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The Motorcycle Diaries
But back to the question at hand: Why no compass? After hours of eating and drinking, we would beg our leave. That is when the gift giving began, a procession of treasured possessions: earrings plucked from the lobes, a family’s only raincoat, a child’s hand-carved toy. Obviously, we had to out-Mongol the Mongols. Necklaces, baseball hats, even woolly socks were pulled off. Binoculars and watches went. Fishing lures and monofilament line proved to be crowd pleasers. And somewhere in the drunken benevolence, our navigational tools disappeared. A silly decision perhaps. This immense country is criss-crossed by shifting dirt tracks. Drivers appeared to average 40 kilometres an hour, but even 20 km/h will loosen your teeth. A month on the road had shattered the shocks and stripped the gears of our bike, now held together with duct tape and wire. As we pressed into the mountains, the paths grew more perilous. First a gin-clear river blocked progress. With a roar and a plume of black smoke, we charged in. Halfway across, we stalled. Grunting, we dragged the heavy machine to the opposite shore. Five more crossings followed. Deeper we pressed, past Buddhist monasteries and an eerily abandoned Russian holiday resort, where weeds reclaimed Swiss-style chalets. On the fourth day, a steep pass blocked our way. Up and up we climbed until the final insanely steep pitch appeared. Opening the throttle wide, we hurtled toward it, down into third gear, then second. Christine jumped off the back and started pushing. Soon I was off too, but the rear tire spun hopelessly. Dismantling the bike, we carried its battery and gas tank and our luggage to the top. A horseman appeared suddenly, and the three of us dragged the bare frame of the bike to the summit. Our hearts sank at the series of peaks and valleys stretching in every direction. After a picnic of yogurt curds and tea, the horseman rolled a cigarette in newspaper and clattered off. “Three more passes ahead… all more difficult” were his last words. And then he was gone. Again we were alone. A web of trails fanned out before us. Christine rolled the knucklebones to choose a route. Whatever direction we went, we knew help – and cheese – lay ahead. Write to us: letters@enroutemag.net |
