Peaks

PEAKS

Bartering for a better ride

PROTECTION FROM THE SUN IS important for any touring rider, but in Sri Lanka, or anywhere else in the tropics, it is essential. Noses are particularly vulnerable to sun damage, and without benefit of a helmet visor, a rider’s nose soon resembles medium-rare sirloin. While renting the motorcycle for our Sri Lankan adventure, I mentioned the lack of visors on the accompanying helmets and was told by the rental manager that they were “unavailable." So Dorothy and I set off with the idea of buying our own on the local market.

The next morning found us cruising in search of a bike shop, which we soon found in the shade of a huge jackfruit tree.

The entire operation, from showroom to workshop, was housed in a single floorless tent about 20 feet square. Holes in the torn canvas lit the sales area with small patches of sunlight and flies buzzed quietly. It was very hot.

Outside, where several aging Japanese machines were offered for sale or rent, squatted the mechanic, barely 10 years old. Between his bare feet was a piston, and he was carefully reducing its diameter with an old and rusty file. As the filing progressed, he stopped occasionally to check the piston’s fit inside the cylinder barrel of a clapped-out Suzuki with a badly torn seat.

Lounging around was the usual assortment of old men, half-naked children, stray dogs, and one or two prospective customers. Sitting among the tangle of roots at the base of the tree, drinking tea from a filthy glass, sat the boss, a large man dressed in a spotless white garment.

“Good morning," I ventured, favoring him with my most deferential smile.

“Good morning, sir," he replied.

One of the dogs growled quietly and slinked away.

“I need a visor," I said.

No reaction.

“I need a visor for my helmet," I elaborated, “to keep the sun out of

my eyes."

Still no reaction. I decided to try my hand at charades.

I squinted into the sun and then pointed to my helmet, and I began a detailed pantomime of suffering from heat and glare. By this time, a small crowd had gathered, mumbling comments on my sorry performance.

“The sun is very bright here in Sri Lanka," I continued, speaking directly to the crowd. “Actually, I need two visors, one for me. and one for my wife."

Some of them looked at Dorothy, still perched on the Honda, who shaded her eyes with her hand, and then put her hand on the helmet, like a visor.

Finally someone got the message.

“A peak," said a voice in the crowd.

“You want a peak?" It was the boss.

“Yes, yes, a peak, a visor, a bill, whatever, I just want to keep the sun out of our eyes. Do you have a peak?"

“No sir. We don’t have."

Now. if there is one lesson to be learned from travel anywhere in the Far East, it is this: Never Take No For An Answer. In this case. I took matters into my own hands. Motorcycle shops the world over have one thing in common: Each has a junk bin. I made my way into the back of the tent and soon located the inevitable cardboard box full of broken cables, damaged side covers, bent handlebars and, indeed, several well-used helmet visors.

“How much for these visors?" I asked of the boss.

“These peaks I am not selling, sir. They are damaged, as you can see. and cannot be put to use." He indicated the holes where most of the snap-fasteners were missing. “These cannot be joined to helmets any longer," he explained.

“Yes, I see they are damaged.” I said, “but how much will you sell them for?"

The boss thought, and said, “These cost 30 rupees when new, sir, I can sell them to you for 20 rupees." The crowd, which had grown larger now, mumbled quietly to itself. “Each," he added, and the crowd snickered.

“I'll pay five rupees," I offered, “For both.”

Now the onlookers were beginning to enjoy themselves. A boy was sent across the road for tea, and the bargaining continued.

«P=i "The boss said nothing. He had lost face, bested by a foreigner with a roll of magic tape.”

“Thirty rupees for both.”

“Five rupees each.”

“Twenty for both peaks.”

“Seven rupees for each peak, and we both know that’s twice too much,” I said.

“Fifteen rupees for both peaks, last price,” said the boss.

“Sold,” 1 said. 1 had paid less than a buck for two essential pieces of motorcycling equipment, and l cheerfully would have paid $5 each. Such is the gulf between our world and theirs.

Now came the fun part. After the 15 rupees had been counted out in front of the watching crowd, I asked the boss for a pair of pliers and turned to the task of mounting the visors on the helmets.

The crowd pressed in around me. watching as I removed the one or two remaining snap-fasteners. I held up the helmet and visor and eyed the positioning of each with elaborate care. Just when the tension was becoming unbearable, 1 reached into my shoulder bag and, with a flourish, pulled out a roll of duct tape.

In less than a minute I had used the tape to mount both visors on our helmets and was sitting back and grinning at the crowd of onlookers.

They were impressed. The helmets were passed around and inspected with admiring comments, the visors tested for fit and attachment, and the roll of duct tape was examined with respect.

The boss said nothing. Although he had profitably sold two bits of junk, he had lost face. The foreigner and his roll of magic tape had bested him in a business deal, and he drank his tea in silence.

I sensed his displeasure as 1 packed up my gear, and decided to even the score a little. Taking my precious roll of tape from the crowd. I walked over to the mechanic who was still trying to fit the piston into the Suzuki. With several well-placed pieces of tape, 1 made a

neat job of mending both the motorcycle seat and my new friendship with the shop owner.

As I fired up the Honda, Dorothy and I looked back at the crowd and waved at the boss. As he waved back, we saw that he was grinning from ear to ear .—Peter McLennan