Up until now we have been relying on hotels for towels. What this has meant in practice is that we have been drying ourselves on t-shirts and pillow cases after showering. With the temperature often getting below zero, we have had to prove our masculinity, by hopping round wet after a shower, desperately trying to get dry.. Enough was enough, so we decided to get some in Rekong Peo.
At the same time we got a plastic jerry can to fill with fuel. There are no fuel pumps into the Spiti valley, and although our bikes should last on one tank until Kaza, we didn't really want to risk it. So we filled our tanks and the plastic container to the brim, re-arranged our luggage over the two bikes and set off.
This led to an incident on the road about 5km away from Rekong Peo that was all at the same time very dangerous, very frustrating, quite expensive and very very funny.
The road was its usual mixture of gravel, stones, dust and potholes. I am getting quite used to this now, and quite enjoy the challenge of difficult surfaces. We can go up to about 40km an hour over such surfaces without too much trouble, The bikes are ok, but it does make a lot of movement which can shake loose the luggage bindings.
We were dodging some roadworks, when a worker shout out 'Jerry Can! Jerry Can'.
I pulled over immediately. The plastic container full of fuel had become detached from my luggage rack and was flapping bout near the exhaust.
Even worse, s small hole had appeared, and fuel was spurting out.
We debated what to do. Dan was not impressed, cussing and swearing at the flimsy plastic. We tried securing it to his bike, but the petrowl was still coming out. Although Dan was sanguine about it, I felt it was much too dangerous.
We tried fixing the hole with insulation tape and then chewing gum. Still it leaked. 'FUCK IT!', said Dan. 'Its only dripping a bit. It will only evaporate. We'll go on and then refill our tanks'. I wasn't happy as I thought it a fireball waiting to happen, but agreed.
Unfortunately now, Dan couldn't start his bike. Kicking and swearing away, it just wouldn't start. 'I'll have to jump it', he shouted back at me. I watched him go down the hill, a couple of cars queuing up behind.
I couldn't really see what happened next, but there was a lot of swearing and shouting, I quickly gunned Carmen, headed back down that road. Dans bike was on its side, the cars were tooting trying to get past. A road worker was helping a red faced and very angry Dan get his bike out the way.
'Fucking go', he was shouting at the cars, 'Just GO!'. As soon as they had gone, he started shouting at the bike 'Fucking crap. It was crap in the 1950's and its crap now. Fucking fucking shit heap. Take my advice mate, 'he said to the uncomprehending Road Worker, 'Don't buy a fucking Enfield. Useless piece of fucking crap!'.
It was actually quite amusing. The poor road worker didn't quite know what to make of it, but Dans tantrum was really him just letting off steam. He knew he was being ridiculous, but needed to vent his frustration.
He then tried to get the jerry can off the bike but the bungee holding it had other ideas. There ensued a sort of tug of war, Dan futilely struggling, in the hot sun, getting sweatier and more angry.
Eventually it came loose. In between giggles, I managed to persuade him not to throw it in the river. He stomped off behind a tractor to calm down whilst I retied the luggage, siphoned off a litre of the fuel into a water bottle, and then gave the rest, about 600rps worth to the Road Worker, who probably only earns about 200 a day.
When we set off, Dan zoomed out in front, still in need of space to get over the incident. Over Chai, an hour or so down that road we laughed about the situation. We wasted about 700rps on fuel and the jerry can. But on the other hand, we hadn't turned out Enfields into Firebombs. Also, as a now calm and wry Dan pointed out - 'it could be worse, we could be breaking rocks by the side of the road, like that guy'.
The road was in patches bad, but mostly new tarmac, and we could build up some good speed. Our permits were checked soon after, and we entered into the Spiti Valley.
The landscape abruptly changed. Gone were the trees and vegetation. Gone were the road side stalls and the little habitation. Gone was the brown and green colours. Great pale coloured cliffs rose on slither side of us grey and white and pale yellow. Gone were the people. Gone was all signs of life.
The black ribbon of our road was the only contrast to the landscape. It weaved through the cliffs above the river, like a black tongue of some mythic sand serpent, leading to its maw.
The road was still bad in a couple of places. One section, just over a bridge, was the hardest so far. Steep, rutted and with big boulders at the crest of the craters. My bike almost didn't make it- I could feel it struggling, then start to tilt over to one side as the forward momentum dropped. A steep drop on one side. A truck bearing down on me. I could feel the danger.
But Carmen coughed, righted herself, and struggled up the slope. The truck passed on one side, and the road soon went back to black.
Higher and higher we went. Occasional habitations almost invisible so well did they blend into the landscape. Some of them at ridiculous heights.
We made Nako, our destination about 3pm. Had to circle round a few times to find a guesthouse, but found a well built and decorated hotel with nice clean bedrooms. The view over the terraced paddy fields, empty and brown now, to the mountains on the other side of the valley was lovely.
Walked round the village, visited the 1000 year old Buddhist Monastery, ate some dumplings and some soup and had a conversation with a man from the Canaries.
Then back to our rooms. The temperature had dropped to around zero. Too cold even to try out my new towel although Dan managed to blood his. Too cold really to type in detail about Nako. Too cold to do much apart from wait for the sun tomorrow.
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