Stage 1 · Delhi – Haridwar
Into the Himalayan range
I landed in Delhi twice, and my real arrival in India coincides with the second landing. The first time, I was coming from Italy, travelling with a friend; we had a work commitment in Calcutta, preceded by a tourist visit to Agra. We’d hired a car with a driver who met us outside Delhi airport. A drive all the way to Agra, where the Taj Mahal took both our breaths away, then the same car calmly brought us back to Delhi, a flight to Calcutta, where another car met us at the airport. Escorted, looked after, protected. All very easy indeed — there was no real contact with the outside world. Everything went off without a hitch; the work itself, however important in its own right, is irrelevant to the motorcycle journey. The only significant contribution to the trip was the hours spent in Calcutta — hours that, fraudulently, count toward the fateful 700 — and a raging bronchitis that meant I’d set off on the bike in less than optimal physical condition. Well begun is half done… I spent the first two days in Calcutta in a hotel with a 40° fever. Then I got up, managed to do what I had to do, and that evening flew back to Delhi with my friend...
I sleep through the whole flight, finally free of fever. After landing we go our separate ways. I sense he’s vaguely worried about me; we say an affectionate goodbye. I watch him head off toward international departures while I make, for the second time in a few days, for the exit. I feel conflicting emotions. On one hand I’m excited at the idea of starting my journey; on the other, with my friend gone, the last trace of company had disappeared. I was, for better or worse, alone. Which, after all, was what I wanted. Alone, then. And it would stay that way for the next three weeks. I’m very tired: it’s almost midnight and I’m still recovering from the bronchitis. But I’m also full of anticipation. I collect the enormous suitcase holding my helmet, boots, and all my riding gear from baggage claim and head out of the airport. I move about confusedly, hampered by luggage and solitude. At the last moment I dodge a scam, get a metered taxi for a third of the price I’d been quoted, and use my GPS to guide the driver to my hotel (!), down an alley in Karol Bagh, a big Delhi neighbourhood. Strange smells, piles of rubbish in the street, a small room, not especially clean, no hot water. I feel uneasy. Good. I had finally arrived. And the next day I’d get the bike.
Tiredness helps me fall asleep. But, despite the jet lag, I wake early. I’m restless. No. Excited. A pleasant feeling. I get up, open my bags, and eye with vague concern the sheer amount of stuff I’ve brought along. I have breakfast and go out looking for my motorcycle. After a few small misadventures I find the shop: Mukesh Motors, flanked by similar shops, easy to spot from the dozens of bikes parked in the middle of the street. The shop turns out to be nothing like the website advertising it. A tiny room with no door, hard to reach, climbing over the bikes lined up in front as if guarding the entrance. But I’ve stopped worrying about that. My eye is caught by the twenty-two Royal Enfields lined up in three rows out front. Chromed, with sprung seats, some older models restored to perfection. I meet the owner, J.P., who describes the bike to me, explaining he’s changed the oil, fitted new tyres, and checked the brakes. On the tiny table in his office appears my emergency kit: a filthy rag full of tools. A quick riding lesson, in which I learn to run red lights, drive against traffic, and honk continuously. A few more instructions, a deposit, and the bike is in my hands. A short celebratory ride. I circle Karol Bagh for no reason. Cautiously. I’m tired, the traffic is terrible, and the antibiotics are kicking in. I go back to the hotel and start sorting out my luggage. I go to bed exhausted.
I wake early and have a big breakfast, hedging against the uncertainty of lunch. An old habit picked up on other far-off trips.
My plan for the first leg of the trip was simple: follow the Ganges up into the Himalayan range. And so I did. I loaded the bike, set up the GPS, tried on the riding suit (I’d never actually put the trousers on) and set off north-north-east. Destination Haridwar, 240 km away, where the Ganges emerges from the Himalaya — a hugely important place for Hindus. Millions of people go there to bathe in the sacred river. First problem: I basically had to cross Delhi (22 million inhabitants). Loaded down, hampered by the suit, deafened by a million horns. Total chaos. For a while I move in an orderly way, then I realize that’s getting me nowhere. I think to myself: ‘I’m of Neapolitan stock, I’ve been riding in Rome for 40 years… what the hell.’ And I try to adapt to local customs. I realize the mirrors are useless — everyone keeps them folded shut, to take up less room. Because NOBODY looks behind. Everyone looks ONLY ahead, hunting for a gap to slip into. And they honk. Hesitate, and you don’t get through. I quickly realize that honking isn’t aggressive. Nobody takes offense, there’s no anger, no hostility. I never once saw two people fight over traffic. Not even get annoyed. They honk and move on. So I start weaving into the traffic a little more aggressively myself. Things start to work. And I see millions of motorcycles. Unfortunately I wasn’t organized — it was only the first day — and I couldn’t manage any photographs; even so, the astonishing spectacle stays vivid in my mind regardless. The moment the light turns green the road floods with hundreds of bikes, a swarm of hornets, the horizon going black for a few seconds. Then the cars arrived. I survive Delhi, and take State Highway 58, tolled for its first stretch (the Indian idea of a motorway). But not for motorbikes! Only four wheels and up pay. Motorbikes and little Piaggio trucks get their own lane, far left, toll-free. Things aren’t going too badly. I manage 90–100 km/h and convince myself my fears were unfounded. I ride along calmly, listening to music. I had no idea I’d spend a long time missing that smooth tarmac… Then the road becomes two-way. I experience my first overtaking manoeuvre — or rather, I watch a truck decked out in flowers drift into my lane and bear down on me while passing. I end up off the road, hard left, in a tiny, unwanted personal Paris–Dakar. I change my mind. If I want to reach the end of this trip in one piece, I need a new strategy. I slow down and look ahead, trying to anticipate trouble. It goes much better, but it’s decidedly exhausting.
I don’t know what I expected, but arriving in Haridwar threw me completely. For a start, finding the hotel was extremely hard. The GPS kept pointing me down a street that seemed impossible to ride through — an endless market, a bazaar packed with shops, street vendors, an incredibly narrow street. Jammed with people. In the end I steeled myself, rode into that mayhem, and found my hotel.
I unload the bike and run to the river. The sun is setting and the water is beginning to fill with little floating flames. Despite myself, the spectacle draws me in, captivates me. I stand still, leaning over a bridge, watching these small lights drift by, like a swarm of fireflies flying low over the water. Slowly, as the city grows darker, they trace out the whole course of the river. Nobody speaks; the only sounds are car horns, distant, muffled. You can just hear the water gurgling under the bridge. I find myself reflecting on the meaning of candles, of fire, common to so many religions and cultures. Suddenly I shiver, feeling tired — maybe the spell of the place, but also the effect of the first day’s ride. It’s been a demanding day.
I go back to the hotel, chilled, burrow under the covers, and sleep like I haven’t in ages.
Photographs
