Musings of an Englishman

Hello and Goodbye

2010-05-13T15:35:00.008+01:00

I always expected the last few days of my trip to be relatively mundane - spent on dull desert roads making my way back to Buenos Aires. But as it turned out, South America still had a few more unexpected adventures to throw at me before the trip was out.

The Long Road Home
Having reached the Equator in Ecuador it was time to turn around and begin the long road back to Buenos Aires - 4000 miles of dull Pan American Highway in ten days. And with my bike still in Lima getting repairs, the first 1250 of those had to be by bus.

Long distance buses are an extremely popular way of getting around South America. They ply the highways, connecting the continent´s cities, packed full of tourists and locals alike. That doesn´t make them good though. My 36 hour non-stop journey from Quito to Lima was nothing short of tortuous. Made bad by the terrible Peruvian videos that served as entertainment. Made worse by the air conditioning packing up. Needless to say, the other passengers and I arrived in Lima well-done.

Mercifully though, the capital - which is perpetually shrouded in sea mist - was cool. When I arrived I expected my bike to be fixed and ready to go as it´d been over a week since I dropped her off. But, as is often the case in South America, things aren´t always done on schedule and I was made to wait another day for the repairs to be finalised.

Hello
I filled my time wandering around the upmarket and surprisingly Americanised district of Miraflores - the Beverly Hills of Lima. While running along the misty waterfront I stopped to admire the view over the bay. I hadn´t been running for a while and was panting heavily. At least I thought it was me. But out of the corner of my eye I spotted an oddly familiar sight - a brown, white and black furball slobbering heavily.

>"Hello Tom" - the furball said.
>"Boddingtons!" I exclaimed. "I hardly recognised you with that haircut. What are you doing here?"

As it turned out, Boddingtons had quickly gotten bored with his new home of Ushuaia (it really is just a place to go to say you´ve been there). And so he´d decided to get most of his shaggy coat sheared off and see the warmer parts of the continent. Like me, he´d been doing a big circuit and was now making his way back home. And with 3000 miles of riding still left, I didn´t hesitate in asking him to join me for the return leg of the trip. He agreed, providing we make it a return dog-leg.

It was good to be back on the road with the freedom of the bike and company of an old friend. There´s something very different and infinitely better about actively riding through a country rather than sitting passively in the back of a bus. And with Boddingtons grinning behind me and his ears flapping in the breeze, the riding was easy and fun.

Deja Vu
After a day we´d covered about 500 miles from Lima and it was time for another petrol stop. But as I pulled over I heard a churning noise coming from the engine. Boddingtons noticed it too and asked what it was. I didn´t know for sure, but it was oddly reminiscent of the noise my bike made in Malawi just before the engine seized on my last trip. Worried, I checked the oil for the umpteenth time that day and confirmed yet again that the level was fine. Puzzled, we hopped back on the bike and motored on.

A few minutes later the engine temperature began to rise and the engine quickly lost drive. Surely not another seized engine? I couldn´t believe it. Twice in as many trips and only 500 miles since the last set of repairs. This was irritating and serious. We were in the middle of the desert in Peru - a country not known for its abundance of Kawasaki parts. And if something had broken in the engine it´d take weeks to get the necessary parts shipped in from Chile - weeks we didn´t have.

Boddingtons howled his condolences as I kicked the dust angrily. A quick game of fetch calmed us both down, and we soon set about hailing down a truck to get the bike to the nearest big city - Arequipa, in Southern Peru.

Following several failed attempts at flagging one down, Boddingtons offered to do a few parlour tricks to attract attention. After playing dead, doing a backflip and offering his paw to the drivers, we hit on the Peruvian sign for "Stop - I need help with my bike" - a dog with a spanner balanced on his nose.

A big 18-wheeler soon pulled over with Zach and his friend in the cab. Their truck was too high to lift the bike onto but they offered to help us flag down another truck. And soon, Paul Martin and his big transporter had pulled over. Together we all heaved the bike onto the behemoth and Paul used his expert knot tying skills to lash the bike between two shiny new Nissan 4x4s.

As I climbed into the transporter´s cab, I was surprised to be greeted by Paul´s young family. Apparently his wife and three year old daughter often accompanied him on the long journeys from Lima to Arequipa. For a pleasant hour we made smalltalk as we chugged slowly along, passing through the occasional village.

On the outskirts of one village - Tambillo - the road narrowed as it turned a blind corner. Paul chugged the transporter slowly around the bend only to see an unbelievable sight - two big trucks side by side coming the other way. One of the foolish drivers was trying to overtake the other in a dangerous passing move I´ve witnessed a hundred times in Peru. But with nowhere to go, the three trucks smashed together - the sound of crunching metal and breaking glass echoing through the village.

