A couple of days after we arrived in Goa, I decided to try something I had always wanted to do. I decided to rent a motorcycle. As corny as it might be, ever since I had seen The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, I had wondered what it would be like to tool around on a motorcycle in India. I had gone so far as to get an International Driving Permit from AAA. Of course, to obtain an International Driver’s Permit for a motorcycle, one must hold a normal license for a motorcycle. I figured it was worth a shot and forged documents on my application for the Permit in such a way that I could always claim it was a typographical error that I had requested the permit to include ‘motorcycle’. I was pleasantly surprised that it worked, even though I was quite sure, based on everything that I had read and heard that it would mean almost nothing to carry it. Without ever having been on a motorcycle, I inquired about the price of renting one and feigned a lackadaisical confidence that would make it appear I knew what I was doing. I’m positive many tourists who have never driven a motorcycle rent one and figure out how to do it here in India, but considering it was my very first time and I didn’t even have the most elementary understanding of the controls, I figured faking a little confidence wouldn’t hurt. It was a Bajaj Avenger I rented. A bike with generally up to date technology that incorporates self-starting. The battery, according to the guy who helped me out, was weak enough that I had to use the kick start. While he got the bike started for me I looked the bike over, figuring that what wasn’t a brake was either a clutch or a gear shifter. I remembered my father, upon my asking, had told me that riding a motorcycle was very easy, “its like a bicycle, with a motor.” Sounds easy enough. And it was. My years driving my beloved 318ti BMW with a standard shift had readied me perfectly for handling the clutch and acceleration of the Avenger. After two or three awkward shots forward, I got a feel for it and sped off down the winding narrow streets of Arambol.
I was thinking about that day as I headed back towards Arambol, this time on a small scooter. Two weeks had passed and we had visited Hampi far to the East of Goa and returned once again to the beaches of Goa. I realized as I headed north on the pathetic little Japanese made scooter that my short time on the Avenger had done something terrible. It had instilled in me a sense of the road and adventure. For the first time I felt as though I understood, if only briefly and superficially, the culture and love of motorcycles. All those overly testosteronic looking men who revved their Harleys had always made me laugh as I wondered if they were compensating for… something. But my afternoon ride along the coast on the Bajaj Avenger had wooed me into a new view. As the sunlight glittered in bands along the sinuous road north, back towards Arambol, I craved to get back to that place and that state of mind. I wanted metal and fire and the road. There was something about having that loud controlled violence and the speed at one’s calm, collected fingertips. It wasn’t power. On that ride north in the hopes of finding an iron fire horse for myself, I tried to figure out just what it was. But also, what that two wheeled Avenger had dug into me had grown, and I felt desperate for an even greater expression of the need and the feeling that I tried to define. My eyes had been glazed over with the fermented desire of the last dozen days. There was an even greater design of the romantic mystique that I craved, an even sweeter shade of the indefinable masculinity that my mind jockeyed around.
The Royal Enfield was originally a British made bike. But much like the pieces of colonizing culture, India had eventually claimed the bike for its own and it had become a symbol of all the things that my stubborn young, impetuously adventurous temperament lusted after. For the past two days I had rented the pathetic little Japanese scooter and had scoured the coast for an Enfield to call my own with no luck. I knew, however, that Arambol, the beach paradise we had stayed in two weeks prior was a breeding ground for Enfields and on that day in mid-December I was headed back to find if there was an Indian stallion who might take me further and farther into India.
Before we had left Arambol for Hampi I had looked at a bike, tempted to take it. It had been a 16 year old Enfield Bullet, a little old considering and something told me at the last moment to back out. The registration had matched the engraved numbers on the bike but it was past its 15 year renewal date without having been renewed. Always a son of my father, I rarely if ever strayed from anything that wasn’t by the book, whether it be the book of law, or the book of custom. My last minute and cursory research on the subject had armed me with the knowledge that an expired registration could cause some problems. The Israeli who was looking to sell the bike also didn’t have the ownership papers, another strike against the sale. He did however have third party insurance registered in his name with the bike, which seemed odd. Regardless, I backed out of the situation.
The two weeks since had made me lean slightly more towards desperate and like a starving stranded seaman eyeing his favorite dog, I questioned my readiness to cut ties with caution. The day previous had been spent scouring the southern Goan coast and had yielded nothing, contributing to the desperation I was starting to feel for the Royal beauty that I so longed for. After making my way through the familiar roads of Goa on the scooter which I perpetually cursed for its lack of weight and presence, its sheer practicality and its complete inability to harken after the grand vision of reality I wanted, (It was a Honda scooter, the kind of plastic mopedesque contraption that a girl studying abroad in Italy might ride to and from the local bakery) finally, I arrived in Arambol. It is strange to return to a place you do not call home and feel a sliver of relief, much like the kind that would come with plunging into the familiar sights and sounds of childhood.
