fixing things with glue that PROBABLY SHOULDN'T be fixed with glue!
overland border crossing
Kale in Myanmar to Moreh in India words by - Johnny Bang |
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I had a shower this morning knowing it may be our last stay in proper accommodation for a while. Today we say goodbye to our friendly Myanmar guides/captors and are free to try to get into India at the Moreh border crossing. We are not on a well-travelled route and I am hoping it goes well. We have allocated all day for border issues - anticipating delays.
I was grateful for a buffet breakfast of bread and 2 types of condiments (red jam and yellow jam). Breakfast was shared with a bunch of curious Indian workers who I learned were Myanmar as part of telecommunications construction contracts between the two countries.
Riding to the Indian Border Post at Moreh Shaun told us over the bike intercoms that he had to make an urgent toilet stop. The tone of his voice conveyed a distinct sense of urgency. Shaun blasted past riding dangerously and 5 minutes later we came upon the Kawasaki in front of a small shack selling chips and cold drinks in a field on the outskirts of a small village.
The blank faces of a shop keep and her young daughter looked to me for an explanation as I walked in. I pointed to Shaun, squatted, pointed to my butt and made a big farting noise as long and loud as I could. We all laughed. Luckily my subtle charades skills had worked and our new friends pointed out the back of the shack somewhere. Shaun ran like a mad duck in a hurry.
While he was gone the daughter of the shop keep comes over for a conversation in broken English. She was obviously very bright. I wonder how much opportunity there is for kids growing up in a rural village in Myanmar. I suspect not much. I am reminded that beyond our good intentions and helping a few people our trip isn’t going to change to world…
Shaun said the toilet was a small wooden deck with a hole in it onto that dropped onto the ground, but he was happy and seemed a lot more relaxed now. We buy some drinks and chips for the road and leave.
The last town on the Myanmar side of the border was Tamu. Before we said goodbye to our guide Jimmy he fortuitously (for him) remembered we all owe him hundreds of USD for the various loans he gave us over the last couple of days. So after we found an ATM and paid him, there we were, on the side of a road, full kit back on the bikes, ready to take on India (long inhale).
At this point I’ll confess my fear of Indian roads is giving me an impending sense of doom. It’s a big dark rain cloud gathering in the back of my head. I look at risk logically, and while people seem to assume the biggest risk is kidnapping, if this trip kills me it will be a motorbike accident. And if it’s a bike accident, statistically it will happen in India (did you know that 600+ people die per DAY on the roads in India? We think we will spend about 2.5 weeks to cross India, so that’s 11,700 chances for a fatal road accident in the next 18 days). I resolve to ride even more carefully through India and my only reassuring thoughts are that Shaun is much less experienced – surely the road god will take him first… (The same logic for which I always surf sharky areas with friends – to strengthen my odds). Hell, surely even Dan’s riding skills are no match for an errant Indian death-bus.
Getting stamped out of Myanmar took about an hour and we then proceeded into the Indian unknown. A large army presence greeted us as we crossed an old concrete bridge guarded by a truckload of solders with Kalashnikovs. Riding first up to the next border post I almost got collected by another army truck on a blind gravel bend and I quickly figured out that we are back to left-sided traffic (dammit, I have been in India for about 1 minute and I already nearly died in an accident).
We come to a modern, clean, eerily-empty visa building and are surprised that all our paper work is in order and there are no delays. However, when we are all stamped ready to go we are ushered across the street to a ‘Polio vaccination both’. I hate Polio as much as the next guy but I’m not sure I want some random dude injecting needles into me at a sketchy looking roadside shack in an Indian border town. I start looking for exits - I could run to my bike, but I am scared these blokes with a Kalashnikov might want target practice. Luckily they just want a photo and wave us through with awkward ‘I’m happy but I’m also an Army badass and I’m working’ kind of smiles.
Back to the bikes and Shaun left his headlight on while we were in getting visas. He fails miserably at bump starting (despite Dan and me swearing belittling encouragement at him). I turn my bike off and do a running bump start next to him – as much to show-up as demonstrate I think. Dan patiently waits until Shaun drains all his energy failing before he jumps on and gets it running first go. We wave goodbye to our AK47 wielding friends and we are on our way. I let Shaun know that counts as a break down for the tally.
With a few more clicks under out belt and safely into India to leave visa and carnet issues behind, we stop for some roadside snacks and to admire the view from an empty lookout on a winding mountain pass. My regular bike inspection reveals the nut holding my front sprocket has stripped lose and only the guard is stopping the front sprocket from coming off (no sprocket no chain no drive no bike no move). A bit of hastily applied cold weld (glue) and the TTR is running again for who knows how much longer. I feign confidence in my repairs to the boys who are suitably unconvinced and we are back on the road. Shaun lets me know that counts as a break down. Knowing the seriousness of the issue I don’t protest and hastily push it into the storm clouds in the back of my head.