Fortunately no one was hurt. But all three truck cabs were damaged. It took five hours to clear the scene and get through all the formalities. Meanwhile, Boddingtons and I did out best to entertain Sara and her mother - who were both shaken up by the experience. Eventually everyone had calmed down.

By nightfall we were back on the road, but with our damaged cab and slow pace it was clear we weren´t going to make Arequipa that day, so we pulled over. I bought us dinner and Paul explained the sleeping arrangements for that night - the family would take the truck cab and Boddingtons and I would sleep in the back of one of the shiny new pickups. Doubtless the future owner of the red Nissan Frontier that I stayed in that night will never know that a grubby Brit and pongy pooch slept in his nice new truck before he even got it. But that´s exactly what happenned.

Up at dawn the following day the priority was getting the cars delivered - they were already a day late. As a small measure of compensation for helpìng me with my bike, I offered to help and became assistant transporter for half a day - helping to unload and deliver the cars. A fun and surprisingly laborious experience.

Goodbye
With his work done, Paul arranged for a smaller truck to take my bike to a mechanic in town. Once there, my worst fears were realised. The mechanic confirmed that the engine had seized and that it´d take days to get the parts (a blown piston rod) from Chile. I still don´t know the cause of the fault - perhaps a busted oil pump or clogged pipe. But regardless, I didn´t have the time to wait for the parts and so decided to sell the bike there and then.

A somewhat surprising decision you might think. But I´d actually been planning on selling my trusty steed for some time. I´d had her for only three years, but it´s not the years that age a bike it´s the miles. Together we´d covered over thirty thousand - the equivalent of riding more than once round the world. And with mechanical faults becoming increasingly common I think the Phoenix was trying to tell me that she deserved a quieter life.

And so, with the help of the mechanic, I lined up a buyer - Filipe Pastor - and after a a day of negotiations I was standing in front of my bike for the final time - saying my goodbyes.

It was with mixed feelings that I bid farewell to the Phoenix. She´d been something of a burden towards the end and there was some sense of relief at selling her. But we´d been through so much together, travelled so far, that it was sad too. At least the memories and experiences will stick with me, even if the bike cant.

The circle is complete
With my bike gone, the only thing left was to catch a bus from Arequipa for the final few thousand miles back to Buenos Aires. During 60 hours of arduous bus-ing, Boddingtons and I had plenty of time to discuss our trips. For Boddingtons the unquestionable highlight was Argentina - where the abundance of steak and glorious open spaces (for walkies) made his life all but complete. For me, it was Bolivia that made the trip particularly special. The trials of Tupiza Creek and the Salar de Uyuni will be with me forever.

Now, after 62 days on the road, we´re both right back where we started. A journey of 24,000km - 15,000 by bike, 7500 by bus, and the remainder by river raft, barge, bicycle and on foot.

> "It´s been a helluva trip - ay Boddingtons?", I said.
> "It certainly has" he barked back - "but what next?"

A good question. It´ll probably be a few years before my next big adventure. And with my bike gone I´m not certain the next trip will even be on two wheels. There´s still much of the world to explore. Asia is virtually untouched for me, and riding a Royal Enfield back to London from India certainly appeals. But the world´s oceans also offer much in the way of adventure too. So maybe the next trip will be by boat. If that´s the case, then hopefully a trusty old sea dog will join me. "What do you think of that Boddingtons?"

"I think you should stop your musings Englishman, and throw me that stick."

Ecuador - Land of Diversity

2010-05-03T23:03:00.004+01:00

Ecuador is a small country by Latin America standards (even though it´s bigger than the UK). But despite its size, it´s a country packed full of life and variety. In few places is it possible to go from the beach to the mountains and to the jungle in one day - in Ecuador you can.

Along with the varied scenery comes a rich variety of wildlife. Condors circle overhead, iguanas blink at you from the undergrowth and all manner of llamas stare blankly at you while chewing the cud. The country is also culturally rich and is home to a diverse mix of people. In the central highlands you can find some of the friendliest townships on the continent, while the borders are little more than hives of scum and villainy.

Welcome to Ecuador
My entrance to Ecuador therefore, was not a welcome one. Following a 21 hour bus ride from Lima I arrived bleary eyed in the dusty town of Tumbes, northern Peru. To get to Ecuador, I needed to travel 30km further north to the border at Aguas Verdes then catch another bus for 15 hours to get to Quito, the capital.

