Ian's RTW trip

Belgium – A box of chocolates

2011-11-14T05:11:00.001-08:00

Writing this after the event I’ve much to type but don’t quite know how to such is the disjointed experience that we had of the country. Perhaps a good way to start is to slightly change good old Mrs Gump’s turn of phrase, as in this case it’s a country that’s a box of chocolates. There’s plenty of conflicting flavours to be found, with our first being in the Poirot like French speaking south. Still searching for that something different we found it as spotting a huge space rocket just off the motorway provoked an 18km U-turn to what was the European Space Agency. A couple of hours of trying to find English text amongst the three national languages during what was otherwise a fairly interesting audio guided tour then followed. Only fairly as it quickly became apparent that Belgium has something of an inferior complex and takes every opportunity to put its hand in the air like some annoying kid in the classroom. On this occasion the European Space Agency was made to look like the Belgium Space Agency with the partner countries hardly given a mention at all.

With something new behind us it was something old as we stayed in the centre of Brussels and were presented with what has to win our award for the most impressive ‘old town square’ in Europe. Formerly a royal district, it showed as the architecture around the square is simply incredible although the big tourist attraction of what is essentially a replica 12” statue of a baby pissing or the ‘Manneken-Pis’ was very ‘is that it?’ like. Elsewhere the whole ‘Capital of Europe’ theme was thrust around at every opportunity with plenty of blue Euro flags around.

On our way out of Brussels it was back to something new as we visited the ‘Atomium,’ which unlike Mirka I’d never heard of and that included reading our ‘Rough Guides’ lowdown on Brussels attractions. What we found was an undoubtedly impressive structure that was part of some sort of ‘Don’t call us a poor man’s Paris’ Expo in 1958. However, after departing with €22 and a visit inside the only five spheres that are available I struggled to recall a time where I’ve been more underwhelmed which if you know me is really saying something! It comprised of a viewing area and an exhibition about how great immigration is. You could almost smell the vegan food coming from the two food areas. Other than a row with some old bag after I refused to spend €0.5 after spending a penny in a scummy toilet that was Brussels.

Bruges though in the Dutch speaking north was more like it. Strictly old style, it lacks the modern touches and attention seeking of Brussels. A medieval tower looms large over the pretty square and the place had a nice laid back feel about it partly thanks to a lack of groups of tourists. A couple of glasses of the excellent Leffe in a pub rounded off the day and pretty much the trip as an uneventful ride back home completed the six week and 6,000 mile ride. So what next then? Well a bit like having a blow out at a carvery restaurant, the past six weeks will take a little digesting. There may be though, time to sneak in a little dessert before closing. We’ll see…

Lovely Luxemburg

2011-11-14T04:52:00.000-08:00

My ‘rough guide’ to Luxemburg promised us the most spectacular setting to any European city with difficulty in obtaining accommodation in or near Luxemburg City, which is quite a claim and just what we need after seeing so much beforehand. Except for the accommodation bit that is, which proved true as whilst following the signs for the city the GPS wasn’t having any of it. Clearly I didn’t zoom in enough on the google map showing our hotel’s location as after re-joining the lilac route on the screen we ended up 12km out of town! Happily though frequent buses to and from the city centre were nearby and so unpacked and fed we hopped aboard for the 30min ride in. Getting off at the main train station in the new town was pretty underwhelming but a short map read and walk took us to what was indeed a very spectacular setting for the historic old town. Set within what was probably a huge castle or fort the gorge encircling it is stunning.

Connected by a bridge the view down below is not one for the squeamish and you can’t help but think of how many people may have threw themselves down there over the years. Inside we found what was probably business district and a very upmarket shopping/restaurant district. Hours later with a happy Mirka sporting a new pair of leather boots we had a lovely traditional meal deep in the gorge between old and new in a cracking brasserie. Quite why I’ve never heard anything about Luxemburg as a weekend break sort of place over the years I don’t know, as it is firmly one of the surprises of the trip so far. Recommended.

Germany

2011-11-14T04:46:00.000-08:00

Somewhat unfortunately Germany’s rapid autobahns were used in order to allow for an easier final few days. What was and will be by far our longest day of 556km meant that our stay in Heidelberg was a tired one and little was seen of the country en-route. A little ride around town while hunting for accommodation was deemed sufficient to see enough of the place as accumulated trip fatigue started to set in. With a return to normal life only a matter of days away now thoughts of this are now beginning as they usually do at this stage of any trip. Still, an early night might help as the somewhat mysterious Luxemburg awaits…

The 2011 DD Cup

2011-11-04T03:48:00.000-07:00

The Czech Republic is of course, Mirka’s former home. Since arriving in the UK eight years ago her and subsequently our visits there to see her family have been maybe three times a year. One of these three though has been for me to take part in the ‘DD Cup’ which is a yearly tennis competition hosted by her sister and brother in law Daja and Petr to celebrate the birth of their two girls Didi and Deni. Tennis is pretty big in Mirka’s family with Petr playing professionally and several other relatives being of a much higher standard than the “Have you seen my tennis racket?” types back at home after Wimbledon has been on the telly. Thankfully though the younger and better players haven’t taken part yet and it’s up to the older and non tennis playing types like me to try to win the trophy. I’ve faired from bad to average over the years as it takes me a good set and a half to get things together and by then it’s all over. When asked if I’ve been in ‘training’ my answer is always the same...”yeah, last year.” This years effort turned out just like the rest with me finishing third (of five) but at least troubling the overall winner Pavel 4-6 in our last game.
So along with the big family turn out, tennis and food so to comes the drinking. My first visit to meet the family was to attend Daja and Petr’s wedding in 2004 and my evening was cut somewhat short after getting involved in something of a drinking contest among the non English speaking friends and relatives. I was holding my own and chatting away with such internationally recognised words as “David Beckham,” “Rooney” and “Premier League” until the Czech’s Ray Mears turned up, ‘Mira’ and ordered two of the countries national drink ‘Sliovovice.’ At some unknown time shortly after it was ‘good night Vienna’ or in this case 'good night Zámek Kačina' And it’s been downhill from there really as each visit presents a yearly challenge to my liver not to disintegrate. Usually though the hard work is on the evening of the tournament however this time it was the night before as just at the point of being ready for bed Petr and Mira headed off to a fellow hunting friend’s house for a night cap and dragged me along. A display of various guns and ammunitions then followed which was welcome respite from the drinking. These people will drink absolutely anything including the sort of stuff that does the rounds and always ends up being found the morning after hosting a BBQ. Our host on this case, another Petr, had a big grey bushy moustache which I’ve learnt is always a bad sign, the mark of a professional if you will. A new landmark was achieved when after ploughing through the previous drinks he disappeared to come back with some home brew. Now I should state that this is nothing new and is common place all around here and afar (as Steve will I’m sure, concur on the entry ‘The Trans Siberian Highway – Day 2') but this took things to a new level. Coming to think of it the first bottle of Slivovice was home brew too as it had no label, just Slivovice written on the bottle in marker pen but this new number one evil drink (I’ll discount Ayauska as even the Amazonians don’t touch it) was in a big bottle that looked like it had come straight of a laboratory and was filled little yellow berries. My god...mercifully though I was left to take on a bottle of still disgusting strawberry something by myself until I finally got into bed just before 4am. It got me thinking though...If only Amy Winehouse and George Best had come here for a holiday years earlier, think of the time that that would have saved?

Polish Geometry

2011-11-04T03:16:00.000-07:00

Although I live near Slough in what I’ve read to be the Polish capital of the UK my views on the Poles is probably no different to everyone else’s...Poundland, Pole dancing and what I can’t make work, builders. So far though it’s only the builder’s variety that we’ve seen plenty of, with loads of building work going on that goes against the empty half built buildings seen across Europe. Maybe young Polish boys are given junior tool kits early on but the stereotype seems true.
The first of our two destinations was Krakow, a recent favourite destination for stag do’s that allows for the second of my views on the Poles to be found. This though isn’t a stag do so no pole dancing pictures I’m afraid but instead I found out that it has the largest European town square, interesting eh? That may well be true but within the town square is a huge building taking up much of it and so it doesn’t seem much like a square anymore. After all, if you made a circle and then punched out a big hole in the middle it’s no longer a circle, just a hoop. Anyway, Old Castle and town hoop (with 90° bends) explored we headed for the big helium balloon to take a look at Krakow during dusk. 120 meters or up so gave a pretty decent view with some good photos.
The second of our Polish destinations is probably the most difficult to pronounce. Wrocław is actually pronounced ‘Vratsvraf’ which doesn’t make it any easier. However you (try) to say it, this place we like as its smaller, quieter, a little more upmarket and neater than Krakow. Many of the central buildings were recently restored due to a flood which probably helps as to does the huge town ‘L’ which like Krakow’s isn’t really a square. Before we left though we solved the riddle of Slovenia's padlocks, as like in Ljubljana Krakow's pretty bridges are decorated with thousands of padlocks. A further inspection of these revealed names and dates! Wedlocks no doubt but it did make me wonder whilst looking at the old rusty ones...how many people have actually come back to cut theirs off after their divorce?

Searching for something different

2011-11-04T02:04:00.000-07:00

This is now becoming harder and harder but as we checked into our little cabin in Bratislava's ‘Botel (get it?) Marina’ we knew that we’d found it. Half Indian restaurant and half ‘botel’ we were moored off shore (OK fixed to the bank) on the Danube just under the ubiquitous Starý Hrad which of course translates to ‘Old Castle.’ A walk around the very small city revealed a very nice place indeed. Cheap, few tourists, pedestrianized centre and just the right amount of nice buildings, statues etc. We considered lunch within the ‘UFO’ restaurant high above one of the cities bridges but the best part of €100 for a table with a view seemed a little excessive for something that we’ve both done before. With both of us a little tired nothing more was needed than a walk about to explore the pretty Slovakian capital. A measure of how tired I was though proved itself as during the night what sounded like an explosion followed by some quite severe boat rocking made me think that the boat may sink. Waking naturally several hours later meant that no such disaster had occurred and instead a bigger faster boat must have passed by during the night causing our smaller boat’s fixings to feel the force caused by the waves. Mirka said it happened twice apparently! Anyhow, after two nights onboard HMS Ruby (Murray) off we headed along to a UNESCO protected Banská Štiavnica in the low Tatras. Isolated up in the hills this very small town really is quiet, with little going on at all. I’m not quite sure why this place has a UNESCO status other than that it was an old German mining town (somehow) and after the gold and silver ran out all that remains are the old castle, new castle and some sort of tower that made a noise to wake up the miners.
More worryingly though is the temperature, as on the way into Banská Štiavnica it was really cold but the following morning as we headed for the High Tatras it was about as cold as I’ve ever ridden which includes Alaska. Soul’s temperature gauge read as low as -4° C for much of the way but with the windchill it must have been into double figures. This was not helped by the first 30km or so which was mostly in the shade from the tree lined road. This made for a nervy ride hoping not to encounter any black ice but thankfully as we went from low to high the extra degrees that the sunlight gave helped. So too did my choice of hotel for the night as we stayed in the very plush Grand Hotel in Starý Smokovec. With my home forming both the most western and northern part of the trip and Patras in Greece the most southern this point marks our most eastern latitude and although a little zig zaggy our so far faultless Moto Guzzi has now turned the corner and is heading for home. And so by way of a treat this place is to make up for the thankfully not so many places that we’ve stayed that have been a little disappointing. Starý Smokovec must be a hikers dream as the views are stunning and the place is just lovely. I don’t have any of those stupid walking poles though and so dressing gowns under arms we headed for the hotel’s Spa instead. It was just what we needed although the €4 swimming shorts that I’d bought the day before weren’t as due to the sauna, steam room etc being not in England it was err...‘tackle out.’ I’ll leave out the small cock jokes for now but surprisingly the most enjoyable thing about all of this was the ice cold pool straight from the hot rooms. Nice in a laugh or cry way but one thing that it constantly made me think of was of how the victims of Titanic must have felt. Horrific.

Coming in from the cold - Part 2

2011-11-04T01:29:00.000-07:00

Despite the distraction of the prostitutes waiting for truckers on the E55 I went for the old ‘cut the corner off the route’ trick which took us properly cross country through the tiny villages and past the farms. With the panniers only half full due to the amount of clothing that we’re both now wearing it wasn’t the most enjoyable ride that I’ve had and despite following the fastest rubbish truck in the world at unbelievable speeds (surely on a job and knock) on a deserted country lane the main focus was a finding a proper hot stodgy meal having not had breakfast in Český Krumlov. A quick pull over to pick up a few bags of rubbish later and I was past but fearing a re-enactment from the Stephen King film ‘The Duel’ I wound on the throttle for the rapidly nearing border with Austria. Only just across the border and one of those ‘did I really see that?’ moments happened. After a near lock up of the brakes we turned around and read the chalked up sign saying ‘English Breakfast’ outside what looked like a pub, talk about an oasis! Once inside and finally unmasked we were greeted with an English accent as we ordered our breakfast in the warm. In one of those TV type programmes where two Brits sell up and relocate abroad (except not on TV) Colin and Patricia did just that and refurbished the huge Gasthof zum Kastanienbaum (Chestnut Guesthouse) climbing over the multiple planning hurdles along the way. What was indeed a proper English breakfast (perhaps only missing a drop of HP or Heinz?) then followed and our stories of how we got here were given over a couple of hot coffees. Time to go though and after a quick photo and farewells it was time to go, or maybe not? Having got a little fed up with some of our longer days riding the week before we decided to shelve Venice for another weekend and banked two days to be used as when and as necessary. The lure of sitting in a warm pub all day, drinking beer, eating nice food and for me to catch upon this blog was too much to turn down and so back in we went and to book a room for the night. Of course despite the 10-12 hours with my computer I didn’t get to do any typing as instead we enjoyed the wonderful company of Colin and Patricia. I rarely plug on here but have to say to any of my fellow travellers that should you be passing the area then this place comes highly recommended. Great food, good prices, Wifi and clean you’d do a lot worse than to spend some time here. Another bonus is that Colin has safe parking a huge garage too. For more details click on the link from the guesthose name above. After more thanks and goodbyes finally then at the second attempt we actually started the bike and prepared to head east towards Vienna.
As for Vienna, we opted not to stay the night and instead push on to the nearby Bratislava. Parked up within the city we then got hold of a map and went on a stroll around. After a few hours we were both of the opinion that had we come straight off the plane for a weekend then we’d be impressed but having seen so much before we were a little underwhelmed. Also odd was that the place seemed very quite but on our way back to Soul we stumbled upon a demonstration about the current global economic problems. Ten minutes or so laughing at the usual students and freaks was the last real action of our time in Austria as we tried to beat the sunset for our unusual accommodation in Slovakia...

Český Krumlov

2011-11-04T01:16:00.000-07:00

After passing the many marinas, churches, and ruins on our route we are now firmly in the castle zone. Many of the towns and cities in this part of Europe all seem to follow the trend of castle, old town square, smell of wood burning fires (well at this time of year anyway) and sadly what seems like fewer and fewer of the old eastern bloc vehicles around. Český Krumlov ticked all of those boxes with the added bonus that these non Euro countries offer of cheap living costs. Also cheap is my preferred activity in such places as simply strolling around and looking at a few things that I feel that I should from the town map. Mirka got lucky though as during our stroll we stumbled upon a museum that amongst the boring usual exhibition of yet another ‘troubled artist’ from years gone by that enjoyed painting pictures of naked children was a history of shoes display. Maybe I’ve been watching too much ‘Sex and The City’ but I actually quite enjoyed it too. Dumplings with goulash, Pilsner Urquell and a warm sleep in what was some sort of accommodation for actors above a theatre finished the day off nicely before braving the cold yet again the following morning.

Coming in from the cold - Part 1

2011-11-04T01:00:00.000-07:00

Having escaped from our former prison we saddled up on our ungraffitied bike and headed north into Austria for what was intended to be a couple days sandwiched either side of a visit of southern Czech Republic. Hallstadt was the place that was chosen from the map and a quick google search confirmed a beautiful lake and mountain area of the type that belongs on the front of a Christmas card. Due to yet more fairly long distance we joined the toll road but this time there seemed to be charges for using the big tunnels. Somewhat unfairly I felt as motorcycles were charged the same as any sized car which seems a bit cheeky on top of the fact that I bet that I’d already paid towards such a project through the old 'Subsidised by the European Union' sign that precede such things. It wasn’t cheap either and after it seemed like I’d spent more time with my hand in my pocket rather than on Soul’s handgrip I decided that enough was enough and turned off just as another toll loomed and set the GPS for 'avoid tolls.' What my GPS couldn’t do however, was manage to avoid a route that made me pay to leave the motorway which I ended up having to! Worse was to come though as what ended up being all of about 20km passing either side and under the expensive motorway eventually took me back onto it as seemingly there was no other option to get around the mountains that stood in our way. So another €5 was coughed up and we sped towards what is now becoming a very cold ride. Hallstadt though was a nice little find and despite the rain, mist and cold was just the sort of place to find a B&B, get clean, cosy and enjoy what is undoubtedly a slightly higher standard of food and drink.

Studenia

2011-10-16T15:25:00.000-07:00

Unless Austria turns out to be one big nursery then Slovenia’s capital of Ljubljana has hit the lowest average age on the scale. We stayed in what was a former military prison that had been cleverly redeveloped into a hostel/art gallery. As it happened this turned out to be the most interesting thing about our stay as the student population of the northern ‘arty’ district of Ljubljana have, it appears, total free reign to graffiti everything, dress trees in clothes and lock loads of padlocks onto things, very odd this one, art again I suppose?
The rest of the city was nice enough in a more thoughtful ‘arty’ way and has some nice old buildings and statues around but really with the less developed countries beneath and including Slovenia we were both ready to rejoin the more ‘upmarket’ parts (for now) of Europe and try and find some restaurants that don’t serve pizza and pasta, which isn’t easy as it has taken over big time.

For anyone that’s planning a similar motorcycle tour of the Balkans I’m sure that you’ve noticed one huge omission since Albania which is of course the riding of the much famed Dalmation coast. Well a mixture of being behind schedule and an overdose of ‘wow’ after each coast road bend the last week has pretty much been about the destination and not falling further behind and as result we’ve had to dig deep and cough up for the odd toll road. Yawn.

Croatia

2011-10-16T15:00:00.000-07:00

A 3am session with a load of England and Montenegrin fans in the hostel back in Podgorica meant that our intended arrival in Dubrovnik was delayed by one of those late and slow days when you never seem to make any progress at all. Slightly unfortunately this has had a knock on effect further up the coast but first after finding our apartment in one of Dubrovnik’s old narrow streets the view of the place seemed to be as impressive as expected. By night, within the walls of the old city everything seems to shine impossibly brightly, mostly due to the light stone buildings and its complete marble floor which has apparently been gradually polished glass smooth by the millions of shoes that have passed across it over the years. I’m still not sure about that but whatever; it’s a very special place to be. I also discovered that rather be left to turn into the boresome ruins that we all know and love it’s been repaired and maintained over the years, recently of course after the Balkans conflict of not so long ago. Another nice thing is that within the walls it’s pedestrian only except for a few hours during the evening for deliveries I guess.
By day it’s for me at least, not quite as pretty as it’s full of tourists but of course the coastline visible from a nice ‘wall walk’ only adds to it. It’s probably just me and my short attention span but a full day was more than enough as I quickly tired of seeing what seemed like thousands of vacant cafe tables and chairs covering huge parts of the little city.
With what ended up being a day lost it was Split that unfortunately missed out on our Kunas as we only stopped for lunch, a walk around and a few pictures on our way to Zadar. Split though did seem like more of a place that you could stay for longer than a day. With a full view of the coast and marina it’s more of a typical sunny holiday place complete with a few lively bars and an average age of less than fifty, allowing for Dubrovnik’s guided tour parties.
And so finally onto Zadar...The more youthful theme continued north this time and overall I like this place the best of these three. It feels fresh and the town sits just in between the other two in terms of niceness. Still the same marble floor but it this time it looks like it’s been walked on, some nice little trendy cafes and bars, decent shops and the highlight, Zadar’s ‘Sea Organ’ which is played by the sea’s waves and the ‘Greeting to the Sun’ which is a huge solar disc that absorbs the sunlight by day and omits some sort of weird glow during the night. I say some sort as unfortunately I didn’t get to see it by night but even by day it was far more interesting than some of the so called ‘must sees’ that I’ve had to see further up the road.

Are you in yet?

2011-10-16T14:45:00.000-07:00

Surely the worst question a man would wish to hear but on this occasion* had I’ve been asked I would not have been able to give an accurate answer. Bosnia and Herzegovina may well be another little country sticker to stick on my panniers if I was the attention seeking type that does that sort of thing but then maybe not? You see I’d wondered exactly what was what when I first studied and planned my route a few months ago and depending on where I looked the E65 either passes under, over or not at all through B&H. As it turned out, we were waved through some sort of toll/border, I think I saw a B&H Euro blue sign and then 20km or so further up the road we passed through a proper border post for Croatia. The 20km stretch in between seemed like it must have been B&H however except for a few small settlings and maybe a petrol station there were no roads (that I could see) east into the mainland nor a port. So if it was in fact B&H what is the point?
*"On this occasion" doesn't imply that I've heard this question before...*Ahem*

Showers in the black mountains

2011-10-11T13:08:00.001-07:00

Crna Gora or the Italian spelling that we use of Montenegro must surely be the most correctly descriptive name of a country. Immediately over the border there they are, black mountains. Only staying for a night, most travellers head to the nice seaside town of Budva or the stunning (better even than Lakes Como, Garda and Ioannina) Kotor. We though stayed in the rather plain but clean capital of Podgorica. A fairly late discovery that a Euro 2012 qualification match was to be played against England right on our time of being there anyway meant that a few beers in the sun with the England fans and €90 later two tickets were in hand to watch from the Montenegrin end what was actually a crucial game with both teams requiring points in order to qualify for next year’s tournament. I should confess to not exactly being England’s most passionate supporter after having (like many it seems) become tired of the under achieving, over paid and over rated players. Still at 2-0 up things seemed to be ticking along nicely until a combination of being out fought and out thought meant that the home side with what I think was the last piece of action of the night snatched a well deserved 2-2 draw. Our almost double price seats were though near the front of the stand that of course became involved in the biggest downpour since we left the UK, a real heavy one, thunder and all. So as we battled to remain even slightly dry once again the shower of (mis)hit strolled around the park only this time in a simply dreadful pale blue third kit. An observation that I’ve observed from many of these relatively new countries is that they feel far more passionate and full of energy than good old creaking England ever will in my lifetime. Oh hang on...I’m forgetting the Olympics aren’t I? That’ll make everything better I’m sure...
Something that did cheer me up though was the discovery of the many off licences here that are suitably named Diskont Pića or 'Discount Drinks' in English or...'Discount (first letter two down from Aunt) in Czech!!' I didn't realise that such a thing existed?

