you up. 
  I believed him.
  We went back to the hotel for an hour or so, and then returned to have dinner with the Major on the base. He was a fascinating dude, and if I weren’t so exhausted I would have stayed later just to learn more about the Indian culture.
  By the way, an enlistment in the Indian army is generally for 20 years. Or more.

  The next morning we are ready to hit the road and make it to Srinagar no matter what.
  This side of the J&K region was not a very warm and friendly place. We didn’t get many smiles in return, and the stares we received made me feel like I had taken a wrong turn somewhere. And it was raining. All day.
  Not a pouring, dumping rain, but a misty drizzle that didn’t really let up.
  We got our first taste of real India traffic, thousands of trucks going each way on a two lane highway that had many spots where only one lane was flowing, so they would take turns based on whoever had the biggest and most thrashed truck.
  Being on Bullets we wove in and out of them pretty successfully, but it was still slow going.
  There was a long tunnel, Simon and Rex had become experts at making their Bullets backfire on command, so we all had fun.

  My chain popped off, so we popped it back on and tightened the rear wheel.

  Simons entire subframe had broken off, so we spent some time finding welders. We found a skilled welder with a MIG electric rig, but the power went out before he was able to get to the bike, but luckily there was a talented gas welder nearby.

  And eventually we made it to Srinagar, after about 12 hours of riding Indian roads in the rain. It was a brutal day, but we didn’t see any good reason to stop along the way, and we planned to have a down day in Srinagar to explore and recover.

Departing Udaipur in the early morning was exciting. I had driven these roads before, but from here on out it was all new to me.

We were headed for Killar first, which looked to be about 50 miles but we were told would take about 4 hours.
It took longer. The road was bad. Sure, there were stretches where we could get past 2nd gear, but not for long. It was like an old mining or power line road that had been poorly maintained.

  We had left early, by 7 am, and made Killar in the early afternoon, ready for a break.
  We found a random restaurant and made the mistake of not asking prices before ordering. The five of us did eat a lot, granted, but still 1200 rupees? That’s almost $20 USD.  I was outraged.
Luckily though, our Indian shadows had arrived just before we ordered. They might not have prevented the price adjustments, but they did help us order food that we would understand.
The Indian shadows were 4 young men on 2 Enfield Bullets following the same course we were. Being two-up on each bike slowed them down, but they managed to catch up to us on each stop. We lost track of them in Srinagar, but did see 2 of them at the Bullet Wallah in Leh a week later.

  From Killar the road became an obstacle course alternating between rocks, mud, rivers and cliffs. There was one stretch about 3 miles long where the road had actually been blasted out of the cliff face. Sheer drops on the side, no guardrails. But also no oncoming traffic. Apparently there weren’t too many people willing to drive that road.
  Lots of donkeys though.
  Once we crossed the border from Himachal Pradesh into Jammu and Kashmir (J&K) we got our first full check point. We were politely asked to step off the bikes and provide passports, visas, and paperwork for the bikes, all of which was checked in detail and written down in a gigantic ledger book.
  After that the road got worse.

  Our first stretch of road in J&K was a rock strewn hill climb with switch backs so tight the bikes nearly couldn’t make the turns without scooting back and forth. The road conditions got worse, the cliffs higher and at one point we came upon a little village that had men stationed on the road to warn people not to stop because of all the falling rocks (shooting stones in local speak).
This is where Ian chose to get a flat tire, but he limped it out of the danger zone before stopping to replace the inner tube.
We came upon a point in the road where a landslide had completely blocked it, but there was already a bulldozer there shoving all the rocks off the edge of the cliff.
We didn’t need to wait long. And it was great fun to watch the boulders go crashing down the cliff into the creek below.

My idea of making it to Srinagar that night was so far off the mark it was laughable. We didn’t even make it to Kishtwar.
By the time evening arrived we had just barely made it to a town called Gulubgarh, a decent sized town for the area, half Muslim and half Hindu. We stayed in the Hindu part, with a Chinese family that had converted 3 of their rooms into ‘home stay rooms’.
Their doorways were so small that we all wacked our heads, some of us multiple times.
The nearest restaurant was the Momo place, but it was also something of a social hangout for the locals. After sitting down, and then getting up to leave when the only answer we could get out of anyone there was ‘no, no, no’ Ian and I went for Chana masala and the other guys went back in. Somehow a local understood the problem. They were out of Momos at the moment, but were in the process of making more.
It all worked out in the end.