After stepping off the bus in Tumbes I was immediately accosted by a group of ten or more taxi drivers each promising to take me to the border. I was suspicious of the overly friendly characters. Their forced discussions of English football, their obviously faked IDs, and the fact that some of them had managed to get my passport details from the bus company were all warning signs. I´m not one to be riled, so I grabbed my bag off them, and marched off in search of another way to the border.

After walking several blocks into town, periodically stopping at various shops to see if there was a bus to the border, I quickly realised that a taxi was the only way forward. Bugger - I hate taxis. They´re over-priced, unsafe and are rarely used by locals, meaning they´re a prime place to scam tourists.

Looking around, I spotted a slightly better option - a solitary moto-taxi who promised to drive me to the border for one Peruvian sole (the equivalent of 25p). Moto-taxis aren´t fast but they are used by locals and I couldn´t complain about the rate. So I hopped in and proceeded to be driven around the backstreets of town, clearly not making any progress to the border.

After five minutes, I told the troublesome driver to pull over. When he did, I was only half surprised to see some of the suspicious chauffeurs from the bus terminal waiting for me. This didn´t look good. But with the whole town seemingly in on the act I grudgingly agreed to get in one of the battered looking cabs.

Before setting off I agreed a fare of 65 soles with the head honcho. That price (which accorded reasonably well with the figures in my guidebook) included driving me to the border, helping me with the (very simple) border formalities, and purchasing my bus ticket to Quito.

Initially things seemed to be going to plan. We got to the border in good (some would say dangerously quick) time, and the Peruvian customs formalities were soon out of the way. But as we entered Aguas Verdes things started getting shady. There were now three dodgy characters in the car with me - the driver, the chap who helped with customs, and the head honcho who seemed to be organising everything else. After spending a few minutes bumping over the uneven streets on the way to the frontier, we turned off into a secluded parking lot. Not good. Three reasonably big chaps in a confined space versus me with my luggage. I briefly considered making a dash for it, but with my bag I realised it was probably a fruitless endeavour. Besides, so far at least the hustlers had held up their end of the bargain.

But then the scam got going. In Spanish and pigeon English, the head honcho explained that the fare needed to be paid now and in dollars, not Peruvian soles (Ecuador uses dollars). And he wanted 35 dollars for the service. Typically you get one dollar for every three Peruvian soles, but this guy was trying to get a dollar for less than two. Being an economist, I explained to him in my best Spanish (which is more a mix of English and bad Italian) that the exchange rate he was offering was laughable. No one was laughing though, least of all me.

With the rate seemingly non-negotiable I tried a different tack - explaining that paying for the service when it was only half complete (and in the middle of a secluded parking lot) was not good from my point of view. Their counter argument was that they had to be paid here, so that they could distribute funds to everyone - including another chap and a kid who had just showed up to complete the Ecuadorian side of the deal. With five of them now, I thought better of arguing and handed over the cash on condition that they give me their word everything was legit. Smiling and looking me dead in the eye, the head honcho assured me everything was above board. The lying bugger.

As soon as I handed over the money the Peruvian side of the operation quickly dispersed leaving me with the Ecuadorian chap and the kid who was there to cart my luggage. I was bitter that I´d handed over the inflated sum (about twenty dollars over the going rate), but it was probably worth it just to get out of that parking lot. As I followed the Ecuadorians through town, the kid with my bag started lagging behind. Loathed to leave my luggage I slowed my pace and asked where the older chap was going in such a hurry. The kid assured me that he was just heading off to Ecuadorian customs and the bus terminal to finish off the deal. But in reality he was actually just making himself scarce. That left me with the kid.

Now in Ecuador, we soon arrived at the bus station where I waited for a few minutes for the older chap to return. When he didn´t I asked the kid where everyone had gone and, more importantly, who was going to pay for my bus ticket. The kid just shrugged, feigning ignorance. I was getting irritated now, so I decided to make a scene. With nothing but time on my hands, I sat myself down on the kid´s luggage cart and refused to budge until he paid for my bus ticket and went and got his accomplices. Within minutes a crowd had built up with two clear sides - the majority were locals who were almost as appalled with the scam as me, while the rest was made up of dodgy street vendors who had sided with the kid. Some of the vendors attempted to get me off the cart by force, but when that didn´t work we ended up in a bit of stand off (or sit off in my case).