Land of the carwash... Republika e Shqipërisë

2011-10-06T15:11:00.000-07:00

A refusal to pay Macedonia’s border police €65 for vehicle paper ‘irregularities’ meant that a second entry back into Greece and a break for Albania before sunset was made. I wasn’t complaning too much though as the ride was yet more mountain passes and although a bit tired we’d find some place to stay soon enough once in right? Thankfully, as we made the border the roads both flattened and quickened and a cheerfull police officer welcomed us in with some Albanian language lessons. So far so good then but this always was the country that I had the most doubts about on this trip. Despite being all too aware of the wrong stereotype that the ill informed can make of a country or its people I, like many would’ve summed up Albania as Gypsies/Mafia/Borat. So, after a couple of nights here was that far from the truth? Well yes actually as it’s been the surprise of the trip and one which I doubt will be surpassed. Here’s why... Our intended stay in Macedonia was on Lake Ohrid’s namsake Ohrid. Having left the Macedonian police to explain to their hotellier and restaurenteur as to why they will have an empty bed and table we aimed for Pogradec which sits on Lake Ohrid albeit on the Albanian side. Immediately travelling through Albania gives a feeling of ‘proper’ travel. The motorway speed roads through the open countryside only allow for glimpses of the people plouging the fields, or roofing as virtually all concentration is reserved on the road trying to ensure that the police speedtraps, horses and carts (and I should know!), pedestrians and fast moving vehicles are not collected. My nearest comparison would be Azerbaijan in terms of the ‘Wild West’ feel of the place. An Albanian driving one of the many suspiciously UK number plated cars informed me that €5 is the bribe fee that allows for anything you like to be done. With that in mind we chased the sunset at fairly silly speeds and made Pogradec as darkness fell. Also falling was us!! A last minute notice of what looked like a ‘stinger’ meant that a handful of brakes, minor lock up and subsequent ‘off’ at almost a stop meant that my shiny new Motor Guzzi had been dropped for the first time *sob* A couple of locals managed to hold back any laughter and help to pick Soul up before demonstrating the collapsible spikes for the correct direction traffic, of which we were. Tired and hungry (always the sign of a good day) we checked into the first place we saw which was a very posh looking Royal Pogradec Hotel. Finally starting to reduce the daily spend due to the cheapness of things here €40 was the price of sheer luxury and after a cleanup we wondered the slightly sinister feeling town before finding a nice little kebab shop which is the number one food here. The friendly owners and some attempts to overcome the language barrier ended the night nicely and helped to dispell the initial feel of the town before waiting for daybreak to see if Lake Ohrid was anything like its name suggests... Certainly not was the definite verdict and a further walk around town and next to the lake after a cracking breakfast allowed for many photo opportunities before heading off to the capital Tirana.
The ride thus far has naturally started to ‘square off’ Soul’s rear tyre but yet more mountain twisty roads “must be rounding it off again” I thought as we trundled into a hot busy capital not before treating Soul to one of the numerous vehicle washes available on the way. 100 Lek (70p) helped me to say sorry to him for the earlier spill and now half way through the trip it was about time anyway. Accommodation found, a walk around the city unveiled more surprises; with the district of Blloku in particular being a lovely place to hang out amongst the many nice bars, cafes and restaurants. Not for quite long enough though as we must press on. It still seems a bit odd to type this but here we go...Albania has now gone on the list of places that I’d like to revisit.

Hello, is anybody in..? ςΓΣΣζΣ

2011-10-06T13:18:00.000-07:00

After rolling off the ferry at Patras we headed north over the bridge having decided against visiting Athens for only half a day. Instead the day was banked and we arrived in Delphi for lunchtime. Up high in the mountains yet more ancient ruins awaited us however the cool weather and empty roads made for a lovely ride. Also there are very few tourists now; perhaps they’re all scared of the so called unrest that our media are so happy to show over and over? Or maybe it’s just the time of year? Anyhow, it’s nice to travel into Greece’s interior as like most I’ve only really been to its islands for a bit of the old triple S’s. And so what of it then? Well, as expected the amount of half built buildings, closed businesses and a growing sense of desperation is for all to see. Still tourism is tourism and the empty restaurants, shops and hotels make for some pretty cheap costs. Back to Delphi then and the ruin walk was helped to be worthwhile as firstly it was free being a Sunday and secondly the awesome backdrop looking down onto the land way down below. More open mountain road riding later we made Kastraki which is the smaller of two towns surrounding an area known as Meteora. Wow. For any James Bond fans out there you would have seen bits of the area from ‘For Your Eyes Only.’ Notably the rock climbing bit up to the top of...well, the rock! Half a dozen individual monasteries were built there somehow a thousand or so years ago each on one of these many odd rock formations. Nowadays mostly museums we took a look in ‘Vaarlem’ and even I was amazed at how this could’ve been achieved. Spectacular.
Our banked day was used further up the road on Lake Ioannina’s town of Perama. Having been to lakes Como and Garda earlier on in the trip perhaps we’ve been spoilt a little as it was nice but a bit ‘seen it.’ A walk through Perama’s recently discovered cave though was a nice little change and quite interesting before we saddled up for country number seven...

Heading for the heel

2011-10-06T12:30:00.000-07:00

Taking all the suggestions we bypassed Naples and stayed in Sorrento. On the way though we stopped in Pompeii for what ended up being one of those ‘went there for the sake of it’ places. Unsurprisingly yet more ruins weren’t helped by the fact that there were no maps and without a guide we, like many we met just walked around not knowing if we’re missing something apart from the endless walls and streets. We did though find some so called human remains that are preserved by ash either praying or perhaps they too were visitors some centuries after the initial eruption and got stuck in with no map. Thankfully we got out and got to our accommodation up the hill from Sorrento. Due to the Pompeii horror show we got there a little too late to fully look around but a little ride down the hill showed that it’s a nice place but perhaps not quite as nice as I had always assumed it to be. It turned out that just over the hill from where we were staying the Amalfi coast was actually nearer and as we rode that coastline it seemed pretty clear that should we go back someday then that is the place that looks the business, the towns Postalino and Almalfi in particular. Unfortunately though like the French Riviera these places are no secret and the painfully slow traffic was a testament to this. With a boat waiting still some hundreds of kilometres away eventually we got off the coast road and hit the fast forward button to Brindisi. There wasn’t too much to report on the crossing really so I won’t.

No great pity about the Vatican City

2011-10-04T13:11:00.000-07:00

After some very brief research I’m still not entirely sure if despite the name, Vatican City is a country, state or just a city but I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. I’ve assumed that like Monaco it’s a separate country and as such can have its own entry all to itself. Clearly one for the insecure types to visit to do whatever makes them feel a bit better about things, our stay was intended to be brief. However not even I could have hoped err, sorry thought, that it would have totalled mere seconds. In trying to find Michelangelo’s ceiling painting we ended up in a big church (St. Peter’s basilica I believe) and after the religious police on the door begrudgingly let us in, after all of 5-10 seconds and this photo we were escorted off the premises for what appeared be a problem with Mirka’s dress showing half a shoulder and therefore no doubt being deemed too slutty. Triple thumbs up from me as this shows that -1, the church doesn’t approve of my partner -2, we went for a beer and -3, I saved €28 on the museum where the ceiling painting actually is. Result!

Buildings may fall but great acts will never die

2011-09-29T16:02:00.001-07:00

Rome. With a quick nod to the hugely impressive buildings and history on show throughout the city once again I quickly became bored with the alternative to statues and churches which on this occasion was ruins. If you’re the type that wants to know how old a piece of stone is that’s lying amongst the rubble or you want to know what a building might have looked like at some time not entirely known in the distant past then please feel free to look it up for yourself.
Maybe I’ve been watching too much Michael Palin but I really struggle with the whole mainstream tourist trail. If it isn’t the stalls selling crap, the street sellers ‘giving’ you something for free only to ask for money after, the €2 small bottle of water or the shitty service on offer (New York excluded) then it’s something else. More and more I’ve been trying to look beyond these things and when something turns up that you just know that nobody else has seen it’s priceless. Maybe you don’t know what I mean? Let me share this little beauty with you... Street acts. Apart from the just about passable ‘photo with a gladiator’ one of the most common of street acts is the old human statue and Rome is no different to many cities in this respect. Somewhat strangely though I counted three Egyptian ‘Tutankhamuns,’ two silver cowboys and an absolutely pathetic ‘Statue of Liberty’ that was so poor it was unreal. Firstly for a so called statue he couldn’t remain still not even for a few seconds as he appeared to have some type of winking tick which he tried to disguise by frequently fiddling with his robe. Oh and the torch in his right hand was originally part of a toilet brush set that had been slightly modified and painted silver. Laughable. To me anyway, you see the average tourist is too busy to remain in one place for more than is necessary as they’re too busy on that tourist trail to notice. These ‘performers’ are there day after day and probably all know one another as well as the bin men, the hotdog man, the tour guides, the pickpockets, the artists and so on. Some of these people like the bog brush guy are terrible, some are average, some are good and then there are the real professionals... You may well have already looked at the picture but regardless, look again. What do you see? A wealthy young woman who’s healthy and happy against a backdrop of a poor old woman who’s crippled and sad? If so then you’d like to help, surely a couple of Euros would be the least that you could do? But hang on...didn’t you see her earlier in a different part of town? And that rhythmic step...step...money shake, step...step...money shake, isn’t that a little too perfect? What else? It’s not exactly cold out, so why the gloves? Why can’t you see any skin? Is it just me, does nobody else think that this is all a little too convincing? Look beyond most people’s ten second snapshot of this...that is bloody hard work!! Absolutely fascinated by this on my return to my guesthouse a quick google images search of ‘old lady rome beggar’ revealed...you’ve guessed it, the same character way back in 2005 performing the same old routine. It’s there, see for yourself! Keep looking; the clue is in the headscarf...

Visitors in our bed and a wonky erection

2011-09-29T00:59:00.000-07:00

So with all the excitement of actually trying to avoid death/serious injury or just watching it with a beer now behind us it’s back to joining the slow moving procession of tourists either following the tour guide’s flag or gormlessly wandering around taking photos of yet another church or statue.
Some news though...I was cursing my old mosquito mates after our first night of two in Florence but after some research it seems that I got munched by bed begs. Horrible big red itchy spots that coming to think of it I’ve had before (no, not at home thank you) that must have come from either the spare pillow or the warm blanket that got removed from the wardrobe and is never washed.
Other bad news was that as luck would have it ;-) all the museums are closed on Mondays here meaning no more having to stare at pictures of somebody’s imaginary friend among other fables. So then a long walk around the city followed and it turned out that a lovely view was to be found (for free would you believe it?) from Michelangelo’s Piazza high to the south east of Florence. On the way through the not so touristy streets we also found the answer to the many ‘Banksy’ type modifications of road signs that we happened to notice from place to place. It turns out that not surprisingly it’s the work of some art shop/studio. Despite knowing that most modern art is total crap I actually quite liked this as I do some of ‘Banksy’s’ stuff. As much as I was prepared to leave Florence with this alone (if you’re reading this Samantha) we did attempt to get into the Uffizi gallery the following morning but a monster queue meant that this wasn’t really possible and so we saddled up for...
Pisa. As a city it’s pretty small and a welcome respite from the hordes of tourists (yes I’m aware of the irony) as apart from a hundred or so hanging around the leaning tower it’s pretty low key. What was nice was that 1, the tower and cathedral area is free to enter (but of course €15 should you wish to climb) and 2, you can sit on the grass and relax which doesn’t seem like much but everywhere else similar we’ve been to thus far is surrounded by concrete, roads and shops. It was also nice to see something iconic that I first remember seeing in ‘Superman’ as a kid god knows when?

Bikes, Beer and Babes

2011-09-27T14:45:00.000-07:00

Still searching for fun that doesn’t include the church or naked men we headed down to Imola’s Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari to give it its full name to watch the World Super Bikes. I’m not really into this or the Moto GP all that much truth be told but seeing as it was on the way, why not? I’ve been to a few of these over the years across Europe and it’s pretty much the same set up wherever you go. Namely, turn up and park near the circuit, kindly turn down the touts ‘special offer’ of paddock passes for €80 and buy a ticket at the ticket office for €35, grab a beer and hotdog, buy a t-shirt, stroll around and try to find some sort of view of both the giant TV’s and a few corners and lastly...watch open mouthed as the riders defy physics and the grim reaper all the time while listening to the glorious sounds from the various engine types. This was no different except for the second race we managed to sneak up onto the seated area and view the whole spectacle pretty well. Not really knowing any of the racers and with so many Brits listed I was in danger of supporting a non Englishman so I went with Mirka’s Czech man, Jakub Smrž of the Ducati Effenberg team. Typically a middle order rider he finished in seventh for race one and then went and crashed out on the second. At the end of the second race thanks to their big Czech flag tied up to the fence we met a group of Czechs who where there following JM and we joined them and the Italians in storming the circuit to be part of the podium champagne celebrations. All good stuff and with Florence still 90km down the road we even had time for a last picture or two...

A heavenly ride ends with wrist ache

2011-09-27T11:46:00.000-07:00

For any of my Kudu friends you’ll know what I mean when I say that over the years I’ve become more ‘Greecer’ than ‘Tim’s Tours’ mainly due to the time restraints that I always seem to have. On this trip and now with a passenger it’s difficult to get away from that as nearly all of the intended destinations seem to require at least half a day to explore. Having seen Lake Como though, I rightly suspected that there was no rush to see Lake Garda and so set a seriously twisty route on my wonderful GPS towards and through the imposing Dolomite mountain range. And what followed was certainly in my top three riding experiences of all time. I’ve ridden similar passes over mountains before however these were always onboard Des which is a bit like having a massage from a bricklayer that suffers from eczema. Therefor as much as I’m still not a fan, my other two of my top three days of riding have come after not being on tarmac. To say though that Soul is perfect would not be correct. Having put some mileage on him now I can say that overall he’s decent for two up touring. Mirka seems very comfortable riding pillion and I’ll never tire of the growl that he puts out under acceleration. The big 1200cc V-twin makes you feel no difference in weight at all. In a straight line that is. As the bends started to tighten and the sports bikes overtook it was a reminder that this motorcycle is a roadster. This means it's heavier, has a different steering angle and power delivery that requires a different type of riding, certainly not the type to keep up with other lighter, racier bikes. Another thing that I’ve had to feel is how to keep right on the throttle and clutch points i.e. no sudden closing or opening. Doing so makes everything feel very agricultural but get it just right and you can’t help but smile.
The 200km route then was pretty special, so much so that I ended the day with proper (left) wrist ache which unlike for some guys is a good sign! Sheer drops of the mountain roads made the ride all the more thrilling and the views were of course breathtaking. Thankfully though the brakes on Soul are top notch which helped my confidence of riding so heavy. The last 50km or so was the fast slow winding type riding and like the gearbox my wrist was able to take some well earned rest.
After all that, Lake Garda was just a place to eat and sleep before heading south to see how it’s all done properly...

Around and above Lake Como to 1936

2011-09-27T10:36:00.000-07:00

Slightly underwhelmed we left Milan for what I felt would be a good few days as I had a couple of activities planned along the way. First up was a stop en-route to the famous Moto Guzzi factory. From the exterior it looks as though this once winning motorcycle producer has long since gone and judging by the pictures of it in the museum it hasn’t changed a bit since before the second world war. Several other bikers turned up including an English group of four on their way to India. Hmmm. It turned out that the 3pm opening was only for access to their museum for an hour but nonetheless it certainly opened my eyes about their racing pedigree and history. The fact remains though that despite all this former glory and innovation nowadays they don’t sell many motorcycles at all. Does that mean I’m riding something that nobody wants or that I’m riding something a little bit special? I’ll be in a better position to answer that in a few weeks...
So with many photos taken off we headed around the lake from south east to north west in search of our accommodation. When we finally climbed the hill far away from the other lodgings the road ran out with our guesthouse still 400m away! Sensing problems I walked the 400m on foot along a progressively narrowing and steepening track until finally Crottone Guesthouse appeared perched on the side of the steep hill. It was the place that time forgot including the old lady that was the only person there. Think of the ‘Local Shop’ in ‘The League Of Gentlemen’ and you’d not be far off. Many negative thoughts ran through my mind including...Dinner? Parking the bike? Mirka? It really was way off the beaten track and had I been travelling alone (and aboard Des) then no problem but with Mirka after our previous stays..?
A little surprisingly she seemed keen on a little adventure and so off I rode a still shiny and new Soul up the steep and narrow track trying desperately not to damage the bike by either scratch or total write off. With some sweat, time, effort and patience we made it and boy was it worth it! The view across the lake couldn’t have been bettered and looking down the couple of miles to the main road with its pizzerias and traffic it felt so great to be way up away from it all in a little isolation. Also thankfully the old lady wasn’t the proprietor and when her son and daughter in law arrived they provided a lovely dinner with more than drop of wine. A group of seven or so Americans turned up late which was nice for Mirka as I crawled into bed a little early after getting myself Brahms and Liszt on red. My granddad John’s that one, love it. A good day's little adventure at last!! :-)

Milanono

2011-09-26T15:10:00.001-07:00

Hmmm, well I hadn’t really given this much thought but after arriving in Italy it very quickly it dawned on me that virtually all of the ‘must see/do’s’ in Italy involve either the church or some statues of impossibly buff men with small penises. Great. On top of that, I’m all galleried and museumed out after traipsing around the Louvre and other places on the route here. So with a few quick pictures in the camera what else to do in Milan then? The main thing it turns out is to be made to feel like a turd in a jewellers shop as the Milanese really lived up to their reputation when it comes to style and dress. I’ve worked out that one of the reasons that they are all (and I mean all) as sharp as they are is that few of them have to spend thousands on cars as we do in the UK and of course the sharper everyone else is then the more they have to try. God forbid if you’re caught out there in last year’s colours or non matching accessories. So you can imagine the looks I received as I strolled around town (oh and during Milan fashion week) in my travel plimsolls and three quarter shorts! Anyhow,not that I'm all that bothered as architectural pictures were taken and it’s time to find something else. But for that we must press on...

Monaco

2011-09-26T14:00:00.000-07:00

OK, so as I’ve just found out Monaco forms part of the French Riviera but I intended to keep each country separate on here so here goes...
With silly accommodation costs in Monaco and with Nice only 22km we stayed put for accommodation and made this country a day trip. It was more or less as we expected with the place made up by 33% tourists, 33% local French workers, 33% business (mostly from the boat show) and the remaining by 1% wedged up residents walking their dogs.
The number one tourist activity in Monaco appears to be to hang around outside the Hotel Paris and the Casino amongst the parked Bentleys, Lamborghinis and Ferraris whilst waiting for someone rich and famous to appear. Who of course invariably don’t, as they’re too busy walking their dogs! Apart from that non spectacle, best is to simply walk around the place that’s supposedly smaller than Heathrow airport in size. One route that I’ve made around Monaco is from the comfort of my bedroom as a youngster racing around the famous street circuit on my Sega Megadrive and of course watching the yearly Formula One race on TV. To do it on foot and later onboard the old Motor Guzzi and past ‘The Bus Stop,’ ‘Mirabeau’ and through the tunnel amongst the other bits that I instantly recognised was actually quite a nice way to say goodbye to the coast for a while before heading North.

The French Riviera

2011-09-26T09:44:00.000-07:00

With the hard miles now thankfully behind us we headed east along the coast for what was Mirka’s most looked forward to destinations – St.Tropez, Cannes, Nice and Monaco. Some very short riding days between each of them led to potentially some nice easy riding along the coast road. This didn’t really work out though as after a couple of hours worth of what seemed like first and second gear stuff behind and slowly past the Dutch and German caravanners the faster toll road was worth the couple of Euros in the end.
First up then was a windy and seemingly out of season St. Tropez. If I’ve got it right what was a small fishing village became famous some time back as a rich/celebrity hangout. Maybe it was just the timing but although quite pretty it didn’t seem anymore special than many other similar Mediterranean fishing towns that I’ve been to. Five pictures taken says it all really.
With hopes of Cannes living up to its reputation we rolled in and struggled to find accommodation as some sort of ‘tax free conference’ was being held in town. Finally though we found a basic little place that met our needs and off we wondered. Famous of course for its film festival the only real clue of this was the old cinema that was adorned with paintings of film characters in days gone by. Other than that it’s a nice place with the old part of town in the hills being the most enjoyable to spend time. I’d heard from my old mate BJ that our next destination of Nice was the pick of the bunch and so with Soul all loaded up we went to find out...
And right he was! The beautiful old hostel Belle Meuniere put us up for two nights for €49 per night including breakfast which after the Paris debacle has now more or less become our daily accommodation budget. Writing this a week down the road I have to say how surprised I am at how easy it is to stay in good and cheap accommodation even in the most touristy of locations. Only ever private double rooms as well. Having discovered Hostelbookers.com has really helped in what is always the most time consuming and tiring mission of finding the right place to stay at the right price.
So after those two unpaid plugs back to Nice then...It’s just as it’s spelt so. Perhaps unusually, being a city and therefor bigger than both St. Tropez and Cannes village and town respectively it feels a lot more chilled out and has plenty more to do should you choose to. Walking along the old promenade that was built way back by the British to accommodate their sea front strolls after afternoon tea it reminded me a little (on the shore side anyway) of Brighton with its old colonial buildings and pebble beach but without any of those awful piers that we seem(ed) to like. Away from the sea front its town squares, little streets, shops and restaurants and park way up high overlooking the town and coast are much more like it. Recommended.

France – From top to bottom

2011-09-20T14:51:00.000-07:00

All packed up and fully prepared (I think) we headed off at 5am for Dover. Still going with my old Hein Gericke summer riding gear (and Mirka in her same but new) an early morning British summer ride was not at all what I’d hoped for as an indicated 8°C proved that so far at least Soul’s electrics are working just fine. Also not helped was my now OCD like search for quiet riding resulting in me chopping down Soul’s screen as I finally did to Des’. The end result was little difference in noise and a load of new wind blast on what’s now virtually a naked motorcycle. As the saying goes...an extra inch would be nice! For anyone that is interested though I’ve found that my new Schuberth S1 Pro helmet has helped dramatically with reducing the wind noise.
So a cold windy ride into Paris was completed and after difficulties in finding cheap accommodation I had to cough up (with blood) an amount that I don’t want to think about for the first night. I should say at this point that I don’t want this trip to become a ‘wish you were here’ postcard but I feel I may struggle a little as this is definitely not anything like most of my adventures, particularly with Mick through Africa last year. So if you have just stumbled upon this and have seen my ‘Dementia’ sponsorship link then please bear in mind that this was intended for my earlier trip this year. Trying to raise sponsorship for this would be taking the gypsies I know. That said though please feel free to add to my still way short total if you feel inclined to do so.
Anyhow, visits up the Eiffel Tour, down the Louvre and around the Orsay Museum filled the time in Paris before another typically boring ride along the French toll roads to Lyon, via Dijon. Both lovely places and seemingly light on tourists it’s nice to finally get into the whole French way i.e. the food, the surroundings and the general feel of the place. The French often get a kicking back home but I don’t get it; they’ve got it pretty good here.
Well, as long as you don't live in Marseilles that is! Not shocking of course but pretty grimy all the same. We found €45 one star (from who is anybodies guess) hotel and although the room was not listed as a dorm technically it was as it was shared with a few of my old mosquitoe friends who happily helped themselves throughout the night whilst outside what seemed like a riot or party continued in the streets until first light! It was fully expected though as for planning and assistance we’re using the excellent ‘Rough Guides – Europe’ book. There’s plenty of stuff in there about Marseilles but basically think Slough with a port and a fort. Things along the coast east from here will be a bit more upmarket without doubt...