The next morning Chris and I went looking for a Bullet Wallah to replace the wheel bearings in his front wheel, and the rest of the gang found a mine entrance that had just been rigged with explosive charges. Simon, Rex and Ian got to wander into the mine and see how they had drilled and loaded the explosives.
I was rushing to the mine to see the boom but got caught in 3 different packs of Gujjar&Bakkarwal herds and didn’t make it in time. I sure heard it though.

Apparently there was some confusion as to who would actually get to press the detonator, Simon thought the guy was saying yes, that he could push it, but really he was saying yes, Im going to push it now. It all ended well though, there was a big boom and a giant cloud of rock dust came shooting out of the hole, we were all very excited.

These Gujjar&Bakkarwal folks that slowed me down are a regional people that migrate up into these hills every year to feed their sheep, goats and horses during the spring and summer months. After 3-4 months they head back down to the plains in J&K and the Punjab and then do whatever it is that nomadic people do when not traveling.
Gujjars are found all over India, Pakistan and Afghanistan, but the Bakkarwal tribe is specific to J&K.
You know that famous photo of the young Afghani woman with the green eyes? That’s what they look like. Incredible. Its like someone convinced a group of Parisian models that they would be better off wrapped in shawls and riding donkeys alongside a couple of hundred mountain goats.
They were not friendly. As soon as they would notice that we were foreign men the women would all wrap up in their shawls and the men would ignore us. Well, mostly. There were exceptions, but not many.

Now Chris has new wheel bearings, the mine is not setting any more charges for the day, and we are ready to roll, we are heading to Srinagar, and expect that we should be able to make it that evening if the Senten pass is open. If it is not we will need to take a roundabout route that will add about 4 hours to our journey.

Either way, we are back on the road and will get as far as we can, and do what we need to do to make it to Srinagar.
Unfortunately we only made it a couple of hours before we were escorted to the commanders office at the local Indian Army field base.

     

