Bulletproof

The story of a woman who takes a sabbatical from her journalist job. In India she buys a motorbike, learns how to handle it, travels to the Himalayas and ends up with the man of her life.

Bulletproof

 

Kornelia Santoro

 

“They put all the necessary pieces into a basket, you pay for the basket and after some days of work you have a motorbike, out from a basket. They are called basket bikes”, Harry explains wiping away the sweat which trickles down his bulky neck. “Your bike came in a basket, too. The engine number shows that it belonged to an old army bike from 1972. They don’t make this kind of engines any more. You are really lucky. In a couple of days you will see your beauty.”

 

It is a sunny day in January 1994. We are standing in Rocky’s workshop, a low shed made from corrugated metal sheets located in Sainik Farms, one of the suburbs of New Delhi. The shed is stuffed with all kinds of motorbike parts. Harry, a heavy set German biker, looks at the scenery with a sparkle in his eyes. After three days of listening to him raving about the beauty of vintage bikes I have some problems feigning enthusiasm. The heaps of rusty metal pieces thrown about the compound which reeks of engine oil and garbage in various stages of decay hold little attraction for me. And what Harry keeps on saying about the duties of bikers, makes me wonder if buying an Enfield bullet was really the right thing to do.

 

“If you want to drive a bike, you first have to learn how to repair it. Every biker knows how to hold a screw driver and set the points. In Goa, you don’t only have to learn to drive the bike, you also have to learn to service it,” Harry just tells me with conviction. I look at my long fingernails and wonder how I will survive this ordeal.

 

In the hot midday sun my mind starts to wander to the one question which brought me here:  What am I doing with my life? When I had celebrated my 30^th birthday, I had realized that I was lingering at a cross road. It was time to make up my mind: Should I continue following my career in journalism or should I choose motherhood? One thing I knew for sure. There was no way I could work long hours and weekends and be a good mother at the same time. As a mother I would like to see my child grow without juggling a demanding profession and parenting.

 

Finally destiny forced some action upon me. In January 1993 my friend Rosie had invited me to visit Goa. She had rented a house in Anjuna with a spare bedroom and wanted me to join her. So I booked a flight and thoroughly enjoyed myself for two weeks. Although I had little in common with the drug consuming hippies I enjoyed the beaches, the friendly people and I discovered my love for riding motorbikes. Most of all I loved the warm sun. The long, cold European winters when you have to stay indoors for months make me depressive.

 

Just before returning to Germany in 1993, I had met Harry who told me how little a used Enfield Bullet costs. Immediately a road had opened up in my mind: I could take a two year sabbatical from my position as a political correspondent for a German newspaper, buy a Bullet and drive through India while pondering what to choose: Family or career.

 

Said and done - now I was sweating away in Rocky’s dusty compound, listening to endless stories about motorbikes. Harry did not talk about anything else and Rocky, the owner of the place, a short man with a protruding belly, was happy to entertain him. Luckily his wife Swati was as bored with the subject as me. On the third day of waiting that my bike emerged from a basket she took me into the bungalow next to the shed with the bike parts. The interior was cooled by air condition. Marble floors and a built in modern kitchen proved that business was going well. In the master bedroom Swati showed me her collection of pashmina shawls. Now this was something really interesting…

 

The following days I excused myself from visiting Rocky’s workshop. Instead I spent my days relaxing at the pool of the Imperial Hotel, taking a break from New Delhi’s Tourist camp, where I had joined Harry who liked this kind of surrounding. Already my existence as a pampered journalist seemed to slip away. In the basic huts of the Tourist Camp I got the taste of rough living on the road…

 

Five long days later my motorbike was ready: Harry had restored it in the original style of a Royal Enfield, with a chromed tank, red paint and golden lines, a classical beauty. When I first saw her, she took my breath away. I started to feel scared, really scared. How would I be able to handle these 170 kilograms of metal? “You have to give her a name, you know. For a man a bike is female. We always speak of her, like speaking of a lover. But you are a woman, so I don’t know how this works with you…” said Harry. Honestly, I had no idea. I kept on referring to my bullet in my mind as “the bike”. But a name? Luckily I had no problem with the gender. Clearly, this red and chrome beauty was female.

 

“By the way, in Goa I will introduce you to my friend Alberto. He will love you, tall and blond as you are. He is the best motorbike driver I know. He used to race motorbikes when he was young, a real gentleman from a good family in Milano. I don’t really have the patience to teach you how to handle the bullet. But he can show you how to drive a nice line.” Clearly, Harry had enough of me. He was looking forward to spend time with the three bikes he had bought from Rocky.

 

One day later Harry got the bikes wrapped in straw and sack cloth. Following a lot of screamed orders a bunch of Kulis lifted them on board of the train which took us directly from New Delhi to Belgaum. There he rented a truck which brought us to Goa. I had booked a room at Martha’s breakfast home in Anjuna, where Harry and his friends met every morning.

 

Finally the Bullet was standing in front of my modest room. Still I was scared, really scared. I hardly dared lift her from the stand for fear I would not be able to put her up again, let alone drive the beast. On the second evening in Goa Harry had organized a dinner at a cozy little restaurant. His love for motorbikes is only equaled by his love for cashew nut feni which he likes to consume in one of the little bars which dot the Goan countryside. Thanks to Harry I came to know hidden pockets of the Goan culture like indigenous restaurants which serve wild boar " far away from the tourist trail.