Trip number four...Europe

2011-09-20T12:55:00.000-07:00

My lack of a proper sign off from Columbia and a lost camera were clues enough that I was pleased to be home after what ended up being a bit of a disjointed trip around South America. I quickly got bored though and made plans for trip number four. It’s funny, thinking back to when I met Lisa and Scott Thomas in Ulan Ude in Russia during 2009, discussing their six year journey and looking at their world map. Although enjoying myself thus far I wasn’t all that mad about much more than getting home safely. “Just wait and see” they told me...and now here I am with a fair bit of red on my own little world map and back on the road once again. This time though with a difference or three...
Number one is the continent, this time much closer to home...Europe. What looks a bit like a six week holiday, the route should be just what I have been dreaming about during all those times riding through the back of beyond. The basic route is to Greece via Italy and then back home through the Balkans, East and Central Europe and then home for some snow if I read today’s newspaper headline correct?!
Number two is a big one in that I’m carrying a pillion in my long suffering partner Mirka. I’m happy to admit that the last couple of years of my navigating have not exactly been conducive to maintaining a ‘normal’ relationship and so simply put its agreed that this could be either one thing or another. I guess we’ll have to wait and see then...
Number three and finally is that my trusty old Des will be rested at home for this one. Missing an exhaust baffle and still looking like he’s been mud wrestling with the Terminator, his lack of manners would probably see us refused entry into some of the posh places on the list. More importantly though, although he’s finally nice to ride with his cut down screen, I reckoned that ‘two up’ may have been a bit of an ask for him after all that’s gone before and so at home he rests for another day... So better fire up the old K100RS then..? Well no actually, as a weekend ride to Wales highlighted that he too wasn’t all that comfortable ‘two up’ and I’d bought the wrong model. The K100’RT’ was the one I should have got, fully set up for what I need!! After some head scratching I made the (very sensible) decision to sell all three of my bikes and do what I probably should have done ages ago and get one that’s all three in one, namely a Suzuki DL1000 V-Strom. So money in hand off I went to view one in a bike dealers. All seemed fine until that moment came when I reached into the glass bowl for the keys... Now then, not that I’ve been to any of those parties but a bit like being able to see under your blindfold before making your ‘car key’ selection surely any opportunity to pick up ‘Roger’s’ SAAB keys in order to erm, enjoy his Italian wife’s company for an hour or so has to be taken?!? Especially after all those minutes (OK hours) previously spent peeking through the curtains as she sets off for a run/sunbathes/unloads the car boot. A bit long winded and maybe a little too creepy I concede but what exactly have I done then? Well, my head was turned as parked right next to said V-Strom was...*Deep Breath* A Moto Guzzi Breva V1200! Have I lost the plot? When will it breakdown? A Roadster, that’s one step away from a Harley Davidson isn’t it?? I still don’t know. But what I do know is that this machine has been aptly named ‘Soul’ by Mirka as it has it in abundance. Again, let’s just wait and see how motorcycle number four gets along...

Oh yeah, let's just forget about the 'sensible' bit from earlier shall we..?

The best until last and late..? Columbia

2011-06-13T15:24:00.000-07:00

What with the sheer size and time spent in Brazil I had guessed that Venezuela and Columbia may have ended up being a little “wafer thin mint sir?” This was not helped of course by the two week delay before I’d even got going and the many days of further messing about that came with riding with others. Having finally decided on a finish in Columbia (due to a lack of time) I have managed to find a cheery Dutch guy who is willing and keen to send Des to Holland for me from Columbia for a reasonable price and pretty quickly(!?) Hmmm...
A deadline was needed or I’d still be somewhere around Rio with BJ and Dave and so as a result I've been back in the realm of more Rio to Belem style smelly/hungry/tired flat out riding in order to not miss the boat so to speak. 1200km (including a border) in two days have meant that my view of western Venezuela and northern Columbia have been a bit of a blur but there you go. Still from the blur I have concluded that (well the northern 467km that I rode) is mostly very beautiful indeed. I was able to do the first day of 800km after being out of bed like a shot at 5am. Literally, as three unmistakeable gunshot rounds were fired off somewhere outside mine and Lenny’s hostel in Caracas followed by screeching tyres!!
What have I learned from the last couple of months then? Indecision is the key to flexibility...unless its other peoples and you end up paying the price later...
Still, I’ve made it to Cartagena my finishing point and I’ve a few days to clean up, drink beer, one more blog entry and relax a bit. Now then, where’s BJ...?

Caracas

2011-06-13T14:18:00.000-07:00

Caracas I’ve now discovered holds the unsavoury title of ‘murder capital of the world’ with on average 300 murders a week. Previously held by Johannesburg and Bogota this was perhaps not the best place to be followed anywhere regardless of whether we could just “take the piss” as before. Fortunately though Lenny had lined up a few beers with a local rider named Sylvio who was able to show us around town and fill us in on the ongoings in this weird place. Basically, for me it’s only comparable to Ulaan Batar, Mongolia for places where you really need to be switched on at all times. An immediate assesment of the place as I sent emails behind bars up on the ‘terrace’ of our shocking hostel revealed two guys smoking crack cocaine next door on the street. Everyone that doesn't live in a Favela is behind bars here like prisoners in their own home. It has a feel of parts of South Africa about it, like nothing really matters beyond now. Big problems here aren’t helped by the huge corruption of politicians, police and businesses. So we headed out into the more affluent area of the city with Sylvio and his friend for pizza and beers. Good old motorcycle chat followed interrupted by checking out the local scenery. For those of you that are interested...you might like to know that cosmetic surgery is incredibly popular here from virtually any age resulting in some jaw dropping moments. I suspect it’s all to do with competition or even following ‘the norm’ but Slyvio’s take on it is it’s due to the hot weather meaning that the girls can’t hide behind much clothing. Whatever it is I’m just sorry that I couldn’t bring myself to take a few photos (for those of you that are interested of course..!)

A crazy end to a crazy day

2011-06-13T14:10:00.000-07:00

With Lenny and his possessions gathered and strapped to our bikes we followed the officials to the police station for formalities. Lenny, fully admitting fault wasn’t keen to drag this out despite Venezuelan law stating that it was the truck drivers fault and Lenny could be compensated. So off we went in search of help to straighten out the battered KLR. Eventually after finding a cheap hotel we found a garage with some willing mechanics to assist. Lenny had his panniers expertly bashed back into shape with even some aluminium wielding thrown in. While this was going on I took the opportunity to give Des an oil and filter change before the fun began... What followed was a haircut by a passing hairdresser and several crates of beers with the mechanics. We had a right old laugh despite the language barriers, in many ways it was in relief of what had happen earlier. Eventually, understandably Lenny wasn’t able to continue though as he was now suffering with a sore back. So Venezuela...nice warm and helpful people then? This impression was immediately dispelled as we got followed into our ‘secure’ parking area of the hotel. This guy demanded money from us for an unknown reason and was pretty determined as we played the whole ‘stupid gringo’ game with him for over an hour until he eventually decided that although slightly bigger than me and Lenny he perhaps wasn’t quite big enough. As I told Lenny “If he pulls a blade or speaks English we’ll have a chat but until then just take the piss...”

Luckily, lucky Lenny lives

2011-06-13T12:24:00.000-07:00

In the pursuit of new experiences and having to overcome challenges, huge risks are taken by me and my fellow two wheeled travellers. Very little of the riding here I can say that I’ve actually enjoyed mostly due to the amount of Lorries on the roads, the driving standards, the old cars and the lumpy roads. Most of all though is the sad story I learnt of only months before I left the UK for this, my third trip. After bidding farewell to my friend Mick at Cape Town he went on to Buenos Aires, Argentina and he too stayed at Dakar Motos until his motorcycle arrived from South Africa. Also staying there was an Australian KLR rider named Adrian Kemmis, of similar age to me and Mick and chasing the same dreams. Mick even rode with him for a few days but a week or so later Adrian got hit by a truck in Curitiba, Brazil and died. Over the years I’ve been more than aware of the high risk in what I do and although it gives my nearest and dearest worries I think that it is just a small part of what makes me who I am. This though has been the first time that I’ve started to wonder what will happen to all of these words and pictures should I suffer a similar fate. Maybe it’s time to tick off some other things on my quite small bucket list I reckon and save some more of these for when I’m older..?
And so Lenny...What was he doing? Maybe it was the classic ‘just eaten’ or even the ‘lady in the tight jeans’ but whatever in attempting to cut across a dual carriageway in order to double back after a lunch and fuel stop he inexplicably made half a glance to see what was coming. Not enough clearly, as he rode out to the outer reservation while I saw what he hadn’t and then has to await the full horror of what was about to happen...
The car trailer truck was never going to be able to stop or avoid an oblivious Lenny and once the fully locked up truck with smoke, horns and tyre squeals thundered past me I had the most gut renching few seconds as I waited for bits of bike and lumps of Lenny to appear from under the 30 ton object. Over the top of the trailer though, through the dust and smoke I caught a glimpse of Lenny’s bike jacket and once the truck had finally stopped miraculously Lenny appears from the central reservation on two feet!! I cannot and will not ever be able to understand how he survived this nor will I be able to grasp exactly how lucky he was to survive this episode. I should also mention that the truck’s skid marks in the picture are only about half of what they actually were, about 50-75 meters in total. The end result was a scuffed up Lenny, a rear ended KLR saved by the pannier rack/panniers which was just about rideable despite a broken brake lever, bent handlebars and a pile of scratches. It appears that the truck shunted Lenny along and finally off the road with him ending up a couple of feet away adjacent to the truck’s rear trailer wheels. I should also note that despite being in the middle of nowhere help appeared immediately with officials on the scene very quickly. What a lucky boy.
As he keeps reminding me (especially after the mosquito horrow show in the Amazon)..."The worse it is the better it looks on the blog." Hmmm, well in that case then just think how much better this would look had a different outcome happened(?!)

Venezuela

2011-06-13T11:23:00.000-07:00

With the three of us all suffering from trench foot after the previous soggy days we crossed into Venezuela. Nearly all reports that I’ve had point to a dangerous country on the verge of civil war, run by an unpopular dictator President Chavez. Still, apparently Nigeria was more than iffy but both myself and Mick were impressed by its people and anyway if you listen to what’s supposedly bad for you you’d never leave your house. Or eat.
A three man faff including Venezuelan insurance, customs and shipping from Columbia issues resulted in us spending an extra precious day in the not particularly nice border town of Santa Elena. Border towns never are nice though to be fair and so all judgement on Venezuela will have to wait for now. Also up for discussion was whether to attempt Angel Falls or not. With time now pressing and having already visited Iguazu Falls at the start of the trip I wasn’t keen, especially seeing as it involved a two day plane and boat journey costing £200. Plus it’s out of season and a question mark remains over whether there are any boats operating now at all? And anyway, the road north through Venezuela’s Grande Savannah offered several free waterfalls albeit none of them as spectacular as Angel’s. BJ though was adamant and so off he went with me and Lenny making for Cuidad Bolivar a couple of hours behind. Something worth a mention though is the cost of fuel in Venezuela. 0.097 Venezuelan Bolivars for a litre of the higher RON95 equates to...just a smidge over 1p a litre!! In fact it’s so cheap that BJ managed to get a free tank full as the petrol (NOT “Gas” Lenny!) attendant couldn’t be bothered to give him change from a fairly large note!!
As for the ride itself, it was the usual hot, long and tiring day with pretty much the same scenery as Brazil once past the beautiful Grande Savannah. On the road there’s plenty of old American beaten up cars and Toyota Land Cruisers. Unsurprisingly if you’re Venezuelan and don’t drive a V8 you’re in the minority and at 1p a litre I can see why!

Me+2=3

2011-06-13T11:03:00.000-07:00

After three weeks of very little riding it was finally time to fire up big Des and head north away from the Amazon and up to Venezuela for country number three. Despite knowing Lenny for what seems like ages since first meeting him way back in Buenos Aires, today was our first ride together. A brief introduction then...Lenny Neugarten, 41, New Jersey, I.T. man, shared humour, and (sorry if you’re reading this Lenny, but) rides what felt like a truly horrible KLR during a brief swap over in Belem.
With a long days ride in prospect to Boa Vista the first few hundred km’s flew by as we sped through the national park admiring the nice road and view. After the heat and humidity of the weeks before the heavy rain that came down late in the day was actually fairly welcome but little did we know what implications that would lead to further down the road...
Before then though Lenny’s KLR (Killer?) managed to commit murder (OK then, birdslaughter) by taking out one of the huge er...blackbirds that are found in these parts. Not nice but we’re all in the firing line on these roads...Next up was another Equator crossing with my last in Gabon last year. Photos quickly taken, we rode on and the rains continued, until the road didn’t. The first reports we had was from a truck driver that seemed to indicate that the road north was closed for maybe up to three weeks(!?) with no re-route option. Hmmm. Still, we managed to persuade the police to allow us to “take a photo” and attempt the first breached river crossing. Both Des and BJ’s TT600 rumbled through the knee deep stuff much to the amazement of the locals but Kenny’s KLR cut out a couple of times and needed to be pushed through. No damage done except for a little lost time but the second road closure 80km up the road was a different matter altogether. This time the truck driver was spot on. Chest deep, still rising, no hotels, dark, not good. After a little ‘beer money’ a local allowed us (me and BJ) to use our camp gear for the first time in South America and there we camped. More heavy rain during the night meant deeper flooding but after some negotiating and more bits from those horrible little black flies we managed to get all three bikes across the 3km flood to the dry and waiting road by way of hiring a ‘put put put’ boat.
All’s well that ends well or something.

Ayahuasca

2011-06-04T16:29:00.000-07:00

I’ve deliberated over whether to post this entry as clearly it’s more than a little controversial. Perhaps if I’m a father one day this will have to go but for now I’ll remain true to my feelings and experiences and share this episode with you all. Again for nearly everyone including me yesterday clicking this link will explain what it is...Ayahuasca.
All set up by our jungle guide Antonio this was clearly going to be heaven or hell. The usual format for the full spiritual experience involves seeing how it’s made, a visit to a Shaman, blindfolds, plenty of chanting and suitable music for the 4-6 hours somewhere in the jungle. We however did none of this and after our Shaman didn’t turn up we simply sat away from the road in the light vegetation and drank...
I’m not going to pretend that I’m any sort of saint as my close friends hopefully wouldn’t testify but this was a new one on me and once the three third of a cups we in me I waited... What followed was partly expected with several hours of violent vomiting and diarrhoea, major problems dealing with light, time slowed right down and generally being totally bad worded. Even with the whole shaman, chanting thing I fail to see how or why anyone would want to do this but believe it or not it has developed into the new religion ‘Santo Daime’ with followers around the world. Somehow after what seemed like 100 years we got back to our hostel and still battered I saught redemption by way of Markus Schulz’s Prague ’11. Surely this would create the whole ‘sound as shapes and kaleidoscope’ phenomena? Er no. Think of this poison (it can only be) as making the brain like an early notebook computer not having sufficient processor speed to deal with sound and video. My beautiful trance music reached my brain at a speed of 1.5 times faster than normal due to time being slowed down so much. So all in all then, an absolutely horrendous experience. Time to move on now I think...

Save (mosquito) life...give blood

2011-06-04T15:40:00.000-07:00

Finally off the boats and checked into the nice and clean Hostal Manaus we went in search of adventure by way of a two day jungle tour. The tour we eventually chose seemed to offer a more rough and ready experience and having met our guide Antonio there seemed little doubt that he was the real deal. Two action packed days followed that will live with me for quite a while were helped by the other three punters in our group Josh and Davina from London and Okae from Holland. Two road and two boat trips over four hours eventually got us all deep into the Amazon rainforest, south of Manaus but on the way we stopped to see the meeting of the rivers Negra and the Amazon. Again, for a more comprehensive guide as to what that means click here. Also en route to our intended camp was some dolphin spotting and a nice little swim just before a spot of piranha fishing(!?) Using chicken pieces I led the way and ended up catching four of the little razor sharp teeth swimmers. With the heavens opened and with darkness about to fall it was then time to get all Ray Mears like and build camp. This was done expertly by Antonio assisted by us all. We then headed back into our little boat and set off to a local family’s house where we met the family and cooked a meal. Despite feeling a little tired by now there was still time for some Cayman hunting which Antonio duly hunted. He was only a little fella to be honest but all the same a Cayman. Campfire and beers then before a 20 minute sleep in the hammocks awaited. Yes 20 minutes. Now I know that many people often say it but...I don’t know what or why it is but the mosquitoes absolutely love me. I got reminded of why during RTW09 I rode 1200km in a day to escape them as I got totally annihilated during the night possibly in part to an ill fitted ‘Gringo net.’ Whatever, it ended up being the joint worst night of my life along with my cold and wet rat nightmare last year on Mount Cameroon. Mercifully morning came and nobody could exactly say how bad it was but the general opinion was that I’d sustained over 200 mosquito bites mostly on my back which meant that the little bastards did me through the net, hammock, shirt and even Deet. If you really want a laugh then click on the picture for a closer view of the carnage. Not happy at all I broke down camp with the others and we then set off on a two hour trek. An introduction to the Amazon’s amazing plant and tree life was given including a IACGMOOH grub eating session by me BJ and Okae. Next Antonio moved onto wildlife as a tarantula was coaxed out of his home and presented to us before the final piece of action involved a Sloth being brought down from a tree for us all to hold, photo and generally annoy. Only after all of this lot we finally headed back to civilisation. We weren’t however finished with the Amazonian experience just yet as a beer fuelled camp conversation highlighted a wonderful or nightmarish final experience that me, BJ and Lenny decided to face head on the following evening. But hey it couldn’t be worse than being bitten 200+ over the night surely..?

In bed with a face full of Brazilian

2011-05-31T14:43:00.000-07:00

The reports of possible problems in getting a motorcycle onto a boat bound for Manaus proved unfounded as after a little jiggling our three bikes were onboard. The only problem encountered was due to a low tide meaning a pretty big drop down from the pier into a tight fit below deck. As for the Amazon River itself it’s very brown, quite busy and big. Also news to us was that the smaller cheaper boat that we’d opted for over the Amazon Star was in fact a day slower due to having to have to change boats in Santarém. A quick visit to Santarém’s famous Amazon beach island was already planned so no drama there then. The Ciudad de Santarém 1 was pretty much as expected, basic, fairly busy and loaded below deck with fruit and veg. Myself and Lenny took the first class option and shared an air conditioned cabin whilst BJ unsurprisingly opted for steerage and hung his hammock up with both the local rat and human travellers. A relaxing few days followed with me using the time to catch up on my long list of films that I’ve missed over the years that I’d downloaded in Belém. I also managed to remember Dr Samatha Hill’s words of warning about sunbathing whilst taking the anti malaria drug Malerone. Er, well after just like last year in the Gambia I once again managed to get sun burnt – ouch! It seems that as good as this drug is any natural sun protection disappears once you start taking it. Fellow travellers...you’ve been warned! Once in Santarem and suitably dressed in my ‘pyjamas’ and all bikes and luggage swapped over onto the slightly smaller Ciudad de Santarém 2 I too opted for hammock class as the cabin was pretty dark, damp and dingey. Yet another piece of bad timing meant that the wonderful beach island (click here for the pictures that I couldn't take) was 95% underwater due to the tide! Hey ho, but after Lenny had zoomed in with his camera it appeared that a small section was open after all and so we managed to get a boat ride there for a couple of beers and hours. Our boats aren’t exactly the express service either with many stops en route to the small towns dropping off only fruit and veg, beer and motorcycles. Essential items only then! Also, sometimes when the river narrows the odd boat manages to hook up to this one with father and children able to jump aboard to sell their wares. The days (now that I’m not being air conditioned) are humid with bugs aplenty once the sun has set over the horizon, with the good old mozzies still having a field day with me around but in truth I was expecting much worse. As for hammock class, this second boat is much more er...cosy. Men one side, women the other with each hammock spaced exactly 18 inches apart it’s more Pappionesque rather than my Palinesque Caspian sea crossing during RTW09. I'm sure that those of you who’ve read the book/seen the film will know what I mean.

Expedicionários do Pará

2011-05-31T13:56:00.000-07:00

06:15 Sunday 22nd May 2011. Despite yet more late night hospitality from Alex and friends, getting up today was easy as a full days adventure and fun lay ahead. The following played a big part in shaping my decision not to ride flat out north west into the unknown...
I’ve never been a member of a motorcycle club and I’ve never ridden with one. “How terrible must that be?” I’ve often thought considering I’m most happy riding solo, free as a bird. Well, on this occasion quite fun actually. The twenty five Expedicionários do Pará with their fifteen motorcycles and a pick up (including me and Des) were all met, fuelled, fed and detailed at 08:00 just outside of Belem. Paired off with another rider we rode the first 62km in a tight formation with me having to quickly learn the various hand signals that travelled from front to rear of the formation for various given circumstances. As we all rode as one with the colour, noise and huge flags I couldn’t help but feel part of the club. I even had a pillion join me, Beth, who was able to help out with pictures as we went. The final 3km was all off road through mostly dry mud but the frequent heavy downpours meant for some seriously deep puddles where the mud was of course far from dry. Still, the final location dictated that this was entirely necessary and so two up big Des didn’t flinch as he thundered us through and over every obstacle like Sherman tank. The final destination of the ride was a small Amazonian village where the inhabitants were to receive some charitable donations and social work from Alex’s Expedicionários do Pará. Alex being the club’s president saw that the operation went along smoothly as the clothing, stationery and cosmetics that we’d all brought along had been distributed to the cut off community. A big lunch for all then was cooked up by the club’s chefs and once the children had had a practical lesson on teeth cleaning it was playtime as various games were played with prizes issued. It felt like such a privilege to be part of this mission and before I knew it we bid our goodbyes to the villagers and rode back through the mud and onto a nearby beach. A couple of hours were then had generally messing about in the Pará river (not quite on the Amazon River yet) before we all saddled up and headed back to Belem. Over the last couple of years I’ve been lucky enough to experience some of the world’s best riding destinations and places but this day out has to rank right up there with the best of them. Fantastic.

