He seemed like a nice enough kid. The motorcycle repair shop was actually his father’s, but he said his father was in India and wouldn’t be back for a "long time."

We would have replaced the fork seal on Aaron’s bike ourselves, it was an easy enough job, but we didn’t have the right tools or a new fork seal to replace the old one. It can be difficult finding Enfield parts in Nepal, and even trickier finding mechanics that know how to work on them. But in order to find an Enfield part, one must find an Enfield mechanic. Now that we were in the shop, we figured we might as well just have the kid do the job. In this part of the world, it’s actually easier to have a mechanic do your repairs for you because labor is dirt cheap and mechanics can always (or so we thought) find the right parts.

So, we trusted this fifteen-year old with the simple task of replacing a fork seal, which we figured would take about a half-hour. After assuring us that he had the replacement part and agreeing on a price of 150 Nepali rupees for labor, we sat back to watch him work. Everything seemed to be going according to plan as he disassembled the fork tube revealing the leaky rubber seals. At this point, distressed Nepalese came spewing forth from the kid’s mouth, and luckily another teenage Nepali boy who could speak a bit of English joined the scene and interpreted for us. "The part he has is not right one," the other kid explained as the little mechanic starting running around getting a dilapidated scooter ready for travel, "The seal he has is for older model or 350cc, we must go buy another—5 minute drive, no problem, 5 minute, you wait."

"You wait" is a phrase that one becomes very accustomed to when traveling in Asia, and unlike many promises issued from the mouths of locals wanting to please foreign tourists, this one is usually true. We waited. And waited and waited and waited. The shop was basically just a little hole in a stone building right off a dirt street and down about 4 feet. We had wheeled the hefty Enfield down a ramp and parked it in front of the shop, just below street level. We waited patiently at first, and then growing restless I wandered off to find some drinking water while Aaron took advantage of the open cycle shop to retard the bike’s timing and check the points.

When the two boys finally returned about an hour later, we were more than ready to see the seal replaced and be on our way, but this was not what we were greeted with. You see, in fact there are two seals: one that is relatively thin around and sits below the other on the bottom of the rim of the fork (the inner seal), and a larger one that sits atop the rim and completes the seal (the outer seal). What was actually happening, we began to ascertain, was that the boys had a new outer seal, but were not able to find a new inner seal. Their idea of solving this problem was simply to put our used, old inner seal back on the bike along with another of their old model inner seals (in lieu of a new one), and a new outer seal. Hmm, we thought.

Our old, used inner seal was obviously contributing to the leakage, as there was a noticeable rip in it, and it didn’t seem too wise to put an old, ripped seal back on the bike. Nor did it seem too wise to use parts for a different bike, OR to double up two wrong seals. Two wrongs don’t usually make a right. But we weren’t going to get the part we needed, compromise would have to come from somewhere, and were beginning to just want to get out of there. The mechanic had started to get upset-- perhaps his pride was injured or he was frustrated by not being able to communicate himself better, but whatever the cause he was slamming tools around and beginning to act like a spoiled teenager. We told him through his friend to just leave well enough alone, put the old ripped seal back on, replace the outer seal, and put the fork tube back together. We would pay for the new outer seal, but not the labor because the job was not done right and our seal would still leak.

This news did not brighten the child mechanic’s mood, and we kept an eagle’s eye on him as he angrily placed the seals and reassembled the fork tube. Now the moment had come, the moment that so often becomes ugly, the time for us to pay. Wisely thinking ahead, Aaron had wheeled the Enfield back up the ramp and onto the street before anyone’s pocketbooks came out. We asked how much the part cost (the new outer seal) and the boys eyes began to get that look in them, that look of how-much-money-can-I get-from-these-rich-foreigners.

In Nepal, that look is about as common as being told to wait, and we recognized it immediately. "No, no," we quickly came to the rescue of our rupees, "We’ll look at the package, the package that the part came in." We translated this through hand gestures and raised eyebrows (as the helpful translator/friend slowly became less helpful and translated next to nothing), finally just grabbling the package and looking at it ourselves. It said 19R, which sent the boy into a frenzy of whininess. Our fair weather translator explained that this price was in Indian rupees, that the part had been imported from India, and that the actual price in Nepal for the part was 150 rupees because of taxes. Conveniently, the same price we had originally agreed on for labor. Hmm, we thought again.

By now, the boy mechanic was close to tantrum tears and a crowd had begun to gather outside the shop. Anything even slightly out of the ordinary summons crowds on these streets, especially when it involves white people and money. Everyone began to talk at once. "We agreed to pay you for a job," we reminded Mr. Whiney Mechanic through his friend, "And you didn’t do it. We will pay you for this outer seal, and nothing else." The rubber fork seal had obviously not cost the boys 150R, but it was coming down to their word against ours.

Strangers began to involve themselves: a mysterious man in a white dress-shirt claiming to own the shop tried to convince us of the boys’ honesty while another man in a suit tried hard to listen to everyone’s side of the story but eventually walked off, presumably choosing a little peace and quiet over the din engulfing the shop and street above. A policeman briefly joined us only to give up after about two minutes, leaving us to solve our own sticky problem. Finally, we had had enough of trying to explain ourselves, no one was speaking in English anymore at all, and we felt it best to skedaddle. Aaron tossed 50 rupees on the desk of the mechanic and walked out to start the bike. This pushed the kids over the edge and they began to try and push the Enfield back down the ramp and into the shop.

"No, I don’t think so," I heard Aaron saying sternly as he jumped on the bike and began to wrestle it firmly through the fifty member crowd-cum-mob. Translator-boy jumped up and tried to grab the keys out of the motorcycle, forcing Aaron to squeeze his hands until he let go. This enraged the boy, and he proceeded to enter into a fierce tug-of-war which Aaron won, moving the bike about ten feet through the circling mob, and away from the shop.

I was poised to hop on the back for our daring get-away when suddenly translator-boy grabbed onto the back of the bike and began pulling it back towards the ramp. Revved up Nepalis took his cue and lunged towards the bike. Before I knew it, my hand flew up and struck the boy across the back with a thwapp that I doubt left a bruise, but sure did scare him enough to lose his grip. He whirled around and looked at me like a stunned animal-- I’m sure lady tourists don’t go around striking Nepali teenagers every day. I felt a bit odd myself, as I don’t think I’ve ever hit anyone that hard besides my sister. But, he was off the bike and I leapt on, as the mob of people held the boys back by their shirts and Aaron started the bike on the, well, on the third try (it wasn’t quite a John Wayne escape) and we rolled out of there back into the anonymity of Kathmandu.

LAP