So far in general the TTR and Sherpa have had needed the most attention. The TTR because it’s had a hard life. That is, in modifying the bike to accept a long range tank he created a huge heat sink near all the bikes electrical components. He also set up the tank to ensure any water on the road is directed straight to the bikes electrical guts (hence his Sherpa stops every time it rains). On some level I am impressed that even his basic bike modifications are so unnecessarily adventurous. Shaun and I are both waiting for Dan’s high-tech, high-cost Fuel Injected WR250 to choke on a batch of bad fuel, but so far our hopes are unanswered.
A massive army presence continues all day and we pass countless roadside sweeps and troop carriers filled with army grunts. It’s otherwise a great ride on paved roads through hundreds of kilometers of wingding mountain ranges. Traffic is sparse apart from Army. We work the bikes harder than we probably should, but not as hard as we want to.
Only the army people seem to have Indian facial features. The people, foods and architecture is still very Asian which surprises me. I think in my head I was expecting everything to change in an instant at the border to Indian (I’m thinking Bollywood and colorful costumes with festivals and dancing and that hindu god with all the arms and everyone eating papadums). Luckily no one needs to know my embarrassing cultural stereotypes and I’m pretty sure not even mum is reading our blog anymore. That said, we dodged about 50 cows on the road today, so that’s one Indian thing I was expecting.
By the late afternoon we were off the range and onto some floodplains. We don’t really know how far we are riding today. We hope to make it to Imphal but we all know it’s a big call. We stopped in a town on sunset to get sim cards to use the internet so we can get navigation and communication again.
At a phone store we are confronted by a language barrier but the clerk puts us onto the phone with his boss who can speak English. Turns out he is about 20 minutes away. I adventure nap in the alley next to the shop while the boys try to arrange phones. By the time we get sim cards sorted a few hours have passed and its dark.
Now our choice was to ride another 100km into the darkness (which the clerk advised against and trailed off with murmurs about rebels and recent kidnappings of foreigners) or find the police station in town and ask if we can sleep there. Sometimes I feel like we are in the ultimate choose-your-own-adventure book. We have had a big day already and choose the local police option.
Now this was an experience - rocking up at police compound unannounced in the dark, seeking shelter. Interrogations ensued and after some gruff treatment and phone calls to higher-ups it was all smiles and thumbs up and we were given a deserted room to ourselves. It wasn’t the Hilton but it was safe and dry. We probably even would have gotten some sleep if we weren’t woken up by a steady stream of gawkers throughout the night who wanted photos with the smelly bearded foreigners on ‘big bikes’.
I was grateful for a buffet breakfast of bread and 2 types of condiments (red jam and yellow jam). Breakfast was shared with a bunch of curious Indian workers who I learned were Myanmar as part of telecommunications construction contracts between the two countries.
Riding to the Indian Border Post at Moreh Shaun told us over the bike intercoms that he had to make an urgent toilet stop. The tone of his voice conveyed a distinct sense of urgency. Shaun blasted past riding dangerously and 5 minutes later we came upon the Kawasaki in front of a small shack selling chips and cold drinks in a field on the outskirts of a small village.
The blank faces of a shop keep and her young daughter looked to me for an explanation as I walked in. I pointed to Shaun, squatted, pointed to my butt and made a big farting noise as long and loud as I could. We all laughed. Luckily my subtle charades skills had worked and our new friends pointed out the back of the shack somewhere. Shaun ran like a mad duck in a hurry.
While he was gone the daughter of the shop keep comes over for a conversation in broken English. She was obviously very bright. I wonder how much opportunity there is for kids growing up in a rural village in Myanmar. I suspect not much. I am reminded that beyond our good intentions and helping a few people our trip isn’t going to change to world…
Shaun said the toilet was a small wooden deck with a hole in it onto that dropped onto the ground, but he was happy and seemed a lot more relaxed now. We buy some drinks and chips for the road and leave.
The last town on the Myanmar side of the border was Tamu. Before we said goodbye to our guide Jimmy he fortuitously (for him) remembered we all owe him hundreds of USD for the various loans he gave us over the last couple of days. So after we found an ATM and paid him, there we were, on the side of a road, full kit back on the bikes, ready to take on India (long inhale).
At this point I’ll confess my fear of Indian roads is giving me an impending sense of doom. It’s a big dark rain cloud gathering in the back of my head. I look at risk logically, and while people seem to assume the biggest risk is kidnapping, if this trip kills me it will be a motorbike accident. And if it’s a bike accident, statistically it will happen in India (did you know that 600+ people die per DAY on the roads in India? We think we will spend about 2.5 weeks to cross India, so that’s 11,700 chances for a fatal road accident in the next 18 days). I resolve to ride even more carefully through India and my only reassuring thoughts are that Shaun is much less experienced – surely the road god will take him first… (The same logic for which I always surf sharky areas with friends – to strengthen my odds). Hell, surely even Dan’s riding skills are no match for an errant Indian death-bus.
