It was around 10 pm when the mechanic started drinking. With a sheepish, sideways glance as if asking my permission, he cracked a bottle of Kingfisher Strong. He still hadn’t figured out why my bike wouldn’t idle, and was clearly getting frustrated. Watching the booze flow didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.

We spent a day in Keylong getting our shit together and resting after the mentally exhausting climb over the Rohtang Pass. A mechanic fixed my broken throttle cable where I’d left her along the main bazaar, but then we drove her over to the shop for more work. This was before eleven. I met a wrench named Papu, who was calm and confident and started taking apart the engine to see why she was lacking power. He seemed to diagnose the problem and assured me the work could be finished by day’s end, so I went to get a quick bite for breakfast.

When I returned, Papu was gone. A younger wrench who I hadn’t seen before was busily fastening on my carb – upside down. Ross and I looked at each other wondering if we were crazy. We weren’t. He really was putting the thing on the wrong way. There were a number of other locals milling about, and luckily one of them spoke fluent English. I’ve quickly gotten the impression that bike shops are public hangouts here. Friends and relatives come and hang out for a few hours, even though they aren’t mechanics and don’t have their own bikes.  Through the translator, the young wrench told me that Papu had left for the day, off to another town.

What?

So the head mechanic, Yogesh, was called. This was to be his day off, but now his main guy had fucked off and he had to show up to calm some jackass foreigner who for some reason desired a properly positioned carb. Now he had a half finished bike that wouldn’t idle and had to run through the entire diagnostics procedure all over again. Piece by piece he took the bike apart, blowing into valves and tightening nuts. By nightfall, she would still cut out as soon as the throttle was released.

The social scene evolved through the hours. Yogesh’s brother in law showed up with Yogesh’s three year old. The tiny guy’s mother had disappeared at some point so poor Yogesh had to double his shop as a daycare. I played with the kid and watched the work being done. Soon the beer was being cracked. Kingfisher Strong is infamous in the backpacker community. The label lists the range of alcohol content – EXCEEDING 5.25% BUT NOT EXCEEDING 8.25%. Hilarious. Soon another shop rat had arrived with a plastic Coke bottle full of homemade rice whiskey. I asked them what percent the whiskey was – they laughed. Between 20 and 30 percent I was told, with non-committal head wobbles all ’round.

Great. It’s now eleven pm and my bike has been in this shop for half a day and now we’re drinking two different types of booze with unknown alcohol content and my bike still won’t idle. Eventually the coil was replaced, and it seemed to have a positive effect. While things were far from perfect, I could tell they weren’t getting there in the state we were all quickly entering. At one point Yogesh was using his teeth to tear copper wire off an old turn signal light. He was feeding the wire through a hole in the carb and tying it off around a screw.

“This. This more power you bike.”

“Great,” I said.

I got the hell out of there. He asked for 700 roops and I gave him a thousand, telling him it was for his boy. He thanked me and I rode off back to the hotel exhausted. The next morning we wanted an early departure for Sarchu, a glorified tent camp perched on the side of a mountain. Again, though, we would end up waiting for Matt all morning. But Ross and Matt would end up waiting for me all afternoon.