Spilt liquids...

2011-05-31T10:13:00.000-07:00

With the pressure of time now removed from my shoulders and with me being welcomed with open arms by Alex and his motorcycle club I sensed that many good experiences were just around the corner. How right I was. As it turned out Alex’s wife had just left for a month to visit her family in RjD and so he was free to show me around as the weekend approached... First up of some cracking nights out to all the right places was a local nightclub with Alex’s friend Jonathon onboard too. Now all cleaned up and with my mohican fully returned, once in I couldn’t have stood out any more if I tried. As for the club it was like nothing that I’ve experienced before by way of the music and dancing. This club was at the lower end of the scale apparently but my initial observation was that looks (or indeed language) were not of importance as the number one skill required to get the best from the night was dancing. And virtually everybody was doing just that. Over the fairly recent years I’ve given both Salsa and Ceroc a course or two of lessons but I quickly discovered that a weekly night in the Uxbridge Civic Centre is much like building and flying a paper aeroplane and then being sat in the cockpit of a 747. To say that I was out of my depth was a massive understatement and after a dropped beer can and several squashed toes I felt just like the 40 year old uncle embarrassing himself at the wedding reception. On second thoughts though with my 38th birthday now only a matter of days away and thanks to little Imogen I guess that it was a somewhat closer assessment of myself than I initially realised. Scary.
My last night of what turned out to be a week in Belem was another chance to impress the locals but this time joining me and Alex were...BJ and Lenny! I’d left BJ a couple of weeks ago with him heading along the coast and Lenny we met in Dakar Motors way back in Buenos Aires. Lenny is an alright American from New Jersey onboard a Kawasaki KLR and is always up for a beer and a laugh. And with the boat leg ahead of us the three solo riders have agreed to ride (onboard the boat at least) as one for the sake of cost and the loading/unloading of the bikes. Back to Belem then and with the four of us into another of the hot, live local music and dancing clubs I was more than happy to lead the way having acclimatised somewhat(!?) Fortunately for me this place was a little less about the individuals dancing skills with much congaing along with many other various big group dancing which was pretty easy to get involved with. Another bonus was the brilliant Flexa Junior and his band that finished the night with some more popular stuff at home that brought on much jumping around and singing to amongst other things Lady Gaga's 'Bad Romance.' Sounds odd I know but what a great laugh... Finally after all this larking about I slept with a smile after what has been a superb week here in Belem. Can anything on this trip better this week..?
As for the town Belem itself, there’s not too much to report really. Of course it has the odd pretty building or two but mostly it’s a run down place that you don’t need to explore too much to find a dead rat. Also, even the blind don’t get off lightly as there’s one odour that’s seemingly inescapable here...

Decision time...Belém

2011-05-20T10:25:00.000-07:00

My fifth and final days ride to Belém was much like the four that preceded it, except for...rain! The final 200km was like standing six feet away from someone constantly blasting a pressure washer at me. The lorry traffic (as it has been throughout Brazil) didn’t let up and so as I've also experienced in hot and dusty places elsewhere on my travels overtaking became a leap of faith as the visibility around the side of the lorries and the view of oncoming traffic was well, let’s just say not ideal...
Belém was made just as darkness was about to fall and with no GPS coordinates for another of Carlos’ contacts – Alex at Moto Mania, a friendly taxi driver was happy to lead me there free of charge. Yes you did read that correct! After a brief chat with Alex it became clear that I’d be looked after with contacts for the boat, promises of food, beer and help with accommodation. This is what these trips are all about not blasting across the continents and being too tired to even leave your room at the end of the day. So then, after the usual introductions off we went to his motorcycle club’s meeting. Despite only a couple of English speakers (my Portuguese is still little more than ‘obrigado’) I was welcomed with open arms. As I sat wearily on the dock looking down the Amazon while they discussed items on their agenda the time had come to make the biggest decision on the trip yet. Do I take the next boat in two days time and try to make NY or do I finish in Columbia and save the NY stretch until next time? Could I make it even if I tried? Does it mean that I would’ve failed and have to refund the FOUR people who have been kind enough to sponsor this year's charity? Well, the answers that I came to were No/Yes, Unlikely and I hope not – I’m not refunding myself. With 8-10,000km still ahead, three lots of shipping (two boats and a plane), eight or nine borders to get through, little support by way of donations and no help in getting my much needed shift swaps from the ever so helpful chaps at work, it would simply be going into a blind alley. Plus I’ve a friend at home who needs my support right now.
So what next then? Well, BJ is still somewhere on the east coast but on his way, Alex’s motorcycle club have something interesting planned for Sunday (more later) and there’s still plenty to see properly here in Brazil, then Venezuela and Columbia which is precisely what I intend to do...

Why am I doing this..?

2011-05-17T23:35:00.000-07:00

...Some of you may well think as you read my story between sipping your Châteauneuf-du-Pape while I sit here partially dehydrated, shattered and alone in a strange town (mustn’t think that as I’m the strange outsider here). Why indeed..? Well it may just be that the onset has already begun for you but if not then just a gentle reminder this trip is being attempted in aid of Dementia UK. So far despite covering half of the target figure myself, the lack of many further donations is nothing short of embarrassing. I really hoped that I wouldn’t have to beg like this but again, please if you can support this very worthwhile charity by clicking here or on my link on the right to donate. Don’t forget, with my clever little ‘Revolver Map’ I can now see exactly where you are...
Right then back to business...Days for me are up and down, though mostly down on this trip if truth be told. Two recent major blows have been lost earphones (custom ACS ones, not cheap) and my phone. So no more listening to Major Watts’ superb GTRadio on the go, which is particularly annoying as after 50,000 odd miles onboard Des I’ve finally sorted out the wind noise/turbulence issue! This was my only complaint about him and just as the three of us split way down south I gave BJ back my standard screen which he had been using and then over the following days I took two large chunks off my Givi touring screen. The result...almost perfection! It’s transformed the ride and although I now have to ride visor down my ears are saved. Or they are until I’m back in the Ministry for one of their wonderful ‘Gallery’ nights anyway. Days three and four of the five day blast north have been long, tiring, dry, hot and not exactly safe. Not too much to report really other than as I race to the equator it’s become noticeable how the sun is now almost passing directly over me, which is much easier for my helmet peak (now correctly fitted) to deal with.
Two forgettable stops in Gurupi and Goverador Edison Lobão were just places to clean up, eat and sleep. Seems like there’ll be many more like this...

Man On The Run

2011-05-17T23:20:00.000-07:00

“Your days of finger banging, Mary Jane Rottencrotch through her pretty pink panties...ARE OVER!” Some of you will I’m sure know Full Metal Jacket's Drill Sergeant Hartman’s words well but even if you don’t I’m sure that you get his drift. Well, not that I’ve been doing any “finger banging” you understand of course but just like those fresh army recruits it appears that my easy days are well and truly over. Despite the pretty pictures that get posted on here this is bloody hard work and far from a jolly. The hardships that need to be endured as I progress are plentiful. In order to give myself even a chance of finishing in North America extreme measures are needed. The ride to Belem from Buzios is only twenty seven words in this sentence but is actually over 3,200kms coast to coast across the world’s fifth largest country. Now 2/5’s of the way there this is just the beginning of my problems. A chance meeting with a Brazilian couple Carlos and Ella revealed that the boat trip with Des up the Amazon may not be quite so straight forward as originally thought as due to a rule change the bike can only be kept on deck. Which is apparently illegal and so a bent Captain will need to be sourced. I have though gained some useful information on the road ahead and some contacts that could prove invaluable in the coming weeks. My two day ride took me to firstly Ouro Preto which is an old colonial town. A quaint, old and cobbled street town in the hills, it’s a nice place but every one of those 63km’s out of the way seemed like rain on a drowning man. Next up was a long ride up to Cristalina where the first of Carlos’ contacts was available. “Who?” is what the man in the tyre place seemed to ask when I asked for him as instructed...oh dear.

3-2=Me

2011-05-14T18:35:00.000-07:00

It was definitely coming and should really have been earlier. Maybe the not so boozy night in Buzios or even the chocolate pizza finally did it but in the end I could take no more. Trying to merge three separate needs into one simply didn’t work. From the outset what with our two week delay I’ve been worried about the time and dubious about the feasibility of us three riding in harmony. Despite the re-route through Brazil we seem to have made very little progress at all. There are many reasons for the slowness and ultimately the proposed coastal route was simply unachievable and no fun anyway. Yet another route option (#73) was to “cut off the nipple” and head to Fortaleza from Salvador if time became an issue. Well, barely past Rio de Janerio and due to too much faffing around it already is and so now my solo route option (#2) has become a mastectomy with me pointing Des straight through the heart of Brazil and trying desperately to regain some time by making Belem asap. Now back on my own the daily routines are back including an early start (seriously). On the road for 07:30 is the only way and allows time to see the destination amongst many other pluses. Also now changed is my relaxed attitude to Des’ maintenance with oil, chain and tyre checks now a daily thing. These are just the simple things though, others are about to become a whole lot harder…

Rio de Janeiro

2011-05-10T20:24:00.000-07:00

Mick Høy. My friend, my fellow African survivor, my brother. Thick as thieves, last year we somehow made it through and down the west coast of Africa with him aboard his totally inappropriate bike and dodgy music and my constant questioning of where and when we'll be able to eat some steaks and drink strawberry milkshakes? At the time no question it was tough but even we realised that it was probably the adventure of a lifetime. Much more so than my RTW09 and probably even this year’s effort. It’s only when reading my old blog entries or speaking with friends and family about some of the scrapes that we got ourselves in and out of that it becomes apparent. Avoiding arrest in Togo, illegally entering and subsequently trying to get out of Senegal, nearly seriously crippling ourselves on a volcano in Cameroon, damaging and repairing a bruised Tenere after losing out to a cow in Burkina Faso, being questioned and accused of being spies/terrorists in Nigeria by ‘officials,’ bribery, illness, robbery, virtual kidnap and alcohol poisoning in Johannesburg by some far right Afrikaans the list goes on and on... So then my biggest disappointment at not being able to share beers and stories with a now seemingly settled Mick in Santiago was gone as a holiday with his new girlfriend Lillian to Rio de Janeio gave us the chance of just that. He knew that I was coming of course but his face when he spotted me staring at him in the hostel reception was priceless. Much hugging and smiles later the five of us headed out to a local bar for beers and some. R$445 (£170) was the bill after a mammoth session that left me shattered for the next day’s tourist activities. Only a night and breakfast was spent with Mick and Lillian as they headed off to Isla Grande to recover. Mick I’ll be seeing you again my friend...somewhere.
The second day’s tourist activities allowed me to up my photo count which has been falling recently and consisted of a recommended old rickety tram ride up through the hills which was fun and of course a visit to see the big JC statue overlooking the city. Er, not quite overlooking the city on this day though as like my first visit to Table Mountain me and the main attraction were buried within the clouds. Oh well, I guess complaining about it would just be similar to spending the night with Kelly Brook only for her to leave her top on. You know what it looks like but it would be nice to see for yourself...

50,000 mile not so technical report

2011-05-10T19:54:00.000-07:00

I’ve not done any of these in the past simply because I’m not all that technical. A kick of the rear tyre in the mornings and a weekly oil check is about my lot really. I prefer to have blind faith in Des rather than get my hands too dirty. So then for my fellow Tenere riders and followers after 50,000 miles and now on his third big trip how’s he holding up? Pretty well is the answer, with his crankshaft replaced by West London Yamaha under warranty just before I left he’s much smoother now than how he was for the bottom half of Africa. Mind you the big single cylinder engine isn’t exactly like a sewing machine and even with his exhaust baffles now in he still makes people stop and stare, which is a good thing in terms of safety. Cruising at 100-110kph he happily chugs along sipping fuel. The other day my reserve came on at 360km and with a proven 158.9km in reserve I was on course for a good 520km from the 25L maxed out tank capacity. Very impressive, with no jerry cans required at all which is a nice bonus. Compared to BJ’s Yamaha TT600R he does seem a bit more dramatic with the throttle being either on or off but on good days on nice roads when everything flows he seems absolutely fine and reliable as an axe. And comfortable too, my longest day of 1200km (18hrs) in Siberia was done with only tiredness. Suspension wise with the pre load wound up he still has his original rear shock when given the serious abuse he’s received before is also very impressive and surprising. Someone once told me that when riding off road you should stop every now and then to let the rear shock cool? Crap.
I managed to get hold of an original Yamaha chain and sprocket set before I left and totally thanks to Scott it was fitted and should be good for 16,000 miles as before with a cheap can of chain lube used. Tyres are the Dunlop K750’s that I bought in the US in 2009 very cheaply and although a bit soft are a bit off a mid road/off road tyre and may come in handy further north. Anticipate 7-8000 miles from the rear, much more from the front. The one complaint that I’ve always struggled to cope with is the wind turbulence. Almost immediately I changed to the Givi touring screen and even fitted the ‘turbulance stopper’ thing under the headlamp but I’ve never really been sure of whether it was an improvement over stock or not. Over the last 5,000 miles or so I’ve found it tiring and very irritating but have just accepted it as a design flaw. Even with ear plugs the noise is deafening and I’ve spent most of the time up on the back seat where it’s only slightly better. The main problem is that the turbulent air hits me at peak level causing it and the visor to vibrate through the helmet. However...the other day enough was enough and after some trial and error and a refit and tighten of my Uvex Carbon Enduro (yes the £550 one, although I only paid £280) the outcome is that my original screen (nicked back from BJ) is not all that far from fine really. I’m sure both my helmet and the Givi screen are OK but not as a combination. BJ’s Aria Tour X is no problem for example with the Givi screen. For the record I’m 6ft tall. The only ongoing fault Des has is a non operating fan. This is more than likely down to a temporary repair to its relay which my friend Mick made in Burkina Faso and I never bothered to make permanent on my return. This was probably caused by the Leo Vinici exhausts leaving a small gap under the seat area letting in water/mud from where the catalytic converter once sat. Nothing else much really, apart from the odd scratches mostly after my cow incident in Burkina Faso where me and the bike went down hard on our RHS and slid across the tarmac for 20 meters or so. Hardly the bikes fault though!

North at last and some Irish hospitality

2011-05-10T19:29:00.000-07:00

Hung over and looking like chickenpox victims we gingerly left Florianópolis and finally pointed our bikes north with the aim of getting to Rio de Janeiro in a few days. First up was Antonina for no other reason than it being the name of BJ’s girlfriend’s mother. On the way there the road quickly turned jungle like as we rode over the smallish mountains in amongst the low clouds across the slippery part cobbled road. This plus Florianópolis was far more like what I had expected Brazil to be like, albeit slightly cooler. For now...
As the last of the dense jungle passed we spotted a large group of bikers stopped by the side of the road having a little get together. After stopping to try and say hi we learnt that they were all members of the Águias de Christo. The real clue to their twin interests was sewn amongst the various badges onto their leathers, passages from the bible i.e. John 3:16 etc. I wasn’t sure of the word for atheist in Portuguese so we quickly moved on to pictures, handshakes and handing out of business cards. As tempting as the offer was for lunch we really had to push on and so with a club sticker each we said our ciaos and continued Rio bound. After Antonina we made slow progress and became a three with Dave abandoned as his Argentine girlfriend couldn’t make Rio de Janeiro despite his blast up there through Uruguay to meet her. He’s now onboard also but for how long is anyone’s guess as he intends to abandon his plans for Central America and beyond, instead choosing to return to Buenos Aires to be with her during next month to give things a go...
So a threesome (the jury’s out, only just like riding with two) continued along until BJ did his usual trick of disappearing. After eventually finding him it turned out that he’d stopped to chat with Kenny, an Irish oil worker living and settled nearby in Caiguatatuba. Kenny with his son Adam invited us to spend the night at their home with the promise of a BBQ and beers. After a very quick chat we decided to take up Kenny on his kind offer and what a night it turned out to be. Kenny’s twenty years in the oil game have proved successful as was clear to see as we entered the private condominium and found our way to his impressive house. There we met his beautiful wife Christina and their cute daughter Sarah. We were made to feel so welcome as the BBQ was on the go and beers were sank. Not many years older than me Kenny has had a few motorcycles in his time and like all oil workers that I’ve met on my travels a common bond was found. Maybe it’s something to do with being away from home for months at a time or being prepared to take a risk? Hospitality like this is so special and rare. I really can’t imagine many people inviting three random smelly bikers into their family home in such a way at this. Meeting such people as these is another example of the highs to be found in these trips that make it so special. Kenny and family, thanks for your part in making us feel so welcome.

Fabulous Florianópolis

2011-05-10T19:15:00.000-07:00

This is more like it. Florianópolis. Wow. A Manhatton like island just off the coast where the rich and famous live/party, it ticks all the right boxes. I’ll totally skip the night before in Mongaguá which was nothing short of Brazil’s Blackpool. The same fat chavs as we get at home munching burgers and candy floss at a really shabby seaside resort, surprising. As for Florianópolis, we holed up in a backpackers place and even considered staying for a whole week. A very chilled out place and the view we had from our room has to rank right up there in amongst the very best. In the end it was only two nights as after a day on the beach failing to surf the big waves, a drunken night out and thirty mosquito bites each we felt the need to push on. The pictures say it all really. For anyone that’s looking further afield than Benidorm for a beach holiday come here, it’s simply beautiful.

The long road to the Atlantic coast

2011-05-10T18:49:00.000-07:00

When you ride with BJ the one thing that you can take for certain is that adventure, delay or fun are never far away. In this case it was all three as we sided with the Brazilian map over the GPS and decided that a short cut away from the main roads was achievable. Three hours and a grand total of about 50km later the GPS seemed to know best as the road through a national park that we’d searched high and low for seemed to have disappeared many years ago. As a result we only made it as far as Ampère which was a bit of a grotty little town with the only surprise being that my friend Sean Doyle seems to have a twin named Marcus that owns and runs a Hotel in town(!?)
The following days ride was a little more successful in terms of distance as we made it to São Joaquim which apparently is Brazil’s highest city at an unimpressive 1353 meters. Again, a pretty unremarkable place but the reason for us taking this route in the total opposite direction to where we need to head to is because we’ve simply copied a route from a motorcycle tour company so we’d assumed that there must be something worth seeing right? Well...sort of. The following morning we hit the steep decent away from São Joaquim which proved both fun and picturesque but compared to the many mountain passes that we’ve ridden before it rated only six out of ten. The rest of the ride to Florianopolis rated much lower though.
At this point I guess I should give my early impressions of Brazil. Firstly, I just love seeing all the old VW’s everywhere you look, with plenty of type 1’s and 2’s (Beetles and Campers/Buses/Vans) and the odd type 4’s (erm, just ‘odd’) on and off the road. It always makes me laugh how in one country a car like these has cult status and is so expensive when in others (usually the country of production) they are just a car and so cheap. Well I do until I recall how much money I’ve spent over the years..! Secondly, the roads are very dangerous. The driving is fast and there are lorries everywhere on the busy roads. Not enjoyable at all especially given the lack of protection from the oncoming vehicles, with the aftermaths of vehicle collisions regularly on show at a variety of times in the very recent and not so recent past. What else? Well, a little strange but everybody here is mixed race. I can count on one hand the people that I wouldn’t count as such. Unlike the Spanish in Argentina, the Portuguese brought slaves into Brazil from Africa (Angola I would think) hundreds of years ago and since then the gene pool appears to have been turned into a Jacuzzi. The people seem friendly but again, what a language!! Very difficult to get to grips with and with only a few people that we’ve met speaking English things at times have been hard work.

Back with you know who at Iguazú...

2011-05-10T18:25:00.000-07:00

The Iguazú falls. I’ve put the link here as as ever my photos won’t do them justice. Neither will my knowledge of them so good old Wikipedia should provide far more than I can. What it won’t mention on the site is that on the day that I was there a familiar face appeared from the crowd...BJ! It now transpires that he just “had a bit of a moment,” not really sure what to do about a multitude of options and problems and he thought it best to let me proceed on my chosen path. And so after a bit of soul searching he too headed up north albeit on a slightly different route. Truth be told I have really enjoyed my few days solo and when he asked if we could ride together again I was actually a little disappointed but all things considered he is my friend and I feel that the trade off between soloness and friendship is just about worth it. Also I have proved to myself that I can ride solo and be happy with it and I don’t feel that I have anything to prove. As for the whole “life changing” thing...maybe I was just feeling a bit something. It’s true that perhaps I am a bit lazy around people at times but then again I do have many great close friends so things can’t be that bad. Well, if you can call Australia and Chile close!? And besides...these trips are dynamic, everything and anything can and does change at any given time so who knows what will happen further up the road?
So after photos, a hug and a chat we said goodbye to Argentina and rode through the border into Brazil and hunted for a place to stay on the Brazilian side of the falls, Iguaçu to now use the correct name for where we are. We decided over beers and football in one of the many busy bars showing the big matches that we were all falled out and so in the morning ‘prompt’ (!?) we’d head off to the south east...

No pay José

2011-05-01T20:27:00.000-07:00

The final ride out of Argentina was short in distance but long in time. This was down purely to two incidents along the way. Incident one was the old 'lets have a few pesos out of the tourist' favourite by the local police. The fun began at one of the many police checkpoints where upon being questioned I had to turn off my mp3 player. Like a fruit machine about to drop '$$$' the young plod must have thought that his luck was in and I was swiftly directed off the road to their office minus my documents. Once in, it's game on..! I've faced many of these confronations with the world's police now and I'd like to think that I'm pretty formidable when we get down to business. This is how you play... 1) Smile, shake hands, be nice. 2) Use a prop. A map or gps often works. Point at a random town you know you've passed. 3) Plenty of shoulder shrugging and blank looks. Test their English, 4) Start to act like you unstanderstand then just translate a spoken foreign word into something bizarre and go off on a totally different tangent. 5) I can't but if you do, offer them a smoke. 6) Talk about football. 7) Don't feel threatened or pressured, they won't fill out the form they just want your cash. 8) More of 3, 4, 5 and 6. 9) Take this piss. By this point they're wasting their time and you both know it. Soon enough they'll be out of all ideas and you'll be on your way with a handshake and maybe even a photo..!
Number 9 in this case was when they'd failed to level four or five motoring offences at me by various means one by one. In desperation they drew a road with me overtaking crossing the double centre lines with a car coming the other way. Of course I understood, got my pen out and added a donkey to the car (now a donkey and cart) and the approaching car had a tail and horns added making it a cow. A table top re enactment of my cow incident in Burkina Faso then followed backed up by my damaged riding gear...é viola!! Documents in hand after ninety minutes of complete farce, a handshake and a smile. No picture this time though.
Great, but back on the road but 50km later...a huge tailback. A teacher's strike on the main road had meant its closure. During my three hour wait I met Santiago, a young guy on a XTZ125 which is basically a baby brother of my XTZ660. Also there was (I've forgotten, will amend if he facebooks me!). Two great guys, made the wait seem like much much less. Eventually the police allowed me, Santiago and two other bikers to ride up to the strike area and ride off road around them. Des ploughed his way through the deep mud and now looks the business, a bit like Arnie in Predator..! The late ride up to the border with Santiago was quick with the little XTZ zipping along surprisingly quick. After farewell to young Santiago I made the border town as darkness fell, ready for the visit to the Iguaza falls and the crossing into Brazil the next day...