  The plane with the propeller thingys makes it to Kullu, the airport nearest Manali. The smaller plane didn’t bounce around too much, and no one vomited.
  Our contact for renting motorbikes is named Anu. Ive never met him but its not too hard for him to find us. We are the only white people exiting the plane, and there are 5 of us. He has a jeep and an SUV to drive us and our luggage up to his place in Vashisht, a small Buddhist town across the river from Manali.
  The contrasts are pretty intense; a lush river valley flowing through stony Himalayan peaks, cows and goats and dogs roaming freely. Trash piled up at seemingly random locations, but it seems that the locals have all agreed that these are the best locations for the trash. Road side Dhabas serving Indian fast food and chai tea, and locals eating and drinking chai tea. Dogs, goats and cows eating the trash.
  We arrive at Anu Motor Works (singular) and find he has cleared his workshop to present 5 gleaming Royal Enfield 500 cc Machismo Bullet motorbikes. All lined up and ready to go. All 5 bikes are fit with luggage racks to carry bags, tools and spare fuel canisters. Three of us decide they don’t want big racks, so Anu’s team spends some time making modifications and preparing the tool kit, complete with spares that we may need.
  3 inner tubes for the tires, 4 spark plugs, 2 sets of wheel bearings, various cables for throttle and clutch, and all the tools need to repair the bikes on the side of the road in India.
  By the time this is all said and done its too late to depart so we grab a couple of Guest Stay rooms above Anu’s shop and prepare to leave early in the morning. This entire time Ive been weebling back and forth about what to do. I have a patriotic open-faced helmet, an outfit a Russian gangster would be proud of, and a pair of gloves that were probably designed for paint ball.
  I'm still not sure where my bags are.
  Heading North into Ladakh without cold weather gear seems like a bad idea. So I decide to head SouthWest to Dharamsala and work on becoming one with my gear. The rest of the guys are going to take a back road over the Rohtang pass, through the Lahaul valley and end up in Srinagar, where we will attempt to reconnect.
  Riding to Leh from Manali is not an option as there is one really high pass in between, the Baralacha La. It is still closed on June 1st and is not expected to open for another week or so. The new plan is to ride across to Srinagar, into Kashmir, and then over the Zoji La pass, to arrive in Leh via a reverse route.
  Their ride sounds like much more fun than hanging out in Dharamsala, seeing all those enlightened people every day would probably make me depressed.
  So I borrow a jacket, riding pants and a sleeping bag from Anu, and go for it.
  The Rohtang Pass, in fact the whole area, had been hammered with snow during the winter, much more so than usual, and the opening of the pass was about 3 weeks late because they just couldn’t get the roads clear. We crossed over about a week after it had been opened and it was spectacular. The lower elevations were nice sweeping roads with forest on either side and gentle switch back turns taking you higher and higher. And traffic. The mid elevations were sharper turns, and tighter roads, with sharp spires of rock and amazing views of the valley below. And more traffic. Near the top we were passing between snow banks, sometimes 20 feet high, and all the melting snow was causing small rivers to run down the road.
  By this time the traffic had pretty much reached critical mass. The thousands upon thousands of Delhi’ites that had come on holiday to the top of Rohtang to see snow and possibly so some trekking were all reaching their destination. The same destination. It was a huge mess, but thanks to our overly loud horns and loud revving engines we were able to squeeeeze through and make it beyond the brutal log jam of psychotic suv drivers and their helpless victims.
  Once beyond the trekking cluster we had open roads as far as we could see. They might be goat tracks with rocks the size of basketballs poking up out of the rivers running down the center, but they were free of traffic.      
  We rode the rest of the day on roads that would alternate suddenly between clean smooth blacktop and beat up dirt roads that had never seen a plow. Ok, maybe they seen a plow, but it was strapped to a yak.
  We did see the back end of the Rohtang tunnel, a 5 mile long project, coordinated with an Austrian engineering firm. We were able to talk ourselves onto the grounds and go up to the tunnel, but not into it. We also were not allowed to take photos.
  Chris’s front wheel was making a clicking sound so it was diagnosed on the roadside. Bearings suspected. All in all it was a great start to the ride. We made it to our goal, Udaipur, got the same room in the same Guest Stay that Laura and I stayed in, and were able to find a new type of food, called Momos (veggie stuffed won tons). We ate them all and them moved on to the chana masala at the next Dhaba.
  When Laura and I crossed the Rohtang in 2013, we made it to Udaipur, and the roads were really rough. The Jeep/Taxi drivers assured us that they only got worse from there. Not good news for a old leaky motorbike with 2 riders and a bag lady’s assortment of luggage. We hightailed it back over the Rohtang and headed for Dharamsala.
  The group knew that we had completed the easy part. The road ahead was not actually considered a road. It was not maintained by the government and no one really knew if it was passable or not. We guesstimated the odds at 50/50 that we would actually be able to make it to Srinagar by this route. In fact, this path does not appear on most  maps or GPS, but weve been told by many truck drivers that it is there and it can be done on a Bullet. The towns that we saw on the map were Udaipur-Killar-Kishtwar, and we were hoping to make Kishtwar the next day, and maybe even part of the way to Srinagar. So we rested up, sore from a long days ride, but stoked, and excited about the ride ahead.

My concerns about things like Priority Boarding appear to be irrelevant on flights from London to Delhi. The various stages of the boarding process simply stuffed us all onto a bus where the first class passengers were forced to rub shoulders with the filthy masses.
The bus ride to the plane was long enough that we all became friends and were discussing the strengths of the Royal Enfield motorcycles and which mountain passes might or might not be open.
Luckily, after an overnight flight and a day exploring Shoreditch, I was totally wiped out, and slept the entire flight.
Then things took a turn for the worse.

I arrived safe and sound. My luggage did not.