I felt as though the Enfield was an elusive and beautiful creature, that, for some reason was skirting my desire to win it and experience a different side of India. The breeding ground of Arambol was devoid of ‘For Sale’ signs, and partially dejected, I retreated to a favorite Israeli falafel joint where I literally bumped into a mutual friend of Anya, who had connected the two of use via Facebook. William and I chatted, all the while my nervous greedy starved eyes bounced around the coming and goings of Arambol, hopeful to spot a white printed page reading ‘For Sale’. After a casually introductory and like-minded conversation I went off to search the notice boards, finding a plethora of signs that claimed to tell of Enfields for sale. Wondering how old the signs might be, I took down the numbers and details, unhopeful.
I remember being a boy and feeling nervous and excited to the point of excruciation at the prospect of obtaining some longed for toy. When the third phone number seemed to yield the seemingly perfect prospect, I felt it again - debilitated by my own functioning. The damn scooter couldn’t go fast enough and I tried to remain conscious of the fact that I wasn’t wearing a helmet. (none of the places that I rented two-wheeled vehicles from offered helmets, even upon asking, all I got was a funny look and a laugh). Anjuna is quite close to Arambol, but not close enough. When finally I was there I found a phone and dialed the number again. “I’m near the market, on the cliff by the beach.” The seller told me he’d be there in ten minutes.
It can be difficult to spot an Enfield from the front. There are a few other Japanese made bikes that also sport a circular front light, and an unpracticed cursory glance will wonder which it might be. When the sound catches up to the light of the bike, however, there is never a mistake. The Enfield pumps and her purring is a slow calculated roar. The yawning of the beast, breath expelled instead, and she alerts the world, like the shadow of a cloud, that greatness is at hand.
Avihay (India, besides the Indians, is filled with Israelis and Russians) rolled up on a 2003 Royal Enfield Thunderbird. 5 speed 350cc. Her colors were black and chrome and I dare say that when I saw her, I thought “Oh shit” because I knew that there was no turning back, I’d have to go through with it, no matter what and find out what my vague adventurous yearning might have in store. As Avihay showed me the bike, several locals walked up to the bike, interested, and Avihay also got a call inquiring about the bike.
“I’ll take it.”
I asked about the papers for the bike. Just like the prior bike that I had looked at, Avihay only had the registration which matched the bike and engine numbers.
“I was only going to do this as long as I could get the papers in order.”
“You don’t need the papers, all you need is the registration.”
“Were you pulled over by the police at all?”
“Many times.”
“And?”
“Baksheesh man, all they want is baksheesh. They would pull us over and search our stuff for hashish and when they didn’t find any, they’d ask for our papers and that’s when our wallets would come out. The first time, I gave him 500 Rupees and when I told my friend I’d given him that much, he laughed, 2 or 300 would have been enough. As long as you have the registration, it shows you didn’t steal the bike.”
Since I couldn’t drive both the scooter and the Enfield south so we agreed to meet the next day. This would give me a little space to think over this paper problem. I opened up that little scooter’s throttle as far as it would go and hurtled south back towards Palolem where the girls were. That evening, while walking along the beach, I gave Sophie the option to ask me not to go off on the bike. I still wasn’t sure if I should tell family back home about the bike.
“You should do it. You’d regret not doing it since its something you’ve wanted to do for so long.”
The next day, after three bus transfers, I was back in Anjuna and sealed the deal.
I was thinking about that day as I headed back towards Arambol, this time on a small scooter. Two weeks had passed and we had visited Hampi far to the East of Goa and returned once again to the beaches of Goa. I realized as I headed north on the pathetic little Japanese made scooter that my short time on the Avenger had done something terrible. It had instilled in me a sense of the road and adventure. For the first time I felt as though I understood, if only briefly and superficially, the culture and love of motorcycles. All those overly testosteronic looking men who revved their Harleys had always made me laugh as I wondered if they were compensating for… something. But my afternoon ride along the coast on the Bajaj Avenger had wooed me into a new view. As the sunlight glittered in bands along the sinuous road north, back towards Arambol, I craved to get back to that place and that state of mind. I wanted metal and fire and the road. There was something about having that loud controlled violence and the speed at one’s calm, collected fingertips. It wasn’t power. On that ride north in the hopes of finding an iron fire horse for myself, I tried to figure out just what it was. But also, what that two wheeled Avenger had dug into me had grown, and I felt desperate for an even greater expression of the need and the feeling that I tried to define. My eyes had been glazed over with the fermented desire of the last dozen days. There was an even greater design of the romantic mystique that I craved, an even sweeter shade of the indefinable masculinity that my mind jockeyed around.
The Royal Enfield was originally a British made bike. But much like the pieces of colonizing culture, India had eventually claimed the bike for its own and it had become a symbol of all the things that my stubborn young, impetuously adventurous temperament lusted after. For the past two days I had rented the pathetic little Japanese scooter and had scoured the coast for an Enfield to call my own with no luck. I knew, however, that Arambol, the beach paradise we had stayed in two weeks prior was a breeding ground for Enfields and on that day in mid-December I was headed back to find if there was an Indian stallion who might take me further and farther into India.