Matey was more than right...

2011-05-01T20:04:00.000-07:00

This wasn’t supposed to be a blog entry as the ride, although pleasant, wasn’t anything special. Upon splitting with BJ yesterday I experienced a wild swing of emotions. They were mostly controlled by my trance music that I was listening too on the ride in and they ranged from an enormous sense of freedom & ecstasy right down to extreme worry & sadness. Today though there was no music, just plenty of time to contemplate. I’m sure I now know why BJ headed off alone, having now started to experience solo motorcycle travel. I’m more than happy to ride alone (as I proved for 80% of my RTW09) but it was always with some sort of support, either personal or mechanical. As for BJ, I now think that I missed the point. This wasn’t ‘our trip’ and it never should have been. The sense of freedom whilst riding totally alone and having to fend for yourself is absolutely incredible. In the thirty hours since we bid our goodbyes my knowledge of Spanish has skyrocketed as I’ve only met ONE person that speaks English! I’ve also met several people that I doubt that I would have had I’ve been one half of a pair and being right on the edge makes me feel so alive. I’ll openly admit that before riding solo I was pretty much just ‘along for the ride,’ too relaxed and dependant on others. Forced into this new situation I spent the morning shopping for items that I didn’t have (including a much needed English/Spanish dictionary) and would’ve easily borrowed from BJ as well as sending some of my items back home by post. Trips like these require a routine. You need to know exactly where everything is, it needs to be accessible in order of importance, the absolute minimum of it and a general route plan needs to be made daily with an early departure time and much more. I’m still not sure about the whole “table for one please” thing but actually there is more than enough routines to do of an evening to keep me occupied and it’s not a problem.
So then, Toscada. It took a while to get into the centre due to its size and once in, a fairly basic hotel was found on the main square. A typical ‘Italian’ meal was then bought and eaten but (pero) to be honest I wasn’t all that impressed with the place. Until...on the way back across the square I investigated what all the noise and crowd was about. A stage in front of a historic building was all set up and a live dance/ballet show was in progress. Now I’ve seen ballet many times and I’m not all that keen really but it suddenly hit me... Looking around the environment at the people, the smiles, the cleanliness and much much more it made me think back to home life. I was constantly complaining to BJ about England which may have been a factor in him clearing off and I won’t do it here but all I’ll say is that several years ago I met a guy who was well travelled and when asked he said his favourite country was Argentina. He was right by a country mile, or 1.6km as they have here. One observation is that everyone here is Argentinean which appears to make everyone proud of their country. It also seems to have resulted in no other ‘cultures’ being taken up and/or copied as well as no religious issues. Nobody is trying to be something that they aren’t and neither are they sticking two fingers up at the country where they’ve moved to that gives them far more opportunities than their own. So all in all it’s a wonderful country to be in and one that I hope to return to sooner rather than later...

Searching for answers and change...

2011-04-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

So what is this possible life changing moment then? Well...read on. BJ is my friend, always will be. He's a bit like the big brother that I never had. He is though, confused. Confused about exactly what he wants from life. I see this and it's not pleasant to watch. It's also extremely worrying as we are similar in many ways. For RTW10 he couldn't make up his mind if he wanted to travel through Africa with me and eventually I had to set sail without him, only for him to leave three weeks later and finally catch me on my last day in Cape Town. This year was no different but with me injuring my ankle ligaments in mid Febuary (they're still not quite right) it gave him a six more weeks to dither. Truth is I wasn't expecting him to come and when he did make it out with me I was pleasantly surprised. It was good news all round really as we ride well together and have a laugh as we go. However, since before we even boarded our flight away from the UK it was clear that he wasn't fully happy. Since then we've spoken for hours about how the shipping delay has ruined our original route down south to Ushuaia, his choice of bike, the lack of time, cost of the trip, where to finish and what to do with his bike when done. I'm flexible with problems and don't tend to beat myself up over things that are out of my hands and try to see the positives. I don't like regrets, live for the moment..."Get busy living or get busy dying." Andy Defresne, 1967.
It took us an age to agree on what to do about our two week delay and even after we agreed on the new Brazillian northern route he just seemed lost. I knew it and since we finally left Buenos Aires I've known it. On the road his mind just wasn't right for 'our trip.' It's easy to read when riding behind someone who isn't happy. It was only a matter of time before he finally pulled over to give me the news. I'd been expecting it and to be fair it was starting to get to me as like any relationship if someone's not fully into it, it won't work. So a firm handshake later and we parted. I have no idea where he is or where he's going. For me however, the enormity of what lies ahead of me hasn't even began to sink in yet. Typically me, I'm not fully prepared for such a mammoth solo trip. I have little tools, even less know how, no maps, no language skills (not even a phrase book) and no real idea of a route up. You see that despite my pretty map now showing lots of red that seems to impress people the truth is that apart from a 3000 mile blast across the Sahara to a waiting Mick I've always had some sort of support, be it a 4x4 support truck a few hours behind or a fellow rider who's always been far more mechanically skilled than I'll ever be. Many people that I speak to about my travels mention Charlie & Euan as being my possible role models. This is wrong. In this respect my role models are the true heros out there...Ben Owen, Mick Høy and Daniel Good, all young men that I've met on the road in far flung places that do this properly solo. It's these guys that I'm in awe of. And so, here I am then. Maybe I'll see another rider en route or maybe not. But for now here I am in Curuzú Cuatiá - tired, a little scared and alone. I am though...about to sleep, brave and with 'Des.' Grandad...I hope you're proud of me.

Two friends head north...

2011-04-28T18:52:00.000-07:00

I am a bit of a loner, an individual. I don’t really have much time for most people that I know and meet and I seem to have a problem in committing to anyone. Why? I really don’t know. What I do know is that I want this to change. Of all the people that I’ve met that travel like this...the individuals, in my eyes, seem to have all missed the boat somewhat. It’s always the same story...”met a beautiful girl, got itchy feet, travelled, still travelling (fifteen years later) and still in touch as friends but life’s moved on for her.” I recognise that I’m in danger of becoming one of them (if I’m not already) and so something needs to happen in my life. This moment could well be right now actually...(see next entry).
Myself and BJ left Dave behind in Buenos Aires as he caught up with an Argentinean lady that he knew (yes you’ve guessed it) fifteen years ago. The first day’s ride up to Concordia was pretty uneventful except for a road side lunch stop. It was one of those moments that only seem to happen on trips like these. The family treated BJ and I like long lost relatives while their adorable little four year old girl ‘Bianca’ chatted away to us as we tucked into our lunch seemingly oblivious to our lack of understanding of Spanish. After a game of ‘how many stones can you get in a bottle top’ and the old ‘catch the stone from your elbow’ trick Bianca was left all smiles and maybe thinking that I wasn’t just a bit thick after all. Maybe.
The end of the riding day took us into a beautiful town named Concordia. Clean, chilled out, spacious and pretty it was just about as perfect a town as you could wish to find. The only thing not quite right was one of its temporary inhabitants...

Not quite so Long Way Up...

2011-04-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

Miracles do happen it seems! Des has arrived, fresh from his little holiday in Miami. Chose to go it alone with the whole customs/shipping/merry go round rather than take up Dakarmotors’ expensive offer of help. As it happens it only took six hours and the officials were most helpful. A fairly short ride back to my prison cell at Dakarmotos and a day of final bike preparations mean that finally we’re all set the off. So now with two weeks of my ten already gone before I’ve even got going and my request for assistance with some shift swaps at work seemingly going down like diarrhoea in a swimming pool it leaves no option but to re route. With weather reports coming in of snow across Patagonia and a lack of time the planned new route is now to head north to and through Brazil (via Rio de Janeiro) to Belem, take a four day boat up the Amazon river and somehow try to get into and through Venezuela, Columbia and Panama to rejoin our original route from there. How possible this is I have no idea, neither I suspect, do I have enough Malarone pills for the jungle ahead but I’ll just have to work it out. This is what we do...

San Telmo's on Fire...

2011-04-26T12:56:00.000-07:00

Day ten of my stretch saw the arrival of John from Colorado aboard a KTM 950 Super Enduro. John had lived in Argentina amongst other places within South America and what he must have thought of us three chasing cockroaches around as he unpacked his bag god only knows. It was thanks to him that we finally saw sense and decided to clear off to Uruguay for the Easter break. Unfortunately upon arriving at the shipping terminal it seemed that so had everyone else as the boats were all full. So with our belongings on our shoulders BJ and I wandered the streets in search of accommodation within the city. Feeling a bit like Joseph we were at the point of no hope as darkness fell. Yet another inn had no room but they were able to offer us a stable. This particular stable was next door where a family had a couple of rooms that they occasionally let out. And what a little oasis it was. No sharing a dorm with some Swiss cheese eaters or passively smoking ganja from the Brazilian hippies here. Spot on. Also spot on was discovering that despite seemingly walking every square foot of the city centre we ended up in San Telmo. Wow. Full of little cafés, restaurants, bars and antique shops, the cobbled streets and old shutter windowed buildings were very Parisian. With Dave occupied catching up with an old friend BJ and I were left to explore this beautiful district, watch an Argentine tango show, drink coffee, shop and take photos. As well as this was the highlight of the trip so far...taking in a football match between River Plate and Goody Cruz. With River designated our local team to where we settled in Argentina we made our way to the stadium ticketless as we ignored the tourist package that most take and followed the crowd. After a quick roast pork roll and with kick off approaching it appeared that my estimate of a 35,000 crowd was way off the mark as it looked like we may struggle to get in. A tout eventually sold us a valid ticket after trying to knock out used tickets to last week’s match and we were in. Our £20 tickets were in a seating area with no seat but no matter as we stood amongst the locals in the exit stairs with the stadium presumably over its 80,000 capacity. It was like nothing I’ve witnessed before with the noise, colour and passion hugely impressive, rendering us speechless. In every way it bettered football in the UK and from now on it just won’t be the same for me. River eventually lost the second v third match 2-1 but just as full time approached a Queens Park Rangers tracksuit top made its way through the spectator’s right past me!! John, (another one!) from India, living in Costa Rica and on vacation chatted with me over all things QPR and numbers were exchanged and a possible hook up in Costa Rica was arranged. I had such a great time during these four days with so many more wonderful experiences that could run into pages and pages on here but I’ll just say that in the end it actually felt difficult to leave. I fully understand why my old friend Mick is rooted in Santiago and in his position I would stay here indefinitely. Still, maybe one day...

Not a buenos start in Good Aires

2011-04-26T12:33:00.000-07:00

From the viewpoint on my top bunk is an impossibly heavy looking piece of dirty cobweb which is hanging from a tiny thread. Situated behind the barred window, it’s constantly being blown around by the draught that it’s caught in. I noticed this on day one here in Dakarmotos, Florida – BA and thought that a) physics have to mean that gravity will improve my view out of the window some time very soon and b) along with the barred window inside the white walled room and all the evidence of other travellers here before me here made it me feel like a ‘fresh fish’ serving my first days of prison. Now much later I can conclude that a) was wrong and b) was as good as right. Big bad Des was all crated up and ready to be sent by air at a bloody expensive price a week and a half ago but with that expense does come rapid freight and peace of mind. Except on this occasion it seems. #572 in an ever expanding list of reasons not to like Americans is the knowledge that the reason for us ending up on different ends of the continent is due to those muppets deciding to open my crate to have a poke around him and my luggage. Fair enough if I’m coming in but he’s in transit FFS! As a result of all this he missed the flight down, spent a week in Miami and finally arrived an hour before the end of the final day before a four day national holiday, meaning an additional $200 for ‘storage.’ Great.

Long Way Up

2011-04-05T09:25:00.000-07:00

…The man in the picture will be about 300 days older to be precise! Although it can wait until my next blog entry as due to the usual preparations for my trips I don’t really have much to take a picture of. Unless anyone’s interested in seeing my kit organised in only a way that I know all over the floor, or my super (meaning very, not great) short haircut. So here we go again then…
RTW11 had to be on really, ever since BJ and I rode the long, cold, partly lunar, desolate road up to the very top of Alaska. The map (If I could get it to work) would show like something on ‘The Crystal Maze’ where Peter, 25, accounts assistant, from Milton Keynes has the task of joining the red electrical circuit from points A to B to release the crystal. Or it does to me anyway. This time though, unlike Peter, I have a little more than 2 minutes 30 seconds. Two and a half months actually…
But before I get too far into this time that’s about to tick, what’s the deal? Well, motorcycle wise big bad ‘Des’ did indeed have a serious engine problem after all. All repaired under warranty (with thanks to Kiran and Sam at West London Yamaha) it turned out that it was a damaged crank shaft that he sustained somewhere in Gabon. Some amazement was shown at how he managed to soldier on the 8,000 miles it took to finally get him to the bike hospital for life saving surgery. This trip should (he says…) be a little easier on rider and bike as the off roading promises to be minimal. Riding Des on nice tarmac is a bit like Brian Blessed donning a tutu and performing Swan Lake and so during the latter months of 2010 a suitable replacement was located and purchased. It was an old school BMW K100RS which is far nicer to ride up the Pan American Highway. Think John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, retro, super smooth and dressed immaculately in white too. However, as the days went by and the departure day neared I couldn’t help but look at the pair of them and think that perhaps my K bike was a bit too tidy for the trip. So for that reason simple reason, it’s me and Des again. The only change to him is that I’ve reinstalled his exhaust baffles, as despite him killing a few people by heart attack in some of the far flung places where we’ve ridden with his monstrous flamed backfire, he really does give me ear ache truth be told.
As for the route well…basically it’s Buenos Aires, down to Tierra del Fuego (woolly hat packed), locate fellow African survivor ‘Danish Mick’ in Santiago (beers), and then head up to New York as time allows. With good old BJ again doing the hokey cokey for the months leading up to the big off I’d been in touch with Dave Allen (no not him, shame) who was planning to copy my African trip but had strangely decided against it after I’d given him an idea of what to expect(!?) Having turned right at San Fransisco and ridden to Buenos Aires after we met in Russia during my RTW09 he’s already ridden my third leg (erm) Still, keen to explore he’ll be at the starting point with me but heading north and may well see me further up the road in South America’s poorest country Bolivia’s capital, La Paz. He said it’s not so bad there, but then he is a South Londoner… STOP PRESS…STOP PRESS…Like a wasted alcoholic that’s somehow found his way home from a very late night BJ has (it seems finally) found not only his house on the estate but the right key for his door. Miraculous!!! So it looks like I’d better pack my swimming shorts then…

RSA Part 3 - The final road to Cape Town

2010-06-21T13:39:00.000-07:00

Once away from Port St. Johns and towards Port Elizabeth we entered what’s known as ‘The Garden Route.’ It was easy to see how it got its name as the view was just breathtaking. Deep gorges, mountains etc etc filled the landscape and although not great onboard my now very rattley bike it was just a pleasure not to have to constantly watch out for pedestrians and animals on the road as before. Much like at home, looking along the sides of the road for speed cameras. With the lack of our GPS yet another chance meeting from a helpful local guy who had a mate with a bike place. We stopped in pure luxury at a sort of business complex and shared several beers with our new friend Iain who filled us with laughter over his tales of mistakes made in his life, along with his advice for us...
Next up on the late rides into the sun was a place called Wilderness. Now hugging the south coast we stayed in a lovely little B&B in more luxury. We then met another Canadian guy named David who impressed us with his one year, 75,000km (13k more than me) tales of his round the worlder onboard his GS1200 which was at BMW for repair. Next up was a visit to the southern most tip of Africa the famous 'Cape Agulhas' where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet.
With many pictures on the SD cards we then headed off to a cosy place named Pringle Bay, accepting an invite that we’d received earlier for a place to visit and stay. Here lived Bernie Becker, a hugely interesting and knowledgeable man. Yet more great hospitality was received by us as a lovely two nights were had just enjoying the place, eating with the locals, relaxing and trying to absorb some of Bernie’s vast knowledge on many subjects. Great times.
So then... Cape Town. A few days late but safely we rolled into town. Backpacker’s accommodation found and bribery of the car park guy completed we could finally start to unwind. After a few beers the following day Mick’s girlfriend Beatrice joined us as too did...BJ! The intended final picture of me and Mick together with Table Mountain looming large in the distance never happened so instead it has to be just the four of us, in an Irish pub, with beers and all happy for different reasons.
So that’s it then. As before, no real emotions from me although I have to say I’m pleased to have finally finished and to be heading home. I’ll finish this in the same way that I finished my New York entry and hope that when/if it’s continued the man in the pictures isn’t too much older than the ones in these...

RSA Part 2 - Dinosaurs in the mountains

2010-06-21T13:19:00.000-07:00

Having taken advice from Werner and Alan our new planned route to Cape Town should be extremely scenic. And what a start as we turned off the motorway and headed into the areas Nottingham Road and Rosetta in what could have easily passed for England in autumn. However, a reminder of where we were soon presented itself during the evening in our hotel. We hooked up with a fellow hotel guest, a great Belgium guy named Lesley who was in Durban on business and chose to trek/hike on his days off in the nearby Drakensburg mountain range. Despite talk of this lunacy a nice evening was being had by us over dinner but several times we overheard the old married couple who owned the place speaking to our young black waiter and waitress in such a way that is just not acceptable in Europe. After four or five instances of what amounted to verbal abuse the young waitress effectively resigned as she made for the door in tears. We’d found them both very professional and whatever the problem was she was still our waitress and so deserved her tip from us. I motioned for her to wait just before she left by the main door in order to arrange her tip but as I was doing so the old fart re-emerged from out the back and seeing her still in his hotel he continued to abuse her. What we’d been hearing during the evening became more and more unbelievable and was actually quite upsetting and this was the final straw. Livid, I got up and tore into the owner and a huge row ensued in front of everyone in the bar and restaurant. Mick, at this point outside having a smoke heard the commotion and came in to find me in full flow and despite trying to calm everyone down was just used by me (as Lesley was) as back up for how disgusting we found the whole thing. Had the old man been nearer my age then things would’ve have certainly gone right off but sadly as will be the case it’s probably changed nothing and a new victim will soon have to take his and her shit on a daily basis.
Trying to forget this sorry episode we rode off the following morning alongside the stunning Drakensburg mountain range which marks out Lesotho’s eastern border. We then met and shared a lunch with two nice South African couples on GS1200’s and made our way to Port St. Johns on the south coast which was a sort of hippy/backpackers (actually that’s pretty much the same thing) hang out. More importantly though it signals us having officially crossed Africa all the way to the Indian Ocean. Now all that’s left is to head west along the coast a final 1600km to Cape Town...

RSA Part 1 - Afrikaans hospitality

2010-06-21T12:51:00.000-07:00

Country number nineteen and the final one...South Africa. Lesotho may have taken that final title but alas time is not with us and so SA it is. After our late border crossing we made Zeerust, a small town 230km west of a waiting Werner in Pretoria. A pleasant stay was cheaply had at a B&B that was managed by an Afrikaans version of Basil Fawlty. Slept, fed and WIFI’d, us and the bikes were then pointed east where we reached Pretoria and finally met Werner. Bike/travel chat, nice food, beers and more chat then followed. Amongst the chat was the very recent news that my original travel companion BJ was some 3000km north about to cross into Angola. Seemingly he’d a last minute change of mind and set off a couple of weeks after me. Either that or he just wanted to ride solo. Or he doesn’t like me..! Anyhow, after two nights of this we wished each other well at Werner’s BMW Motorrad dealership, under the eyes of the usual GS owners who were probably shocked at the sight of two properly used non GS’s having made such a trip as ours, despite next to none of them venturing outside of their own country, as usual. Next up after a short ride was Johannesburg for what was supposed to some quick bike repairs and a night out but after a random meeting with a local nutter called Alan we began what turned out to be a monster two day drinking session with him and his friends. During this gradual liver poisoning exercise we also met two young guys (that also knew Werner, coincidentally) Lee and Renato who took a more savage approach and bought me a ‘Flaming Lamborghini’ as it was my birthday. Good times initially but several hours later...bad times! As for Alan and co, the more time we spent with them and the more we learned about them the more odd it felt. All far right Afrikaans and ‘pwoper naughty’ as some may say, it was clear that although extremists if they were your friends they would do their upmost to look after you, which they certainly did. Their tales of violence, guns and corruption were without doubt true but to be fair they all seemed to be based on protection of their property/family/business which seems fair enough to me.

Botswana

2010-06-01T02:00:00.000-07:00

After my earlier SWS strop over my carnet being stamped in the DRC it turns out that only one stamp is required for entry/exit from the Southern African Union so Botswana was possible after all. Following a fairly steep compulsory purchase of road tax and insurance we were into our penultimate country of Botswana. Not too much to report here other than the highlight being a one night stay deep in the Kalahari Desert which saw me putting Noels earlier braai lessons into practice and cooking up a feast. The night sky is also worth a mention as the remoteness and something else that I don’t know seems to be responsible for a superb view above after sunset. Having no local money and having ticked off the Kalahari, the following day we avoided the hundreds of horses, cows and donkeys that seem to live next to or on the road whilst riding a big 700km and made the SA border just after dark for our final border crossing of this type before the final 3000km or so final leg to Cape Town. As a footnote, my bike Des is still making a knocking sound from his engine which started way back in Gabon and was attributed to poor quality fuel. Now on BP/Shell/Total 95 Ron, the noise still remains and so it’s clearly more serious than our first diagnosis. Less serious, but slowly growing is a list of minor faults of worn components including a very thin rear sprocket with several teeth chipped and a rear tyre that would now be replaced if the bike was in the UK. Plan A is to nurse him over the finish line and assess mine and his future plans...

