Motorcycle Classics – September-October 2019

truck with a spare bike, and Gyan, our
mechanic.
The tarmac was broken and cratered.
Untidy storefronts displaying spare,
grimy goods lined the road. Women
(usually women, sometimes children—
never men) carried untidy bundles of
firewood on their heads. Ferocious
trucks blasted through the tiny villages
scattering goats, chickens and children.
The only rule of the road here: Might
is right.
In Jaigaon, our passports were
stamped and processed, and we rode
under a brightly painted arch into
Bhutan, and a new town, Puntsholing.
There was more paperwork to do before
we were free to go, the process slowed
by the fact that it was a national holi-
day, the king’s 43rd birthday.
The difference from India was dra-
matic. Gone was the untidy scrim-
mage of Jaigaon, replaced by order
and tranquility. Faces that had been
darkly Caucasian became almond-eyed
Mongoloid — most Bhutanese are eth-

nically Tibetan. By royal mandate, citi-

zens wore their national dress as they

went about their business: the gho, a

tailored, toga-like cloak belted at the

waist for men; and the kira, a full-length

robe pinned at the shoulder for women.

We’re appointed a guide, Dorji, who

will travel with us as interpreter and

“fixer.”

Topographically, Bhutan is a stair-

case rising from the Indo-Gangetic

plain into the Himalayas, climbing

20,000 feet in less than 150 miles.

From the strip of tropical terai in the

south to the northern peaks, there was

only one valley flat enough for an air-

strip. So leaving Puntsholing we soon

began to climb. As we switched along

the mountainsides on a narrow tarmac

track, grassland gave way to scrub,

while pines and dwarf conifers clung to

the cliffs. We climbed into a cloud that

condensed inside my visor. Through the

misty haze, the meandering rivers on

the plain below appeared like luminous

golden ribbons in a steam bath. The

Enfield’s breathing became asthmatic:

Throttle wide in the thin air, a rasping

gulp accompanied each intake stroke.

At Gedu, less than 50 miles from the

border, we’d already climbed almost

7,000 feet and it was cold. A plywood

shack was marked, surprisingly, “café.”

We encircled a wood fire in the corner

The pass at Yutong La

separates the Trongsa and

Bumthang valleys. Bare, basic

cafés provide a welcome break

for coffee and snacks.