Getting stamped out of Myanmar took about an hour and we then proceeded into the Indian unknown. A large army presence greeted us as we crossed an old concrete bridge guarded by a truckload of solders with Kalashnikovs. Riding first up to the next border post I almost got collected by another army truck on a blind gravel bend and I quickly figured out that we are back to left-sided traffic (dammit, I have been in India for about 1 minute and I already nearly died in an accident).
We come to a modern, clean, eerily-empty visa building and are surprised that all our paper work is in order and there are no delays. However, when we are all stamped ready to go we are ushered across the street to a ‘Polio vaccination both’. I hate Polio as much as the next guy but I’m not sure I want some random dude injecting needles into me at a sketchy looking roadside shack in an Indian border town. I start looking for exits - I could run to my bike, but I am scared these blokes with a Kalashnikov might want target practice. Luckily they just want a photo and wave us through with awkward ‘I’m happy but I’m also an Army badass and I’m working’ kind of smiles.
Back to the bikes and Shaun left his headlight on while we were in getting visas. He fails miserably at bump starting (despite Dan and me swearing belittling encouragement at him). I turn my bike off and do a running bump start next to him – as much to show-up as demonstrate I think. Dan patiently waits until Shaun drains all his energy failing before he jumps on and gets it running first go. We wave goodbye to our AK47 wielding friends and we are on our way. I let Shaun know that counts as a break down for the tally.
With a few more clicks under out belt and safely into India to leave visa and carnet issues behind, we stop for some roadside snacks and to admire the view from an empty lookout on a winding mountain pass. My regular bike inspection reveals the nut holding my front sprocket has stripped lose and only the guard is stopping the front sprocket from coming off (no sprocket no chain no drive no bike no move). A bit of hastily applied cold weld (glue) and the TTR is running again for who knows how much longer. I feign confidence in my repairs to the boys who are suitably unconvinced and we are back on the road. Shaun lets me know that counts as a break down. Knowing the seriousness of the issue I don’t protest and hastily push it into the storm clouds in the back of my head.
So far in general the TTR and Sherpa have had needed the most attention. The TTR because it’s had a hard life. That is, in modifying the bike to accept a long range tank he created a huge heat sink near all the bikes electrical components. He also set up the tank to ensure any water on the road is directed straight to the bikes electrical guts (hence his Sherpa stops every time it rains). On some level I am impressed that even his basic bike modifications are so unnecessarily adventurous. Shaun and I are both waiting for Dan’s high-tech, high-cost Fuel Injected WR250 to choke on a batch of bad fuel, but so far our hopes are unanswered.
A massive army presence continues all day and we pass countless roadside sweeps and troop carriers filled with army grunts. It’s otherwise a great ride on paved roads through hundreds of kilometers of wingding mountain ranges. Traffic is sparse apart from Army. We work the bikes harder than we probably should, but not as hard as we want to.
Only the army people seem to have Indian facial features. The people, foods and architecture is still very Asian which surprises me. I think in my head I was expecting everything to change in an instant at the border to Indian (I’m thinking Bollywood and colorful costumes with festivals and dancing and that hindu god with all the arms and everyone eating papadums). Luckily no one needs to know my embarrassing cultural stereotypes and I’m pretty sure not even mum is reading our blog anymore. That said, we dodged about 50 cows on the road today, so that’s one Indian thing I was expecting.
By the late afternoon we were off the range and onto some floodplains. We don’t really know how far we are riding today. We hope to make it to Imphal but we all know it’s a big call. We stopped in a town on sunset to get sim cards to use the internet so we can get navigation and communication again.
At a phone store we are confronted by a language barrier but the clerk puts us onto the phone with his boss who can speak English. Turns out he is about 20 minutes away. I adventure nap in the alley next to the shop while the boys try to arrange phones. By the time we get sim cards sorted a few hours have passed and its dark.
Now our choice was to ride another 100km into the darkness (which the clerk advised against and trailed off with murmurs about rebels and recent kidnappings of foreigners) or find the police station in town and ask if we can sleep there. Sometimes I feel like we are in the ultimate choose-your-own-adventure book. We have had a big day already and choose the local police option.
Now this was an experience - rocking up at police compound unannounced in the dark, seeking shelter. Interrogations ensued and after some gruff treatment and phone calls to higher-ups it was all smiles and thumbs up and we were given a deserted room to ourselves. It wasn’t the Hilton but it was safe and dry. We probably even would have gotten some sleep if we weren’t woken up by a steady stream of gawkers throughout the night who wanted photos with the smelly bearded foreigners on ‘big bikes’.
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