Namibiaaaaaahhhh

2010-06-01T01:28:00.000-07:00

“You need to experience the lows to enjoy the highs” as they (whoever they are) say. Well up until the Namibian border I think it’s pretty fair to describe our trip as the following \______________ Only Morocco is worth recommending as it’s European i.e. everything works and it’s enjoyable being there. Now however, at long last I can add a / to the end of that drawing of a golf club on the floor. Namibia is wonderful as appears to be any of the Southern African Union states of Botswana (more later) Zambia and SA. The long list of what’s terrible north of here doesn’t apply at all anymore. Food, Roads, Climate, Malaria, Service, just about everything is in the good column. Er no that’s not good Malaria, it’s just crossed out. Having just made the border as it closed and with sore bums our first experience of Namibia was...a Wimpy restaurant! Much gorging of banana milkshakes, burgers, chips and coffee later we checked into a German styled motel for a beer and sleep. I should point out that Namibia is a former German colony so much like SA, things work. The native people here seem very different to their neighbours above in a way that I really can’t describe. Religion doesn’t seem visible at all unlike the extremism it seems to hold in both Christianity in the Central and Muslim in the North and West. Neither does there seem to be a tribal thing going on where elsewhere it’s their tribe rather than country that is the big deal. Days two and three were spent at Ongura game reserve lodge just outside of Etosha National Park. And what a treat it was too we had about the best food we’ve ever eaten, a guided drive around the National Park which was full of giraffe, lions, impala (and these three were before we’d even got into the main national park, they were where we’d ridden our bikes the previous day!) Kudu, oryx, zebra, warthog, buffalo, elephants, birds and others. Still with a rear inner tube that was either flat or fine we rode a short 100km to Tsuneb in order to buy and fit a new tube and sort out this problem once and for all. Fifth puncture repaired and new tube fitted we met Noel (UK) and Reka (HGY) who were on a slower, longer trip like ours but in a thirty year old trusty Land Rover. We ended up spending the rest of the day and night with them and camped together with Noel demonstrating his Braai (SA BBQ) skills as we munched on steak, salad, red wine and marshmallows. Big yum, good times. As expected, after crossing into Namibia it’s a different world and without making a massive list of what’s now good it’s easier just to say that we’re having a fantastic time here. It’s definitely a place worth coming back to and spending a month or so in a 4x4 whilst also taking in its eastern and southern neighbours. The feeling of space is nice as with a population of only 1.9 million you really can get away from it all. Although because of this Windhoek was incredibly quiet and so after a couple of nights at a backpackers place we headed east the 1500km to see my friend Werner for a few beers...

Angola - The illegal days 6-82

2010-06-01T00:55:00.000-07:00

OK not 82 days but it felt like it...Finally off the terrible tarmacless Michelin mapped tarmac road we rolled into Angola’s capital city of Luanda. Again, my imagination of Brazil sprang to mind as we passed the shanty towns built on mud cliffs with the remains of previous ‘homes’ still visible within the mud slides of the past. Overall the place looks pretty grim however there is clearly some money floating around as the odd new huge 4x4 or pickup truck is spotted amongst the heaving lorries and blue and white taxis. Either down to a severe diversion in town or just plain African traffic the journey into and in Luanda during rush hour was about as bad as it gets, the sort where if you have even the slightest amount of sympathy for someone trying to pull out your full fuel tank will be empty before your final destination of 5km away. Thankfully aggressive city riding is a speciality of mine and aboard big Des with Mick in toe we managed to growl and bully our way through the traffic at a decent pace. Maybe a little too decent actually as just after we’d made the road sellers jump from between the lanes whilst trying to sell their wears a concerned Mick gave the old whirly blue light sign above his head and gunned it. A quick check in my mirrors confirmed a very close and fast moving blur of main beam and flashing blue lights and so with a twist of the wrist we were off on a five minute crazy adrenaline fuelled scream through the traffic at quite frankly silly speeds. After turning off from a main road we stopped between two parked cars to ponder our next move which with some help from a helpful local turned out to be camping for the night at a private compound which was exclusively occupied by some very friendly Brazilians who were probably oil or bank workers. The following day’s riding was a total opposite what we’ve had to endure since mid Gabon. Having had some advice from a couple of weird, no make that just Germans who were on their way up, we rode the open and mostly empty tarmaced Michelin tarmac road southbound and for the first time ever in Africa there was...a nice view! Distant mountains and rolling hills covered in shrubs much like Andulucia in Spain helped pass the hours as we headed towards Lobito. It was about 20km before there that we stopped to chat with ‘Tom’ an experienced solo rider heading along our route but northbound. After the usual quick story swapping and photo is was agreed that we’d all head back to a nice roadside restaurant that Mick and I had just passed to enquire about the possibility of camping and beers. Permission granted and a great night was spent just being guys and talking about guy things whilst drinking cold beers and even sharing some steak! Very good times. Up at 6am and after witnessing the mass slaughter of around sixteen chickens by the kitchen staff right next to where we were packing up we wished each other very well and headed off in different directions. It was both horrifying and fascinating what we’d experienced and we couldn’t help but feel very sorry for the poor creature as it seemed to have an idea of what was about to happen but was pretty helpless with regard to changing the inevitable. Still, like us it was Tom’s decision to do this so on his head be it...
Whatever happened to the Christians all of you will not be thinking? Well it seems that divine or childish decisions are of no importance if you get lost and reach the wrong borders on the wrong day. They’ve now overtaken us along a slightly different route but have been riding the same road as us now down to the Namibian border albeit a day ahead of us. Reports of the final 100km of bad roads forever reached us and as we approached we were keen to finally end the nonsense that is off road riding. As expected I made it to tarmac first but not without discovering a four inch nail protruding from my rear tyre. Bugger. Mick finally arrived and the start to a total disaster over tyres/inner tubes and his compressor began. Without wanting to recount the whole ongoing (and I’m now two days into Namibia) story it was/is a right old mess. Somehow though after what was about eight hours of blood, sweat, hunger and pain we limped over the Angolan/Namibian border having rode the final 120km through a head wind away from what we’re told is ‘proper Africa.’ Hallebloodyluiah.

Angola - Hard but happy, the legal days 1-5

2010-05-25T04:27:00.000-07:00

On the far west of Europe lies a small country called Poortugal. Nope, I didn’t spell it wrong it’s just that the current name hasn’t been updated yet. What is it about the former great empires? I mean OK the UK and France whilst today not holding a fraction of their previous colonies at least have some standing in the world. But Portugal? Mateus Rose, Ronaldo and Nandos are all that they seem to have offered the world along with a bloody difficult language to understand. Someone who sat far nearer the front of their history lessons than I did will need to tell me why they chose Angola of all places to colonise as like many things that tend to go on the ‘I’ll have to look it up’ list I’ll forget/won’t be bothered. So how is this newly oil rich parent of Cabinda with its perfect new roads? To use the phrase that my Granddad had used in describing how a very young Ian and his cousin Paul had behaved during a trip into London to see Star Trek...”Bloody awful.” First up is the extreme poverty level of which we’d not seen thus far coupled with the children repeatedly shouting the only English word they know at us, it being “money money money.” I very much doubt that they’re abba fans, more likely they’ve been told the myth of some white traveller who passed through the land in ancient times leaving money in his trail. The other thing that isses me off is when they slap their belly, then mouth and then finally put their hands in the air, in sort of like a heads, shoulders, knees and toes with a ‘Y’ from the YMCA a dance. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not totally heartless (only almost) but I really hope that one day when they’re hungry and there’s no white traveller to beg to/blame they’ll ask the parents why it is that they have to share a meal with their nine siblings. This country either has a very low life expectancy level or is going to have serious problems in the future years. When passing through the small villages the amount of children they contain is staggering. During a stop for a drink I asked the French speaking shop keeper how many children per family is normal and he replied ten and he was right. Catholicism, that’s what else the Portuguese have offered the world. Fearing that this is starting to sound like an advert for the BNP I’ll move onto...the roads. Oh dear. We’d both heard reports that the brilliant road building Chinese had been called in a few years ago and so to that effect we really were hoping that finally, finally us and our bikes could end the battering we’d been taking since what now feels like forever. Wrong. The route down from the frontier slum of Noqui was hardcore. The 180km single lane track was by far the worse we’d had to endure. Sand, gravel, wet mud, deep water puddles and steep rocky gradients were of course very slow going with more waiting for Mick on his totally inappropriate bike. Several times it went over, once in a huge puddle which made water enter his starter motor and delayed us further until we finally managed to get going again. In truth, this like many of the bad roads could’ve been completed in half the time were it not for all the waiting but my mood has changed into more of a Dunkirk spirit now and despite the waiting, hunger and extreme need for a wash I’m actually quite happy as we approach Luanda at the end of our five day visa allowance. As for Mick well, he seems to think that for every day the traveller overstays in Angola above the five day entitlement an increasingly large ‘toy’ is inserted er, somewhere and apparently any overstays of more than three days result in the supersize ‘toy’ having to be unlocked from the cabinet in the immigration office by the director as he’s the only one with the key...

DRC's Dodgy Roads Continue...

2010-05-25T04:17:00.000-07:00

After a good sleep we were awoken around 6am at the Yema border by somebody sweeping and tidying the place up. Within an hour it became fairly clear what had happened the day before. It appears that due to it being a Sunday, although the DRC (Congo Kinshasa) side was lightly manned it was not really fully open for business. I guess that for the few workers that were on duty on a Sunday is was a sort of stand down day where they do little other than just try to pass the time. I can relate to that...
The Monday was very different though and we were finally stamped in at 10am by the efficient officials and even offered a personal apology for our delay from the director of immigration. It seems as if I’d suffered a bought of SWS (Spoilt Westerners Syndrome) just because things hadn’t been like they are at home. Silly boy, we’ve actually been very fortunate thus far with these types of things and I think I’d forgotten that.
Onto the ‘shocking’ road we rode and pretty nasty it was. Deeply rutted soft sand made for an unpleasant ride but things slowly improved with neither of us dropping our bikes despite a few saves along the way. At the end of the day the way ended up being some 80km north on the wrong road after missing the turn off to Matadi where our Angolan border crossing awaited! Bang... ”Hello Mate, delivery for Selios Kebabs?”(Do keep up!) We were then helped out by a dodgy policeman who took us to a local Auberge (Hostel) and after a quick beer and money change we walked into the town in search of food. It was quickly apparent that the place we ended up was way out of the way and rarely saw tourists or maybe even white people. No problems though as we ate goat and bread whilst being stared at by the locals, whilst mostly ignoring the immigration guy that had turned up seemingly wanting a cadeau (gift/bribe) but not really sure how to get one out of us. After retracing our steps (spins?) the next day we found our missed road and sign that actually looked more like a statue than anything else! Plus the ‘better’ road on the map was initially worse, there was no sun (shadow) and of course no GPS. Excuses over and we made it to the border with no chance of getting to Namibia in the remaining three and a half days, especially after we ran into difficulties getting out of the DRC. We were held up by slow immigration and health checks (inoculations) but more so after a row with the customs officers who were after our Carnets for our bikes which hadn’t been stamped into the country on entry. This was not good news as although now able to get to SA it meant that with only three pages left our intended reroute through Botswana would be out. With a missing Mick I decided to speak Czech which I hoped would’ve sent them away indefinitely looking for a French-Czech translator but after some persistence I told them in very broken English that we were leaving the DRC so they didn’t need to worry. I’ll never know if my ploy would’ve worked as a smiley handshaking Mick then appeared from immigration and immediately greeted them in English! I quickly went for a bit of ventriloquism and we moved onto playing the stupid European game...which went spectacularly wrong (or right as we did look stupid) as an eagle eyed customs officer spotted Mick’s distinctive yellow Carnet document in his half open pannier!! Carnets stamped and whilst still dirty and hungry we left the DRC in hope of better roads and food in Angola...

Grand National déjà vous on day one of the five against the clock...

2010-05-25T04:06:00.000-07:00

I’m not a gambling man. I’ve tried it but the uncertainty of a big race always seems to mean that only one thing is certain – failure. As I sit here in my tent in no man’s land officially in a Tom Hanks situation as per the film ‘The Terminal,’ my brain is telling my right hand to get ready to empty my trouser pocket of its betting slip and with the assistance of its opposite number, tear it up and throw the remains upwards like confetti. The reason for this is that like the horses that I’ve seemed to back we’ve fallen at the first. The 07:30 ‘I Need Some Steaks’ five furlong steeple chase was delayed until 08:30 on grounds of laziness but despite this we passed through what I suspect is a slightly Brazilish Cabinda. Cabinda is a province of Angola and those of you that may have accidently selected a news channel whilst hunting for Eastenders or caught a glimpse of the front page of a newspaper on the way to reading about what the stars had in for you on that day may have noticed that recently the Togan national football side was attacked and the coach driver killed while passing through during the very recent African Cup Of Nations football tournament. That’s not an ‘Oh look at me I’m brave’ statement, it’s more an introduction into the country Angola and its separatist province of Cabinda. Formerly a Portuguese colony and now seemingly oil rich, Angola doesn’t seem keen on tourists, begrudgingly only offering five day ‘if you really must but hurry up’ transit visa. Somehow Mick and I were granted a double entry visa which gave us the now taken option to pass through Cabinda before making a short journey through Congo Kinshasa and then into Angola proper. That’s all fine but the five day visa in reality becomes only a four day visa as the clock starts ticking when in Cabinda, assuming that you make it all the way to the Angolan border on day one. Plus we've reports of the possibility of a $100 per day fine for slow goers. Things start well as despite the first use of our Carnets whilst entering Cabinda due to the Angolans being far more organised and switched on then their African counterparts probably due to American technology and investment (there’s plenty of oil here), we’re in and the clock’s ticking. A couple of hours later at 14:30 having ridden across perfect new tarmac we reach the Congo Kinshasa border at Yema. It’s here where the old nag lays, with the blue Land Rover now approaching with the marksman/vet/stableman onboard checking that his rifle is loaded. Things appear to be terminal as a farcical situation has developed whereby not only are we the only people to have tried to use the border all day but we’re also told on arrival on the CK side by the dozen or so I don’t know what they’re actually doing and neither I suspect, do they, that their ‘chief’ is the only person that can stamp us in and he’s 28km away at home as his car isn’t working. So therefore, having been stamped (ushered?) out of Cabinda we have to wait in between countries until he arrives “maybe around eight tomorrow morning.” What a joke. Worse still though is that during a 3km walk with an immigration guy for some nonexistent water I’ve just seen what lays ahead on the 80km ‘improved road.’ Shocking. “And they’re screening off the fallen injured horse as we speak...”

Congo Brazzaville

2010-05-25T02:27:00.000-07:00

With a trip such as this I suspect that everyone reaches a point whereby they just want to, if not ‘pass the post’ then at least get near it and end the suffering. If I’m totally honest I reckon that for me that point was reached as far back as Senegal (week two!) but for Mick I think that even he’s now finally joined me in becoming tired of the constants: police check points, feeling filthy, being hungry, being thirsty, being tired and of course the mosquitoes. Actually, a quick word on the old mossies...despite me getting eaten alive in the Gambia I seem to have benefitted from the times that I’ve shared a room or just been around Mick as he must be the only person alive (or dead) that they seem to go for rather than me! Right now he looks like a chicken pox/measles and any other spotty disease that I can’t think of sufferer rolled into one! I shouldn’t laugh...OK, just a bit then. The other thing that he’s finally joined me in being tired of is the explaining who we are, where we’ve come from, where we’re going etc etc etc etc. It wouldn’t be so bad if the people that we talk to understand the geography of their continent, but they don’t. For a long time now while Mick has liked to ‘play with the kids’ (a pastime in Denmark I understand) I’ve preferred to just chat with the shop keeper in my best and improving French. Feeling update complete and the Congo Brazzaville was up next. So called ‘Brazzaville’ as there’s actually two Congo’s with the other’s capital being ‘Kinshasa’ and hence, Congo Kinshasa, The DRC, or formerly Zaire if you’re of a certain age. The ‘Earth Road.’ Oh dear. Despite me looking at the map and telling myself that cooler, happier times aren’t far ahead now it may well be true if my companion was riding something similar to the motorcycling equivalent of a Sherman Tank as I am instead of a sports tourer on road tyres. Frustration is the only word that comes close. On what was a five day ride of about 400km, like on the ‘improved road’ in western Nigeria, I rode a bit and waited, waited and waited. Frustrating, as despite a pretty painful border crossing I suspect that me and Des could’ve got to the intended border town of Pointe Noir in half that time. And as I mentioned, tired of the constants I just want(ed) to press on. At the 200km mark Mick’s rear puncture and sheared sub frame bolts along with a Laurel and Hardyesque following day attempt at borrowing the village drill in order to repair the damage didn’t help at all. The second 200km saw more Chinese expertise on the huge PN to Brazzaville project help slightly although the loose surface still meant for two days averaging 20kph! Finally we rolled into Pointe Noir too late to enter Cabinda as with only a five day transit visa, every hour really will count once the passport is stamped. The half day in Pointe Noir was spent getting clean, prepping the bikes for the five day blast of 2900km and eating/drinking on the street and actually quite enjoying the cooler temperature and relaxed feel of the place.

Gabon

2010-05-24T23:17:00.000-07:00

Next up was Gabon which was one of the countries that I’d pin pointed as very humid, deep jungle territory and probably bloody hard to cross. And very tropical it is too but not quite as humid as I thought it would be. As for the route let me introduce...the Chinese! The Chinese are here (and further south) in a big way. My guess is that they have secured a massive infrastructure deal in return for the oil and mineral trade which will surely follow. The first 75% of the route through Gabon was about as good as I’ve ever ridden. Hundreds of sweeping bends on perfect fresh tarmac through the rainforests meant for a great couple of days on the bikes. In addition, the roads here are virtually empty except for the huge Chinese logging trucks. I’m not sure about the “people are more and more friendly” line anymore as to be honest it really just depends on who you meet and where. Two following riders on a different day could have a totally different opinion of ours. Almost to make that point, the day after crossing into Gabon Mick was confronted by a drunken guy that wouldn’t leave him alone. Avoiding the huge temptation we just cleared off out to avoid what would have no doubt become an ‘incident.’ The same evening though we met and shared a few beers with a lovely guy named Valentine who really impressed us with his knowledge, kindness and potential. I wish him very well but rather suspect that he’ll make a name for himself sooner rather than later. Back on the road then and after the obligatory photo at the crossing of the equator point the hourly mileage rate started to drop as the road surface deteriorated and the distance to the next border began to drop. With a trip such as ours there’s always much discussion on the best route to take in terms of security and the road conditions. Mick and I decided on taking the supposedly less secure traditional route through the rebel/bandit areas and follow the ‘Earth Road’ 250km south once at the Congo Brazzaville border while the ‘Christians,’ still on a similar timescale as us opted for the newer, supposedly safer alternative eastern route. A divine decision or a childish choice?

Lowest point at the highest point...Cameroon

2010-05-24T22:45:00.000-07:00

The finger crossing clearly didn’t work as the rain came down heavily during the night which was probably bad news for the road ahead. On top of that we also got caught just behind the seven ‘Swingers’ with their two Land Cruisers at the border which meant for a Kudu style slow border crossing. Three hours later and we hit the dirt road to Mamfe which had apparently had some fairly recent improvements. That was probably true as we made it the 80km to Mamfe in just less than four hours. It made me wonder about the need for a dual sports bike such as mine for this trip if that was as bad as it gets? The following day we saddled up for Buea and maybe that question was answered as the dotted ‘improved road’ of 200km continued from Mamfe towards Douala. Made up of 95% mud of varying wetness it was fairly slow going but to be fair to Mick he pressed on at a good pace on his VFR without any drops, although the underside of his bike took a battering riding over the many high speed bumps through the villages we passed en-route. So what of Cameroon then? So far it’s our favourite (or least worse) country as it’s easy going without anyone staring, calling “sssst,’ wanting our contact information or more to the point a letter of invitation for the UK and...food! Fresh fruit is everywhere as is nice bread. Apart from a nice little place I found for a good breakfast, evening meals are still mostly miss rather than hit though. Buea sits in the shadow of the imposing Mount Cameroon, all 4095 meters of it, which is supposedly an active volcano which last had activity in 200x. The ‘Christians’ had indicated an interested in climbing it and with them a day behind us myself and Mick decided to wait for them to join us along with a hardcore Spaniard we’d met called Jose who was travelling our route by...bicycle! So at 7am the following day and full of adventure the five of us along with our guide headed up the mountain...
Now at this point as many of you know I’m not a walker despite deciding to take that option when I was probably around fifteen months old. Rambling/trekking/climbing/hiking/walking however you dress it up is rubbish on many levels. Particularly when after nine weeks of malnourishment and sitting on a bike for six hours a day has resulted in my fairly drastic weight loss of (I’m guessing) around 5kg’s. So with a rucksack weighing 20-25kg’s increasing the workload on my now pencil even thinner legs (thanks for noticing Sarah) it quickly made me wonder a simple ‘why?’ More so the heavy smoking, unsporty Mick, who by the time we’d reached the halfway overnight point (in the pouring rain) had sustained a knee injury. The second day of this wonderful pastime saw Mick heading back down whilst the remaining five of us head to the summit with cameras in pockets. Four hours later and we’d made it! Great...except it wasn’t. The view was twenty meters in the thick cloud, it was blowing at probably close to 100mph, it was wet and not far off a degree in temperature. But most importantly my legs had totally gone. Now unable to walk properly I hoped that the fact that as they say “it’s all downhill from here” would make things easier. Wrong again. I can’t quite work this out but the ‘down’ was actually harder as the steepness of what must have been more of a climb meant for plenty of slips on the loose stones and much knee and ankle twisting. With the prospect of me having to spend another night in one of the three huts on the route meaning for a repeat of the two hours sleep I’d had due to me constantly being woken by the many rats (oh yes) scurrying all around me and my rucksack with one even getting in my hired broken zipped sleeping bag with me during the night, the race was on between me and the sun. Convinced I’d seriously damaged one if not both knees, I painfully made it down just before nightfall having met Mick on the way. I don’t and will never know how I made it. The steepness of the climb wasn’t apparent on the way up due to me only looking at my feet for most of the way and the way down was made worse as I could actually see how far I had to go without the crumbs of hope that each small peak had offered on the way up. Put simply it was the hardest, stupidest, biggest waste of time of my life and something that I will not be doing again. Ever.