 

In one of these cozy restaurants I finally met Alberto, a man with long hair, held together in a ponytail, and a heartwarming smile. He was dressed in a stylish leather jacket. “Show her your motorbike”, said Harry. “You know, Alberto was one of the first to drive a fully modified bullet with an elongated frame.”

 

During dinner Alberto and I kept on talking about everything under the stars except motorbikes. He told me about his past as a successful photographer and cameraman for advertisement. “I have worked with the best director in Italy, but the stress just takes the joy out of life. About 15 years now I am spending my winters in Goa. I love the warm climate. Of course I cannot follow a serious career like this, but having time is more important for me. Luckily, I can afford to live like this.”

 

The evening passes quickly and Alberto offers to drive me home. I hold on to him and he opens the throttle. His bike is speeding over the road, I feel like flying. In front of my room he kisses me on the cheek. “It was a nice evening. I enjoyed talking with you. Unfortunately I have to leave in a week. My girlfriend and her son are waiting for me in Sydney. I have decided to live with them in Australia for a while. Sydney is the most beautiful city on earth, maybe I will settle there permanently.” This announcement hits me like a cold shower. Then I realize: What do I expect after one evening of interesting talk? A commitment for a lifetime? Anyway I have to sort out my life. Falling in love would only divert me from this purpose.

 

A big part of his last days in Goa Alberto spends with me. He shows me how to handle the bike and I notice that there are different approaches to being a biker. “I never touch a screw driver. That is what mechanics are for. If your bike needs repairing, bring it to a workshop. Hanuman is the best mechanic in Mapusa; I will introduce you to him. I know him since he was a little boy.” Under Alberto’s guidance I start driving my motorbike. I love the heavy rumble between my legs and I love the looks I receive, when I pass all the shacks in Anjuna stuffed with Hippies…

 

The only problem is starting the bike’s engine. I never have to ask Alberto to help me. After a few ineffective kicks from me he is there to launch my bike. My problems begin once he is gone. With a heavy heart I have to deal alone with my bullet now. The driving I manage quite well but starting the engine remains a problem. I keep on kicking and kicking, but most of the times she simply refuses to spring to life. I usually have to ask somebody to help me get my bike underway.

 

I dread the minutes when I try kicking the bike in front of a Tchai shop, all eyes on me watching my fruitless efforts - how embarrassing. Even more humiliating are sometimes the responses from experienced bikers when I ask them for help. Some flatly refuse; some others pretend they don’t hear me or they give me a response along the lines: If you want to drive a bike, you also have to start it. Many times I am flabbergasted by the lack of courtesy and manners. If you want to be a hippie you have to forget being polite it seems to me. I miss Alberto, the gentleman driver...

 

After six weeks of endless kicking my right knee is out of order. I cannot walk anymore and have to rest for some days. After these days of idleness my bullet slowly gives up her resistance. I still don’t have a name for her, but it seems that she starts to accept me as her driver. Finally she starts after some patient kicking.

 

Three months had passed in Goa, time to hit the road. Many of the people in Anjuna seemed only interested in consuming various kinds of drugs and hanging out on the beach " a way of life which for me was simply boring. I was ready for new experiences. So I packed my bags and mounted the Enfield, heading for the Himalayas.

 

I don’t remember how many times I almost got killed on Indian roads. Trucks were swerving towards me. Jeeps almost hit me. Deep holes opened up in the middle of the road. In remote valleys of the Himalayas I fell into icy rivers while crossing them…yet my bullet took me everywhere. In Himachal Pradesh we visited McLeod Ganj, the exile of the Dalai Lama. We participated at a Kalachakra, a tantric initiation, in Jispa, a little village in Himachal Pradesh. We drove through Rajasthan down to Goa. We even spent two weeks in Osho’s ashram in Pune.

 

I guess my guardian angel was very busy during the one and a half years I was driving through India. Throughout this time I shed many layers of my pampered personality. I learned to live with hardly any comfort and I lost my fear: My bullet turned into my best friend. She seemed like a Mamma to me, protecting me and keeping me safe.

 

When we returned to Goa, it felt like coming home. I loved the green hills and the coconut palms swaying in the breeze. The local people seemed to welcome me as well. Finally I could show the ones who had sneered at me that I truly was bulletproof. After so much time on the road my bike started mostly on the first kick: no more humiliation in front of Tchai shops, no more begging for help, no more snide remarks. Again I took a room at Martha’s breakfast home, because the owners were really friendly.

 

The weeks passed quickly with relaxing in the sunshine. Nobody seemed to hurry in Goa. To enjoy life seemed of uttermost importance to everybody. Although I had experienced many adventures, the answer to my big question still eluded me. It was time to tell the newspaper if I would resume my position. Then, one sunny morning, there was a knock on my door. I opened and there he was: Alberto, the gentleman biker.  “I am a free man now”, were his first words.

 

To make a long story short: We got married in 1997 in Milano, Italy and we decided to live in sunny Goa. One of the first things we did was to modify my bike into a rainbow colored chopper. Finally I came to know her name: Berta. In 1999 our son Valentino was born. Although many things have changed in Goa recently, after 15 happy years we still love to live here.

 

 

 

Reviews

[darkness*star1985]

oh wow thats ones for the books. great story to find out afterwards that is your every one happy ending story is just so wonderful. good write. give us all hope to find love that is everlasting. :)