Before we had left Arambol for Hampi I had looked at a bike, tempted to take it. It had been a 16 year old Enfield Bullet, a little old considering and something told me at the last moment to back out. The registration had matched the engraved numbers on the bike but it was past its 15 year renewal date without having been renewed. Always a son of my father, I rarely if ever strayed from anything that wasn’t by the book, whether it be the book of law, or the book of custom. My last minute and cursory research on the subject had armed me with the knowledge that an expired registration could cause some problems. The Israeli who was looking to sell the bike also didn’t have the ownership papers, another strike against the sale. He did however have third party insurance registered in his name with the bike, which seemed odd. Regardless, I backed out of the situation.
The two weeks since had made me lean slightly more towards desperate and like a starving stranded seaman eyeing his favorite dog, I questioned my readiness to cut ties with caution. The day previous had been spent scouring the southern Goan coast and had yielded nothing, contributing to the desperation I was starting to feel for the Royal beauty that I so longed for. After making my way through the familiar roads of Goa on the scooter which I perpetually cursed for its lack of weight and presence, its sheer practicality and its complete inability to harken after the grand vision of reality I wanted, (It was a Honda scooter, the kind of plastic mopedesque contraption that a girl studying abroad in Italy might ride to and from the local bakery) finally, I arrived in Arambol. It is strange to return to a place you do not call home and feel a sliver of relief, much like the kind that would come with plunging into the familiar sights and sounds of childhood.
I felt as though the Enfield was an elusive and beautiful creature, that, for some reason was skirting my desire to win it and experience a different side of India. The breeding ground of Arambol was devoid of ‘For Sale’ signs, and partially dejected, I retreated to a favorite Israeli falafel joint where I literally bumped into a mutual friend of Anya, who had connected the two of use via Facebook. William and I chatted, all the while my nervous greedy starved eyes bounced around the coming and goings of Arambol, hopeful to spot a white printed page reading ‘For Sale’. After a casually introductory and like-minded conversation I went off to search the notice boards, finding a plethora of signs that claimed to tell of Enfields for sale. Wondering how old the signs might be, I took down the numbers and details, unhopeful.
I remember being a boy and feeling nervous and excited to the point of excruciation at the prospect of obtaining some longed for toy. When the third phone number seemed to yield the seemingly perfect prospect, I felt it again - debilitated by my own functioning. The damn scooter couldn’t go fast enough and I tried to remain conscious of the fact that I wasn’t wearing a helmet. (none of the places that I rented two-wheeled vehicles from offered helmets, even upon asking, all I got was a funny look and a laugh). Anjuna is quite close to Arambol, but not close enough. When finally I was there I found a phone and dialed the number again. “I’m near the market, on the cliff by the beach.” The seller told me he’d be there in ten minutes.
It can be difficult to spot an Enfield from the front. There are a few other Japanese made bikes that also sport a circular front light, and an unpracticed cursory glance will wonder which it might be. When the sound catches up to the light of the bike, however, there is never a mistake. The Enfield pumps and her purring is a slow calculated roar. The yawning of the beast, breath expelled instead, and she alerts the world, like the shadow of a cloud, that greatness is at hand.
Avihay (India, besides the Indians, is filled with Israelis and Russians) rolled up on a 2003 Royal Enfield Thunderbird. 5 speed 350cc. Her colors were black and chrome and I dare say that when I saw her, I thought “Oh shit” because I knew that there was no turning back, I’d have to go through with it, no matter what and find out what my vague adventurous yearning might have in store. As Avihay showed me the bike, several locals walked up to the bike, interested, and Avihay also got a call inquiring about the bike.
“I’ll take it.”
I asked about the papers for the bike. Just like the prior bike that I had looked at, Avihay only had the registration which matched the bike and engine numbers.
“I was only going to do this as long as I could get the papers in order.”
“You don’t need the papers, all you need is the registration.”
“Were you pulled over by the police at all?”
“Many times.”
“And?”
“Baksheesh man, all they want is baksheesh. They would pull us over and search our stuff for hashish and when they didn’t find any, they’d ask for our papers and that’s when our wallets would come out. The first time, I gave him 500 Rupees and when I told my friend I’d given him that much, he laughed, 2 or 300 would have been enough. As long as you have the registration, it shows you didn’t steal the bike.”
Since I couldn’t drive both the scooter and the Enfield south so we agreed to meet the next day. This would give me a little space to think over this paper problem. I opened up that little scooter’s throttle as far as it would go and hurtled south back towards Palolem where the girls were. That evening, while walking along the beach, I gave Sophie the option to ask me not to go off on the bike. I still wasn’t sure if I should tell family back home about the bike.
“You should do it. You’d regret not doing it since its something you’ve wanted to do for so long.”
The next day, after three bus transfers, I was back in Anjuna and sealed the deal.
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