Nigeria - Days 5-11

2010-04-26T07:34:00.000-07:00

OK, so the poor little white boys had a tough time in getting to Nigeria’s new capital city Abuja but a corner seems to have been turned in more ways than one. After checking into an average hotel for five nights, the in-room fridge was quickly rammed full of nice cool drinks which included 24 of my much craved for milkshakes, which immediately lifted the mood! As a city Abuja is very different to the rest of Nigeria. It’s clean and clearly wealthy with its numerous new impressive buildings including the striking church and mosque strategically placed to emphasis Abuja’s slogan as ‘The Centre of Unity.’ The prices of things are a bit odd though with a taxi anywhere across the large city available for 200 Niara (One euro) regularly hammered down from anything up to N1200, fuel at about 30p a litre and get this – a film at one of our modern cinemas with popcorn & drink for N1000 (Yes less than £5!!). On the flip side food is expensive for something ‘normal’ in the west and still a bit pricy for something local which usually involves bone, grissle, some sort of innards and rice. Turning corners then...Well, first up after a day of faffing about we managed to get four visas in three days! That only leaves our Gabon visa which we’ll pick up in Cameroon, which is a big result as it’s not only these that cause the main delays but also with how unstable parts of Africa can be it’s not uncommon for countries to stop issuing them periodically. Secondly we’ve now moved onto our Central and Southern African map which shows that although it still looks far to Cape Town the further we progress and the more information we gather, it seems to suggest that the onward road conditions aren’t as bad as we feared and if all goes smoothly we could be ‘down’ by around mid May. He says... Thirdly, after leaving Abuja and heading south for Cameroon we finally seem to have moved away from the dust, sand and searing heat that no doubt originates from the Sahara further north, with southern Nigeria (or at least the route we took) being much prettier with the place becoming more and more tropical with each kilometre passed. It’s also Christian rather than our entire route so far which has been Muslim. I was reminded of this whilst packing up one morning when our neighbour ‘Reverand Oscar’ said a nice prayer for our travels while we all held hands. (Insert joke of your choice here). As for the riding it’s been nice and easy. Although still hot, it’s now more humid which although a bit unpleasant in bike gear isn’t a constant burning heat as before. Last up we’ve also caught and seem to be travelling alongside ‘The Christians’ (two clean cut American guys riding GS650’s) and ‘The Swingers’ (seven South Africans (3B/4G) in two Land Cruisers so called by us as we don’t know who’s with who, so all in plus the spare seems to make things easier for us). Our last night in Nigeria saw us staying just short of the Cameroon border whilst crossing everything we had in the hope that it stayed dry for the infamous Ekok to Mamfe 80km ‘road’ with its horror stories aplenty...

Nigeria - Days 1-4

2010-04-18T11:39:00.000-07:00

...Not painful, but agony. What a shocking few days it’s been. Somewhat recovered here’s what I’ve been trying to forget...
Still taking the cross country route we entered Nigeria slowly but without hassle. For my fellow travellers you might be interested to know that I’ve still not used my Carnet. It’s been requested a couple of times but they really don’t know enough about it for it to be a problem, instead I’ve had a few Laissez-Passers issued, some free and some for a fee of less than 10 euros. Quite often just producing my V5 is enough and we’ve just been waved through. So then a free L-P later we’re on yet another ‘road under construction’ heading east. One day many years after reading this maybe someone will retrace my route and wonder what the problem was as they ride the perfect tarmac on their smooth 100kg, 200bhp, quiet, solar powered bike whilst wearing climate controlled protective clothing and having chilled nutrients and liquid available just by thinking about it. But then again maybe that’s a bit farfetched, the bit about the perfect tarmac. Next whinge is the Michelin Map...the roads are of varying colours depending on condition i.e. ‘Improved road’ whatever that means and other helpful descriptions such as ‘secondary road.’ It was on a combination of these two that the fun started. On what should be (for a couple of dual sport riders) a good day on a challenging 80km trail and a crap day on a similar sized badly potholed ‘road,’ for one dual sport rider following a sports tourer it was hell. The ride was mostly at 20-25kph which is right at the top of first gear and at the bottom of second and much more importantly at this speed there is no let up from the heat at all as there is no wind to help to cool the body. On top of all this, when the next village is only 5/10/25km away (depending on who you ask) it’s actually hours away. Several times we’d run very low or out of water and this isn’t our cold, nice tasting tap water either, it’s either water from a village well or the same tasting stuff from a shop that comes in a 50cl bag. Either way, initially when cool (it’s never cold) it’s bearable but when it warms up it tastes fowl and just makes you feel worse. After two days of this we reached New Bussa with me totally on my last legs like never before, severely dehydrated and having only eaten one small meal in 48hrs. Then the local “In charge of security” guy turns up to question us on our visit. I’m in no state to get involved and just sit there while Mick explains that we’re neither terrorists nor spies. The following morning, feeling slightly better we head off for Abuja and we nearly got there were it not for a storm (hurricane?) of ‘proper’ proportions. With an estimated 25km left (estimated because my GPS is now dead and Mick’s had fallen out of its cradle and was lost forever earlier in the day) the riding conditions had gone way beyond dangerous with darkness, water inside our visors, fallen power lines and chaos everywhere adding to the usual mix of dodgy vehicles, terrible roads, pedestrians and animals. We eventually found a motel to stay and after 30 minutes of plain hard work with the staff over whether or not they could accept some US dollars we were in the dry. Damn that global warming again, maybe next time I’ll walk.

Been in Benin

2010-04-18T10:28:00.000-07:00

Having now left Benin only a few days ago I can’t recall much that had actually happened, which includes the daily distance. The tarmac has now gone and we are on dirt roads that are sandy and corrugated. With my off road rear tyre now on and with reduced tyre pressures it’s pretty easy going onboard big Des. Mick however, doesn’t have it so easy. His heavy road bike on road tyres, not surprisingly, doesn’t like this sort of surface. There is a problem with this incompatibility though. The problem is that if I ride the road as I should at a fast speed to skim over the bumps then Mick gets left way behind and I’m waiting a few miles up the road while he picks his bike up. Therefore I’m now riding just behind him at a very slow 20-45 kph which is actually harder to ride than at the two or three times the speed that I should be riding this type of surface that his VFR can't manage. Cameroun to Namibia could be painful...
Apart from the slow riding we camped twice more (I really need a shower like never before) firstly in a road construction compound after meeting a French guy named Didier who’s in the middle of his contract overseeing the construction of a 36km rode from the border. We were kindly taken out by four Beninian(?) engineers who were living in the compound near to where we pitched our tents to a local bar for a beer and general chit chat. Good guys and a nice bonus to an otherwise tiresome day. Our other two days in Benin pretty much followed suit with slow, hot, thirsty and dirty rides through the back and beyond and more wild camping before heading into Nigeria...

GOTTOGOTOTOGO

2010-04-18T08:33:00.000-07:00

We passed through the Togo border with minimal fuss and without attempting to increase the road kill count on the way. The borders have become much quieter as the route we’re taking is a cross country one that we suspect rarely sees travellers. We both agree that the cities are to be avoided when possible and more adventure is likely away from the well travelled conventional route. Other than that I’ve had to have a word with Mick a couple of times about his music on his ipod that gets played whilst we camp. ‘Diverse’ would be a kind way of describing the quite often bizarre songs that seem to come out of his mini speakers in what must be a shuffle setting. One minute it’s all good with maybe a bit of David Bowie, the next it’s some hurdy burdy Danish/Swedish/Norwegian eurovision entry circa 1983. Back to togo then...we got through fairly late and started to look for a suitable place to wild camp out of sight. This proved difficult as there were people everywhere, as even on the most quietist stretches of roads there would be someone, somewhere. Darkness then fell and we had little option but to head off the road into what looked like a fairly quiet piece of farmland. Dinner and tea later sure enough some locals turned up to see who the two spacemen were. They got pretty comfortable and after what seemed like many offers to stay with them in their village we felt that if we didn’t then the village would probably just come to us. A short ride through the pitch black later we were introduced to the family, all four generations of them. The people here seem to have large families and they live together. I guess if you’re born into a large family then that’s what seems normal, plus of course you should get looked after when you become old. At first it was a bit awkward for us just sitting there on a rug outside their mud huts. With all fifteen of them just watching us I suppose it was the equivalent of us watching TV and waiting to be entertained. Mick kicked things off with his world map, showing them where we’d come from and where we were going. I doubt many of them had seen a map before as a question and non answer session produced little in the way of their geographical knowledge. Then it was my turn, this time with my micro French-English dictionary, which went down a storm. Body parts in English were a favourite particularly when I joked about my big white man’s nose and most of all a demonstration on why we call a flip flop a flip flop. Not quite as good as Micheal Palin does it on his travels but not a bad attempt all the same. In between these geography and language lessons I showed off my scorpion tattoo and we ate probably the freshest meal we’ll ever eat as the (live) chicken was showed to us a very short time before being offered cooked with onion and some sort of chilli. We slept in the open on the mat and by the time we were about to leave in the early morning more neighbours had turned up to see us off. I really can’t imagine any of this happening back at home.
More fun was to be had as we headed for Benin as Mick took a picture of the Togan president as he sped past in a army/police convoy. An angry policeman spotted him and took his passport and my camera that had been used. Some time later down at the local nick after threats of prison followed by “or money” we had these items back for nothing and were free men. During Mick’s very good ‘stupid European’ game I instructed him to show off his now knackered boots complete with soles that are hanging on by a thread which seemed to do the trick. With those two little adventures behind us plus a chance meeting with a Nigerian motorcycle club (one of the members Mick knew) we headed for Benin without further incident.

The Gay Way Down - Episode 7

2010-04-10T11:42:00.000-07:00

With a long wait ahead for several visa applications this week Ian and Mick mostly in pants get more and more filthy. First up was Ian’s rear end which had become sticky after he’d stupidly been tempted into letting a local have a go at it with his big tool. Next up Ian played with his chain which was worn well. Then came plenty of lubrication as there were doubts if a ‘finish’ would be achievable as things stood. Things had really been heating up for some time and at this point Ian felt the need to introduce a third person into the equation. Scott was someone Ian had slept with whilst travelling last year and was someone that, importantly, Ian trusted. So with Scott onboard and introduced to Mick the three of them got down to it, with Scott’s new ideas and experience ultimately making all the difference. With a farewell bid to Scott for his efforts there was still an issue of Ian’s bentness. It looked bent but then again maybe it was straight after all? Ian’s ultimate wish was to be straight so Mick withdrew it, inspected it and very carefully put it back in. The outcome was not quite straight, not quite bent but certainly kinky.

So with Des’s rear brake freed up, chain cleaned and lubricated, radiator fan fixed and a front fork slightly improved we waited for our visas for Togo and Benin. A change to our intended route to and through Nigeria means that a visit to Ghana would now be costly in both time and money so we are abandoning this leg of the trip in order not to fall behind on my schedule. And besides, we’ve become a little bored in Ouagaudou, with its hot dust, constant long power cuts and our complaining landlady. So next up then Togo...

Mooving through Burkina Faso

2010-04-10T11:28:00.000-07:00

We crossed into Burkina Faso effortlessly due to us being firmly outside of the tourist zone and cheaply too as Mick is a master at ‘playing the game’ which you have to do to avoid the constant request for, ahem, “formalities.” Once into this little known country changes were evident. It’s much more rural than those we’ve visited before. Where previously most people seemed to want more here everyone just seems happy with their clean and tiny village communities. Around these villages the land is farmed so in addition to the village’s water pump from the well they seem to be self sufficient. Nobody here thinks they’re from Jamaica unlike in the Gambia or Senegal. So first stop then was ‘Casa Africa’ which we had previous information on which turned out to be adequate for what we needed. On arrival two other bikes were there too, one an Irish registered GS1100 and the other a South African GS650 Dakar. The big Beemer was being ridden by Mike and Linda with the smaller Beemer ridden by Corbus who Mick knew from an internet site. As well as these people we also met Ivan and Marian, a French couple travelling in a very old 2CV van!! They are proper travellers all of them, no bling.
The second day started very well as DHL delivered on time and finally I had my second passport. Things have been all going too smoothly for too long so to address the balance...I had an accident. Cruising at 120kph along a pretty quiet road I moved to beyond the centre line in readiness to overtake the obligatory donkey and cart in my lane whilst rolling off the throttle and covering the brakes. All good until a cow off the road to my left makes a last second dart across the road into what has now become a small space between me and the about to be overtaken D&C. With nowhere to go and a now hesitant cow blocking any free passage there’s nothing for it other than to scrub off as much kph as possible and brace for impact... At around what felt like 70kph I catch the rear end of the cow, spinning it around and in the process my front wheel is put into the full right lock position. Much skidding later and despite my best efforts to salvage the situation the laws of physics win and me and Des hit the hard stuff with a bang and are sent in a 20 meter skid across the tarmac into what was thankfully an empty oncoming lane. The outcome of all this was a broken front brake lever, a very badly bent rear brake pedal, what appears to be twisted forks and also some ‘patina’ to the bar end, tank, crash protector, lower fork, hand guards and pannier. For my fellow Tenere riders you’ll be pleased to know that all said and done the bike faired pretty well after what felt like high side. My riding kit also did its bit with all the armour areas protecting me despite some scuffs and rips, although not surprisingly my gloves disintegrated. As for the cow it limped off out of site and me, a small bruise on my right pelvis and a bit of a sore right big toe as something slammed onto it after I’d hit the deck. Since that little episode we’ve arrived in Ouagaudou and are waiting for three visas which will take 6-7 days. We’ll use the time to service the bikes and try to straighten out big Des...

Meltdown in Mali

2010-04-10T11:15:00.000-07:00

Mali. Bloody hell it’s hot. It’s so hot that if this weather came to the UK it would be banned under health and safety. Mick’s ambient temperature gauge stopped working after it hit 50 degrees and just read ---- which without looking in the instructions probably meant ‘You’re having a laugh.’ That’s not all that’s playing up in this heat, so too is my bike’s radiator fan which doesn’t work and my Garmin 60CSX GPS unit which won’t turn on or off after about 10am after Satan himself really stokes up the furnace.
Anyway, we made it here without any problems at all after our earlier worries. The first official that wanted our documents was Malian so officially we didn’t even enter Senegal at all. Apart from the heat and the many many stops along the way for liquid the riding has been pretty uneventful, with plenty of waves from the locals and no ‘bumsters’ as Mick calls the ones that are always hassling the tourist. Our first night here we again wild camped away from the road (this looks like a cheap trip) where after a nice pasta meal we kipped in the open with no tents. The following morning having avoided a visit from a scorpion or a snake during the night we set off for another 360km or so day much like the day before except at the end of it we stayed in a nice air conditioned(!) room at a campsite just south of Mali’s capital Bamako and had beers, steak and just general luxury that we all take for granted at home. That luxury was short lived for our final day in Mali as we again wild camped in the open with the termites on top of what seemed in the morning like a snake nest. Despite my earlier problems and dislike for this place it seems things are definitely improving. I now have only a couple of mossie bites, my skin has returned to normal after my sunburn and the temperature has cooled to a somewhat chilly 38 degrees. Not only that, but as we head east the people are much more friendly the place is cleaner and nobody wants anything more than a wave, smile or chat. Next stop Burkina Faso with its wonderfully sounding towns to collect my passport which is hopefully about to arrive in Bobo-Dioulasso...

Goodbye Gambia and hello again Senegal. Er, sort of.

2010-04-04T02:08:00.000-07:00

We left David and family a day later than planned due to a camera repair, a look around the market and going out for some live music. I was quite grateful of the extra day as whilst ‘getting a bit of colour’ I suddenly remembered Dr Hill’s (my sister) warning that taking Malerone malaria pills can increase your chance of getting burnt. Too late. I ended up getting the worst sunburn since I was about eleven, whilst in Spain, which saw me wearing my pyjama top for three days as unlike anything else I tried to wear, it didn’t feel like Freddie Kruger was giving me a back massage. Oh how I wished I had that little soft blue pyjama top, with red lapels. So, still in agony and with my water blisters just about outnumbering my mosquito bites we finally set off. Forty eight hours later and we’re still together and making pretty good travelling companions. Here’s what I know and something that I don’t really need to know.
Mick Hoey, 31, Danish, Peter Schmeichel lookie-likey, Honda VFR750 (?!, more later) former aircraft technician, has a more than worrying interest in the infamous ‘Mr Hands.’ Wikipedia it if you must – but you’ve been warned.
Day one of this two day entry saw us cross the river again at Banjul to take Gambia’s northern road eastwards, where we made good ground and stayed at a nice campsite. The following morning though saw us have to ride 30km the way we had come due to an impassable river crossing. Studying the map we made the old ‘that can’t be far’ mistake when we saw a tiny white road to Senegal. Lesson seven: white roads on the African map are the sort where you need to check how long’s left until your passport expires before attempting them. Lesson eight soon became sports touring bikes don’t do sand. This 40km took several hours in the heat and saw us run out of water, bad times. Mercifully after this hell we found tarmac which was adorned with signs in French and Senegalesed registered cars. Hooray! Except that we hadn’t actually passed any sort of border with its official procedures. Decision time then, either a) find the nearest cheerful bobby to explain our predicament only for him tell us to ride back the way we came or b) risk sharing a cell with big black Messuire Dique after being ‘pulled’ at one of the many police checkpoints along the way? So here we are then, 50km from the Malian border having waved and smiled our way through the many checkpoints. We’re wild camping 300 meters from the main road out of sight and tomorrow we’ll hopefully get to the border and with no other tactic thought up we’ll just have to play dumb. Or maybe those crappy ‘Dunston’ cigarettes will be useful after all?

The Time’s Ticking For The Two Toubabs...

2010-03-29T14:16:00.000-07:00

First and not so simple things first is that the word ‘toubab’ is a West African term used to describe a white guy, with the translation apparently meaning either ‘gentleman’ or if you believe Wikipedia ‘rich white traveller,’ or probably most likely refers to how much the colonial Englishman paid the girl after use…’two bob.’ Interesting that there doesn’t seem to be a name for the many western middle aged women here doing pretty much the same…
So then, having finally got to the Gambia and hooked up with Mick and staying with David, the first couple of days were had catching up on food, beer and sleep. In between this we visited a reptile farm and met an expat named Ray who’d broken his hip nine weeks earlier and needed to go back to the hospital as the ‘treatment’ that he’d received was, as expected, third world. Despite the people being a far lot cheerier than those that I’d encountered so far on the way down Gambia is still an extremely poor country. This couldn’t have been highlighted to me any more than the visit with Ray and the boys to the hospital. God forbid either of us become ill here or anywhere else (except SA) for that matter as the conditions were absolutely dreadful. Ray’s outcome was basically go back to the UK to get fixed asap.
Next up was a visit to the Nigerian embassy for our visas. Once inside, confusion reigned as to why/where we were intending to go there and what we needed for our application, whilst being told that the 60 euro application fee is not refundable should they not be approved. In order to straighten all this out we had to wait to see the consulate who after what seemed like an interview, a security brief and a presidential speech rolled into one informed us to put in our applications which would take a week (A WEEK!) to hopefully be approved. At this point I started to think about the possibility of jumping on a plane to return home to sort out my still ongoing second passport issue but…of course they have my passport so there was nothing else for it other than to wait around and be part of a robbery.
Yes a robbery. It had to happen at some time and will no doubt happen again, however as a nice little warm up it was only David’s laptop computer that was taken from the room in which I was sleeping. As well as David’s computer, all mine and Mick’s possessions were half on show including GPS’s, ipods, netbook computers, documents and money. Maybe satisfied with his/her (there’s equality for you) booty or maybe scared off by David’s wife that saw a torchlight and shouted out they legged it. Leaving a shocked household checking what else was taken along with discovering that the padlocked outer doors were, despite their appearance, not actually all that secure. After that particular episode we stumbled upon a local political rally which was kind of interesting seeing all the different tribes in costume playing and singing their different songs.
Since then the bikes have received a half service, mine’s washed and (especially for you Scott) I’ve had a repack which has included moving a few spare parts around the bike to spread the load and make the panniers and roll bag more manageable. Des’s rear tyre is pretty much worn out but with Mick’s ‘Lonely Planet’ showing just over 7000 miles still to go to Cape Town I reckon with a bit more out of this one along with my spare I should be OK. Should.
STOP PRESS: We’ve finally got our visas after 4 days, my passport has been approved and should be at home by the end of the week and we plan to get moving again tomorrow (30/3) morning…

Trying to escape Senegal - and border heaven into the Gambia

2010-03-29T13:58:00.000-07:00

Before I left the UK amongst some of the text messages I’d received from Mick was one that said I’d either love Africa or hate it. So far, for me, it’s pretty close to hate. Apart from northern Morocco where it was clean, picturesque, with nice people and as I said quite Turkish since then it’s been grim. Beyond central Morocco it’s difficult to imagine how people live in such conditions. The heat, sandstorms and the environment are just so inhospitable it’s untrue. After about five days of nothing but this it soon made me feel like I’d had enough and of course that included Mauritania which when I finally did pass through a proper sized town in Nouakchott, the poverty and general state of the place was horrendous. So with some green slowly appearing on the landscape Senegal offered some hope that I’d fall in love with Africa. Nope. After the terrible border crossing I found a guesthouse in St. Louis which was good enough for what I needed. The people there were nice enough and after I checked in we watched a African wrestling final which apparently was having an audience of 45 million people. Two huge guys dressed in traditional tribal bits of cloth and string grabbed at each other for 10 seconds until one fell over and that was that. Cue mass hysteria within the packed stadium and in the streets here and just about everywhere I reckoned. So Senegal then, I packed up and left the guesthouse around 9am and within a kilometer I stopped at a police checkpoint where I was immediately fined for “going too fast.” I decided to stand firm, however after around twenty minutes it was clear that these guys just didn’t care. With my driving license and insurance in their possession it was clear where the balance of power lay. 15 euros this time negotiated down from 45 euros pretty much had me down to my lowest point so far and with a full tank of fuel able to just about carry me across the border some 500km away I intended not to stop in order not to set foot in this terrible place again. Having bad experiences with bent officials is one thing and I know that it’s not a fair way to judge a place or its people but I have to say Senegal didn’t come across as a nice place at all. Don’t get me wrong, I know this is Africa but even in some of the poorest places in the world people still make an effort to be clean and friendly. Not here.
Finally, finally the GPS ticked down to less than a hundred km to the elusive Mick with Dr David Levine in the Gambia but first up another border crossing. I must have come across as a right nasty bit of work as scarred from the last episode I treated everyone with distain. However, things were looking up. I didn’t get charged at all on the bent Senegalese side and as for the Gambian side well oh my god the change in people was staggering. English rather than what has been and will mostly be French was the language spoken but more than that the people were clean, very friendly and just generally appeared happy! By the time I’d ridden the 10km or so to the boat and crossed I had five email addresses and invitations to come again for a holiday and stay with them, go out for drinks, assistance if needed etc etc. The initial chat that I’d had so far indicated that they were very much proud to be a former English colony and that corruption was not the way things were done. After all this friendliness I made it to Dr Levine’s house and finally met him and Mick. Great guys. Mick is 31, Danish, a former aircraft technician and one of those travelers that wants to try and absorb as much of what he can from a place. David is 60 odd, working on a voluntary project, a biker (GS650) and generally a very interesting guy. I enjoyed a much needed meal, a few beers, bike chat and a travel chat. It seems like the plan is to stay on here for a few days with a few activities planned…things are finally looking up.