Helmet, jacket, pants, tent, sleeping bag, camping food and equipment. Lost to the void.
The Virgin Atlantic staff handed me a form and then ignored me, leading me to the conclusion that they didn’t really care much if I found my bags or not. I cant honestly say Id care much if I were in their position either.
So I stood there. And stood there. And stood there. Refused to leave. I was eventually able to get their attention and explain that until I knew where my bags were I had no place to go. Without my gear the trip to the Himalayas was pointless, I should head south to Kerala. If my bags were expected to arrive within a couple of days I could piece together some temporary clothes and catch up with my buddies once the luggage and I are reunited.
Finally I get the baggage agents desk email and phone number as well as their personal email and phone number and head to the Ibis hotel which is within the Delhi airport complex.

Finding the airport shuttle was another adventure, but not a very interesting one.

During this process I have an idea. Maybe I can get to the Karol Bagh neighborhood I can piece together some cheap temporary gear for riding in the lower, warmer elevations.
Ibis hotel provides a car and driver that will drive me around the various shopping districts so I can hunt for the appropriate items.
The first stop was a small shop where I scored an open faced helmet painted like the fuel tank on the Easy Rider bike and a pair of gloves that look like part of an evil Halloween costume.
Stop two was one of those psychotic open street markets that go on and on. I was able to find some fake Adidas with four stripes and neon orange laces, a pair of dark blue sweat/track pants with red stripes down the sides, and a short sleeve collared shirt that somehow survived 1985.
Total cost $35.
OK, $50 including the car and driver.

6 PM, and Im back in the hotel getting in as much sleep as possible because Simon and Rex should be appearing around 10 PM, and then Ian and Chris around 2 AM.
The flight is at 6:30, so I know that there will be no sleeping once they all arrive.

5:00 AM, Sunday morning. We have been delivered to the Airport terminal and accidentally find the shortest line at the Air India check in counters.
  The plane is so small that we are only allowed to carry on bags no larger than a purse. So we are forced to check what bags we actually have with us.
   Through security with no problems, board plane, the propeller thingys spin up and off we go.

Manali, brace yourself.

The beginning of the Ladakh Ride

As a Platinum member of One World, and the American Airlines Advantage group you get s few special things. Priority boarding, free bags, and access to the airport lounges on international flights.

 So, being a Platinum member I booked a ticket on British Air. It was more expensive than the other major airlines, but I was ok with that.

Later, when checking the seating or something like that, I noticed my status was not Platinum, but the lowly Gold.

The customer services person notified me that I didn’t qualify because I didn’t fly the required 50,000 miles in 2014. I only flew 49,500.

Earlier I had received a notification that the first leg of my ticket was changing its departure time from 8:40 am to 8:35 so I called them up and notified them that this didn’t work for me and demanded a full refund of my ticket.

  When I say demanded I mean that I wouldn’t get off the phone until they agreed.

  Anyway, I then purchased a similar ticket on Virgin for $500 less. I also asked if they would match my Gold membership status but they firmly and politely told me no. Cant hurt to ask, right?

Bags packed, ticket in hand, my lovely wife Laura dropped me off at SFO on Thursday and off I went.

  I didnt get extra bags on Virgin, only the regular 2. I could pay for another for $85 though… I didn’t get early boarding, but that’s ok, I paid an extra $40 to be able to choose my own seat, and the upper deck seats put you on Group 1.

I also didn’t have access to the airport lounge, so for my ten hour layover at London’s Heathrow, I got an Underground pass and headed to the East end.

Some of Laura’s friends had told us about the Shoreditch neighborhood and a few nice cafes and restaurants a few years ago and it has become our favorite neighborhood in London, very similar to Brooklyn in a lot of ways.

  My personal favorite, All Press coffee chose to do a full demolition and was closed down so I wandered around the East End and Brick Lane until I was referred to Joe’s Kid, a great little café that does a proper Fill English.

Eventually the jet lag and exhaustion kicked in and I was getting strange looks from people as I wandered around Spitalfileds like a zombie. Im ok with that.

Then it was time to head back to LHR and board the flight to Delhi, where I would have an afternoon free before my buddies started arriving.

  We all had a 6:30 AM flight from Delhi to Kullu and the group was all converging on the Delhi airport that Saturday night.

Im beginning to consider the idea that riding old motorcycles on some of the worst roads in the world the first week they open after an especially rough winter….might be a little more difficult than I imagine.

Whatever. Here we go.