Trying to escape Mauritania - Day 2 and border hell into Senegal

2010-03-29T13:30:00.000-07:00

Packed up at first light and while waiting about 30mins for a suitable looking southbound car to follow I only had one thought in mind. Get to the border and get out. Partially dehydrated and with what has now become my usual breakfast of a malaria pill and a vitamin pill I eventually followed the car that turned up. A high speed blast behind the car to Nouakchott and then alone a further 200km to the border was met with relief at having got there major problem free. Big thanks to my friend Richard for having the panic button on standby. Having researched where I could for my route I was aware that the infamous crossing at Rosso to Senegal was a horrific experience to be avoided. Due to my ‘Tracks4Africa’ GPS card not arriving in time I’ve had to make do with a map and some very basic GPG mapping which only shows the main roads. As a result I couldn’t find and then subsequently missed the 60km turn off along a ‘piste’ (track) which apparently leads to a much more civilized crossing. So I arrived at Rosso which I can only compare to a scene in Mad Max 2 (below) whereby there is no order whatsoever and a nightmare just waiting to happen. Last year I experienced some terrible crossings with one even lasting ten hours but the big difference here was that they were all down to nothing more than former communist red tape. This was corruption, robbery and threatening all rolled into one. To start with the solo traveler is met with a big set of locked gates into a ‘compound’ which you assume is the border crossing. To make matters worse, inside there’s a small ferry ride involved which has no schedule. So with said solo traveler approaching the gates he/god forbid she is surrounded by a crowd of border leeches all desperate to have the money out of your pocket one way or the other. Amongst this lot was a uniformed official who I selected to help me. The biggest problem by far is not knowing exactly what’s what. I mean, if said official says it costs 50 euros to complete ‘all formalities’ including customs fees, police fees, vehicle something fees, tax and shipping costs etc than who am I to say it’s too much? 50 euros handed over and things appear to be going well despite the crowd of hangers on following us around and all wanting a piece of the action. After a couple of random bits of paper and a stamp matey then disappears, presumably with a nice bit of bunce in his sky rocket. Of the remaining locals one young guy seems to be the superior and later even mentions that his father is one of the high ranking officials that I have to wait two hours to see. He probably was. Despite the young lad trying to impress me with his new Samsung phone and Senegalese music while waiting for two hours for ‘a stamp’ it’s clear than I’m pissed off, knowing that I’ve probably been stung and on top of that his mates or whoever they were trying to rip me off with insurance for 120 euros (3 months for most of Africa) when I know from Mick it’s 50 euros and I even show them the text! With each declining of the offer price tensions rise…
Finally on the boat, accompanied by the chief’s son and another young lad (who to be fair I actually quite liked) who’s learning the ropes we cross and enter Senegal border control (control?!) Again, mob rule ensues and somewhat relived matey makes it clear to them that I’m his punter and sets about his work. This time it’s another 50 euros for police, customs, various ‘stamps’ and a couple of ‘taxes.’ By this time I’ve had enough and tempers are raised. But again if the official demands say 20 euros for a stamp what choice do I have? And they do. Finally the insurance is bought for 55 euros which is about right but one particular guy within the group does it. Each time a price is mentioned or questioned he gets more and more vocal and animated. Words were then exchanged between us and a flashpoint happens. Some squaring up, eyeballs and a minor scuffle later it’s all about to go belly up big time. Bear in mind that there is no rule here at all, this is a long way from what we’re used to. Perhaps worried that he won’t get his ‘bonus’ my ‘fixer’ then separates us and yells at me to “go go go” while the other guy is restrained. Off I hurry without some documents. “Shit.” I stop 200m up the road to ponder my next move when suddenly ‘fixer’ arrives with my missing documents and for his ‘bonus.’ Convinced he’s already had a nice day’s earning but also relived that he removed me from that situation I give him and the young lad who to be fair did a good job of looking after my bike throughout 10 euro each. So, 120 euros then probably 80-90 more than it should have been but what can you do? Refuse and go nowhere? Fortunately I managed to lower the loss by £45 in a way that only my closest friends can discover but even so not a pleasant experience. None of this has surprised me and it’s not hard to see why most of the world just doesn’t want to get involved with Africa, instead just leaving it to fester in its own pool of corruption and hopelessness. Still, things can only get better, tomorrow I should finally meet up with Mick in the Gambia who not only has had time to acclimatize to all this but also has some contacts along the way…

Running the gauntlet - Mauritania Day 1

2010-03-29T12:58:00.000-07:00

Not the best two days coming up so in order of events here’s what happened…
Left Dakhla pretty sharp as there was a big day ahead and I hoped to save a day by riding direct to Nouakchott to meet ‘Mohammed’ rather than a round trip detour of 100km+ stopping in Nouadhibou. On the way to the border I was thinking to myself how few other distance bikers I’ve seen so far, with none going my way and only a couple coming the other way. Then suddenly on this totally desolate road that I seem to have been on forever now, two Teneres approach. We look at each other and think about stopping but the moment has gone. Within five minutes another two! This time me and a Spaniard riding the red one stop.
“Bonjour”
“Hello”
“You speak English?”
“Of course”
“Where have you been, where are you going, how many of you?”
“Malaga Spain from Gambia, eight, Kudu”
“Kudu?”
“Yes Kudu”
“Who’s the leader”
“Lee, English, a few Kilometers behind us”
“OK thanks, adios” At this point for those that don’t know, my trip last year was arranged by Kudu and Lee is the owner. So a further few km down the road at a remote fuel station there he is, with the same support truck that followed me around the world! I rollup detecting a few puzzled looks. When I’ve stopped I unmask, a bit like a Scooby Doo villain, much to his surprise. After a brief chat and photo we’re off. I’m not quite sure what sort of advert I was for him, now travelling alone, but I hope it was a good one.
So with that surreal moment behind me I got to the Mauritanian border which was a bit slow, but not too bad all things considered. One thing that has been highlighted though is my forgotten skill of off road riding, especially though sand. Between the Moroccan and Mauritanian borders is four km of no man’s land where the usual dodgy people hang around. Not a place to fall off or stop as there is absolutely no jurisdiction or rules. Despite coming close I kept Des upright and made it to Mauritania. Once through, albeit a bit later than I’d hoped and with, at last, a tailwind I decided to give Nouakchott a shot, about 300km. Now then, some important information about this country that I’ll be honest I’ve seriously worried about and have chosen not to tell you as it would’ve just made things worse. Mauritania currently has a highest UK FCO warning about UK citizens entering for security reasons. Over recent times, as recent as a few months ago there have been a spate of kidnappings of westerners by an Al-Qaeda cell, some with grave consequences due to ransoms not being met. The road from top to bottom is still desert and impossible to police properly due to the size, remoteness and inhospitable conditions. For those like me that have been mad/brave enough to do it, then the absolute golden rules are: 1, never ride alone and 2, never ride in the dark. Having done the calculations I reckoned on it being close plus when I found a battered up ford with two cheery Senegalese guys and a policeman in the back seat I tagged along…not a great decision. The policeman got out 100km later at a checkpoint and a further 50km later the ford broke down for good I suspect. Despite trying to help where I could I realized that that very deep stuff that I’d mentioned was about to swallow me up. Still many hours from ‘Mohammed’ and with darkness about an hour away I had no choice to press on alone. Eventually, around 40 minutes later I reached a police checkpoint (in the area where some Spanish people were abducted last November) where I asked if I could stay overnight with them for security. After hiding my bike I was given a room in a very small building to sleep on the floor. All fine and very Bravo Two Zero as I settled down for the night until…I was woken by the voice of a lady in the next room on what I think was her mobile phone speaking in Arabic. Now I don’t know about you but when I hear people speaking a foreign language and the odd English word appears in conversation I sometimes find it quite funny. However, when the words “Al-Qaeda” and “Yamaha” appeared in the same Arabic sentence suddenly I didn’t quite feel like laughing. I had about two hours sleep all night listening intently as each vehicle in the night approached the checkpoint, policed by a few ‘kids’ with only a solitary AK47 under the driver’s seat of their police pick up between them. Perhaps the lady was just gossiping to a friend or relative but whatever, it was a night that I won’t forget in a hurry.

The Sahara – Dakhla

2010-03-29T12:42:00.000-07:00

Day two of the three day Saharan crossing then started a little oddly with me dreaming that everyone on our little campsite was murdered except for me and Jordan who was also staying there too (but alas not with me) as it so happened. After that little episode I kept getting woken up by a goat that had parked itself up for the night next to my tent and continued to either sneeze of fart. I’m not exactly sure which it was as it was downwind of the tent. As you may have guessed from this drivel, I’m struggling to fill the page today. Again it was another tough day in the heat and the constantly strong head wind. I covered about 500km but it was slow going, mostly cruising at 100-105km (a true 55mph) as any more was just torture on my next and ears. I was going to use a scenario whereby you’re at work and someone’s constantly pressing against the side of your head with their foot, while the most uncomfortable wind and growling sound is played for 8hrs while you sit in the same sort of crouch position on a little chair, whilst the room’s air con is blasting out 40 degrees worth at full fan speed. But then I again most of you are at work while I’m not, therefore I guess me looking for sympathy is a bit of a waste of time as this was my decision and all that.
Tonight’s campsite is next to the beach in Dakhla. Very picturesque, a sort of wind surfers place. Better than the first campsite down the road that I saw where basically the old fat bloke there wanted 300 Dinar (£3) for me to pitch up the tent a car park?!
Looking at the map, I’m now starting to close in on Mick who by all accounts isn’t in any hurry as by the sounds of it he’s just sunning himself whilst knocking back cold beers in the Gambia. I reckon on three days to join him in what sounds like paradise, although there are three border crossings along the way so probably four days, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see...
Next stop, if all goes to plan, is to take up ‘Mohammed’s’ kind offer of assistance in Mauritania...

The Sahara – Laâyoune

2010-03-28T16:43:00.000-07:00

What a tough day today has been. I rode about 550 km into a head & cross wind that lasted all day. Apparently the wind normally blows from the north but for the next few days (yes you’ve guessed it, until I’ve passed through) it’s coming up from the south. Great. And I mean a real wind, one that forced me to ride with my visor taped down or it just hurt. Apart from the first 100km or so it is now proper desert. The occasional lorry passes by and just in front of it is a giant wall of air that makes the bike even harder to keep on the road than it is already. Any sort of off or breakdown would be more than bad news. And then of course there’s the heat which is not too bad on the move but when stopped, me and the bike are all in black. Anyway, so the photos pretty much say it all really apart from a couple of meetings that are worth a mention. First up a old guy named Mohammed that got chatting to me as we were riding in Laayoune and being Mauritanian he offered me plenty of advice on the road ahead, the borders and even offered me a place to stay once there. What he did advise is picking up 400 cigarettes in order to make my passage more ‘smoother,’ which I did.* Sure enough within an hour a policeman tried to do me for 100 Dirams (£9) for passing a stop sign that was written in Arabic. Harsh! Twenty ‘Dunston’ (£1.50) later and I was off. I eventually got to Mick’s campsite he told me off which is miles off the main road and run by a Belgium couple(?!) Also here are three totally bonkers French couples, with three of them fully dressed in the ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ style! We all eat together and the Belgium lady cooked up camel and rice (shamel e ree, in French), which was very nice. And...I had a cold beer! I can’t tell you how good it tasted. He could’ve charged me 100 euros and I still would have paid. I’m still unsure of the situation with alcohol here but after a week without you really start to appreciate little treats like that or even running water. So here I am then bitten for the first 15 times tonight which will only get worse I’m sure but my belly is full, I’m clean, I’ve a full tank of fuel and I’m camped out in the desert with the most incredible view across the landscape and above all, I’m happy.
Tomorrow looks to be more of the same with a 500km ride through more bleakness to Dhakla, for the second leg of my trans Sahara ride.
Salude.
*It later transpired that ‘Dunstan’ cigarettes are unheard of, where of no use at the borders and the whole thing was a pretty standard scam on travellers, making them buy cheapo fags at a ‘friends’ shop for an inflated price!

Agadair (dair dair, push pineapple, shake the tree)

2010-03-28T16:05:00.000-07:00

The previous night in Rabat I was out like a light at 8pm hoping to wake nice and early for that done deal that was a 9.15am ‘chocs away.’ Here we go...but after waking up at 8.15am (?!) and then a further two hours of dicking about with everything I finally hit the road at 10.15am. I was disappointed with myself as Mick had given me some campsite locations further afield and not knowing the road and riding conditions along with not having the wonderful road mapping anymore on my GPS (instead just a distance by straight line and some roads that I never seem to be on) mean that I’m never quite sure what’s achievable in a day. The first half of the day continued along the same newly laid perfect tarmac that I’ve pretty much ridden since I entered Morocco but this eventually turned into a regular bumpy road through towns and villages with some corners! This was more interesting to ride but at the same time more dangerous and of course slower. I pressed on though, only stopping for fuel/snacks/drinks and made good progress all things considered. The visibility now doesn’t seem to be much more than mile or so due to what appears to be a constant low dust cloud. Also the air is getting much drier, with each breath it dries out your nose/mouth. That’s not all that’s changing, so to is the terrain which is a mixture of semi desert and then deep red mountainous tree filled regions. Tourists aren’t to be found except for the odd French registered car.6pm was decision time as I approached Agadair with 606 km still showing on the GPS for the next campsite I sensibly looked for a suitable place to stop. Now as many of my friends would testify I’m sure, I like a pound note but having found a nice clean motel offering everything that comes with it for 187 Dinar (£15) my hand was in my pocket. You see, I would happily pay someone £15 to erect my tent and pack all my stuff up in the morning so this was an easy decision, not to mention the time saving. Laundry and me washed  and assisted by the very helpful receptionist, I headed to a nearby restaurant for a proper meal, the first since I left the UK actually. And what a meal! They must have thought I was American as I did over order somewhat. The tuna salad starter would’ve been enough alone without the fish platter, chips and bread but thankfully I was joined by a cat who happily helped me out to spare my blushes! That’s about it for the day although I do have some thoughts about this place. With Mick waiting for me in Gambia I am moving along quickly and I did think that was fine as the Saharan ‘Arab Africa’ wouldn’t be as interesting as ‘Black Africa’ but now I am regretting the pace slightly. The similarities with Turkey continue and with Turkey being my favourite country of all, I like it here. The people are fantastically friendly and it feels very safe. My only regret and it is a big one, is not brushing up on my French before I left, for what looks like the spoken language for most of the trip. Yesterday though, I did buy a French/English micro dictionary and I’m trying as much as I can which of course goes down very well with the locals who seem to find it odd/amusing that I can’t speak their language.
D’accord. Apres moi petite dejourne a wuit heur deman matin, je allez!
Ps If you understood the ‘pineapple’ gag, then like me, you are officially old. Sorry.

Getting a sweat on in Rabat

2010-03-28T15:56:00.000-07:00

It’s no longer cold. Although last night was still a bit nippy the days from here on in are going to see me chugging some serious amounts of water.
I had a day off the bike as visa applications were made. First up was the Mauritanian visa. Application in at 9.30am, collected at 3pm. As a bonus I’d already found the Mali embassy which was nearby and somehow managed to get that one immediately after, just before they closed! Result. However...for a long reason my second passport isn’t with me and it hasn’t arrived at home! The reason, the UKPA say, is they require further information and as I’m a sole director blah blah blah. This is very bad news. After today I’ve only two blank pages left in my passport which by my reckoning will get me about as far as Nigeria at the most and unable to continue. Plus plenty of other messes that I just don’t want to think about. After a couple of calls to the UKPA and my friend and accountant Sarit, HOPEFULLY, (I’m not religious but I’ll pretend if it helps) he’ll be able to ‘create’ what they require from me which will allow said passport to land in my hallway and then be whiskey off by DHL to somewhere where I can at last have it in my hands!!
As a distraction to all this and while waiting for the two visas today I explored Rabat by daylight and...it’s actually very nice. It’s pretty clean, with plenty of French colonial buildings, the people are very nice and the place has a Turkish feel about it. It’s maybe nicer than Spain actually.
I can’t help but think of most of the Spanish as a bit skanky, if you know what I mean? Having said all that, I haven’t had a shower for three days now and I reckon that I’m still not even half way from the next one. There are no facilities here at what is essentially a piece of waste ground that you’d expect the only guests to be the odd burnt out car. There is a tap somewhere so maybe later I could take a sort of wash. I was contemplating going ‘tackle out’ as no one’s around but within the last hour a dozen Germans and Austrians have just er, invaded. So I guess washing that way is now de rigour...
Early night planned as I prepare to continue heading south through Morocco tomorrow at 8am sharp. OK OK how about 9.15am for cash? Done!
Bon soir.

Pressing on into the dark unknown...

2010-03-28T15:21:00.000-07:00

As per my last trip, some work needs to be done on my ‘efficiency of getting ready.’ I almost typed ‘organising’ but I think that would be unfair as I am organised but it just seems to take me FOREVER to sort myself out sometimes (isn’t that different?). I get the feeling my new friend ‘Danish Mick’ now waiting for me in the Gambia is one of those types that effortlessly just does his ‘stuff’ and so a compromise may have to be made. This was perfectly highlighted by my inability to get on the road for 8am sharp as two big rides, a boat crossing and a border crossing lay ahead. So then after defrosting my toothpaste and toes, packing up and of course three attempts at getting my earplugs just right I finally hit the tarmac at 10am.
A better ride followed but like the day before I remained cold all day. Not surprisingly part of this was down to the altitude which included riding alongside the impressive looking ‘Sierra Nevada.’ From there, Granada and Malaga passed and I was now into the Spain I know, it being ‘Andalucia.’ A visit into this region isn’t the same without passing into ‘Arroyo de la Miel’ to see my grandparent’s old villa and the Spanish neighbours that have lived in the same very small cul-de-sac for my lifetime and beyond. They include Juan who was unfortunately alone and of course Pepe and Maria who couldn’t be more Spanish if they tried. Despite Pepe trying to empty the contents of his fridge onto my bike and much chatting about absolutely no idea I re hit the road at around 3.30pm getting more than a little concerned about the time due to me needing to get to Rabat, Morocco by nightfall as a safe campsite (GPS programmed) and visa application procedures awaited...
No chance. A fairly quick boat trip was nearly slowed down by the usual Moroccan toe rags trying it on at the ferry terminal. Not sure which of the old favourites it would’ve been had I played along but I guess that was for someone else to find out. Got to Cueta pretty quickly on a sea cat across a very choppy Mediterranean sea but I struggled to find my way out of this Spanish enclave and onto African soil proper. Eventually I found the border and it was pretty much as I expected. Chaos. Last year’s trip with all its border crossings had prepared me though and I honestly think that without this experience I’d have come out of the other side three times slower, some euros lighter and possibly even missing a few items.
This still didn’t save me though from the horrible feeling that you know you can’t meet your objective, you’ve no plan b and not even any local currency, just in case. With my GPS not able to direct me by road now, some friendly policemen advised me on heading to Tangiers in order to then continue to Rabat which would take around three hours. It was 8.30pm and already very dark. The road from the border, like Bilbao, immediately headed ‘up.’ This time though it was a dodgy mountain road in bad repair in the pitch black. Not good when you have a tinted visor! So I was forced to ride in my sunnies and concentrate VERY hard. I’d like to comment on how Morocco looked but the following three and a half hours of almost terror behind my glasses didn’t allow me to see any more then that small speck where my not great headlights ran out of light in the distance. Actually, that was the only bit of real light the whole way to Rabat so not much to see anyway. The road did eventually, after 100km, finally turn into a pretty good (but still unlit) dual carriageway which finally got me to Rabat at 12.30am, still freezing and needing to set up my tent etc having found the ‘campsite!’ This wasn’t quite as hardcore as the 18hr ride to Kabarosk in Russia with Steve but just as worrying as any problems would’ve meant finding myself in the very very deep stuff. Fortunately ‘Des’ again, carried me through it like some growling gunship where we’re both having a day and a half off in Rabat whilst waiting for visas for Mauritania and Mali...

Boat, Bilbao, Brrrr and Bed

2010-03-28T14:49:00.000-07:00

The thirty six hours onboard ‘The Pride Of Bilbao’ were spent mostly the following: Two hours in the ‘International food court’ which served up, quite frankly shocking fare, sixteen hours in my cabin wondering how to lose a bit of luggage weight (which included throwing away a pile of medicines that I picked up in Russia and had absolutely no idea what they were for and of course my home laptop’s power lead that I decided to pack?!) whilst generally avoiding the grotesque English,Welsh and Scousers. And finally about eighteen hours sleep. No, Make that seventeen as I was woken by someone banging at 2am. Yes that type.

Bilbao then. Freezing fog, along with riding immediately up into the mountains and seemingly staying at altitude all the way to the southern coastline meant for a very cold and damp day. I managed as far as ‘Santa Elena’ which was a small village due east of Cordoba which I reckon was about 420 miles from the top. Not too bad really considering the conditions. I had a few issues camping though, the first being that I couldn’t get my stove to work for about 45 minutes and the second was that it felt like below zero and as a result my ‘three season’ sleeping bag and ALL of my clothes weren’t enough to stop me getting into a bit of a state through the cold. I eventually lost feeling in my feet and in the morning not only had my toothpaste nearly frozen but my toes had frozen together! Not a good start but then I guess it will warm up a bit...

‘...’ indeed!

2010-03-28T11:51:00.000-07:00

So here we go again then. It’s all Ian Reed’s fault. You see, once I’d settled back into ‘normal life’ after finally coming home he went and bought me the ‘Adventure Motorcycling Handbook’ which is widely regarded as THE biking bible and a source of inspiration and information to fellow er, adventurers? As my old roomie Scott from last years RTW reckons ‘adventure before dementia.’ Damn right. So, fast forward ten weeks and here I am in my cabin onboard a P&O ferry to Bilbao, Spain and from there it’s 99.999% land to Cape Town. The intended route once in Africa is too long winded to write right now (I can’t remember) but suffice to say it’s through the Western Sahara and a west side route all the way to the cape and maybe 16,000 miles, I’m still not sure. This route is reckoned to be as about as challenging as they come especially from April-October when the monsoon (read MUD) seasons hit hard deep in the jungle in places such as Gabon, the Congo and Angola. Oh did I mention that I’ll be riding until early June? Hmmm...
So what this time then? A group? Solo? More unexpected Trance clubs? Bike?
Well no group but only solo for 3,000 miles or so. BJ had indicated that he was in but eventually he was out. That led me to email a Danish guy named ‘Mick’ who I was aware was about to leave on a similar trip as I hoped to do in a similar time. As it turns out he was leaving that very night (eight days ago) with a Greek guy who was only going as far as Gambia. One swift reply later and it was agreed that I’d remove my finger from inside something and follow Scott’s thought. The plan is that Mick will then wait for me in Gambia with cold beers at the ready (I like him already) and on we’ll go. Fast forward eight days to now and here I am, absolutely shattered, 96% prepared and making a first entry to the continuation of my RTW trip. There’s no WIFI though so it’s on a word document for now. There will be much of this though as I’ll be mostly camping out there. Sorry about the pictures by the way but there wasn’t really much else to photo, for now. Oh well here’s to a couple of days R&R at sea...
Oh yeah... Trance? I’m thinking no way but there was one in Mongolia so who knows?
And my bike? It’s ‘Des’ again of course! He’s feeling fine but this time he’s carrying more weight due to all the spare parts/extra camp stuff/medicine/worry. Still not sure about the racket he makes or the wind turbulence though?!?
I need sleep.
I really do.
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