After a brief wait, all the attention started getting to the kid and he paid for my bus ticket using some of the dollars I had handed over earlier. But he was adamant that he wasn´t going to get his accomplices. I can understand why - if he did, he´d surely get in trouble with them. But I didn´t want to let the kid off too easily either - he was obviously being trained to scam tourists in exactly the same way as his older pals and he needed to be taught a lesson. So I continued sitting on his cart for another half an hour until a policeman eventually showed up. I explained to the copper the situation, the scam, and about the criminali (I´m not sure if that´s the Spanish word for criminals it´s just the one I made up). The copper, who was clearly on the take, made a half arsed attempt to look apologetic, but did little else. Enough was enough. I´d got the crowd on my side, they knew the scam now and so I let the kid have his cart back, and got on my bus.

Welcome to Ecuador indeed. This wouldn´t have happenned with my bike.

The other side of the coin
Fortunately though, other than the unpleasantness at the border, the slow buses, and the occassional bit of rain, my time in Ecuador was generally a pleasant one. I was only in the country for a few days, but in the short while I was there I got to experience some of the richness it has to offer.

My first point of call was the equator - namesake of the country. The famous line was marked by a touristy monument (as is customary). But it was worth the visit. This was as far north as I´d get on this trip. Having travelled all the way up from Ushuaia (54 degrees south) it was a satisfying feeling to reach the Midad del Mundo (Middle of the World).

Next, following advice from one of my friends at work (cheers TomO), I went on a couple of mountain biking tours. The first to visit the Cotopaxi Volcano - an active volcano which has wiped out the small town of Latacunga twice already. There was no lava flowing the day I visited (nor for the previous 106 years according to historical records), but riding a bike down the steep windswept slopes was a memorable experience.

I stayed over in one of the friendly hilltop communities that night and was treated to some traditional Ecuadorian hospitality along with delicious local delicacies including fried bananas, tree tomatoes and popcorn soup. My stay was made all the more welcoming by the local dog - Rambo - who woke up early in the morning to show me round the breathtaking crater lake of Quilatoa.

Sadly Rambo didn´t fancy joining me for the scenic bike ride around the Quilatoa loop, but doubtless he would have if I´d had the Phoenix with me. Fortunately though, a friendly group of tourists and our excellent guide Fernando provided ample company instead.

Then, to round off my time in Ecuador I joined a rafting group along the Rio Blanco - The White River. The river appeared more of a coffee colour when I was there, but there was certainly a lot of white water rapids to enjoy as well. And after a full day that saw us travel 47km downstream and flip the rafts a few times, I was sunburnt to a crisp but happy.

If variety is the spice of life, then Ecuador is one of the most flavoursome countries Ive visited.

The Inca Trail

2010-04-24T04:30:00.007+01:00

Since leaving the harsh roads of southern Bolivia behind, I´ve been on the trail of South America´s most famous historical dynasty - the Incas. The trail is well worn and firmly on the beaten track. But that just means most of the enticing ruins are connected by smooth tarmac roads instead of bone rattling washboard (a welcome change if you ask me).

Picking up the trail
It´s impossible to travel through South America without encountering the legacy of the Inca Empire. At its peak, some six or seven centuries ago, the Empire stretched from northern Argentina to the Equator. Modern day Peru was at its heart, but according to some myths, the Inca dynasty actually began in Bolivia on the Isla del Sol - just off the eastern shore of Lake Titicaca. And that´s where I first picked up the Inca trail.

In constrast to southern Bolivia where paved roads are still something of a futurisitc phenomenon, the Isla del Sol and the area surrounding Lake Titicaca are reached by some of the smoothest and most picturesque roads on the continent.

Nestled on the shore of the Lake is the small town of Copacabana which, unlike the famous beach in Brazil or nightclub in Florida, doesn´t have any showgirls named Lola (or any showgirls at all come to think of it). But even without the showgirls it´s still a lively little burg and is the main jumping off point for boat trips into the lake.

On the day I visited the island, the Inca Sun God (Inti) was obviously feeling jolly good about himself as it was a glorious sunny day. Needless to say, after visiting the sacred rock, a few ruins, and hiking five miles along the spine of the island, Inti had made his mark on me too, turning my pasty skin to a lobster pink - dashing.

Back on the road and covered in aloe vera, I circled the southern shore of the Lake, crossed into Peru, and turned inland toward the hub of the Inca Empire - Cusco.

Cusco is a busy, vibrant city with Inca ruins quite literally all over the place. The ruins are so abundant that many of the hotels boast of having "Inca walls" in their paraphenalia.

But perhaps the best sight in Cusco, as hotly tipped by Jerry - the Indiana Jones of our riding group - is the Sun Temple. The key thing about this temple is not the immaculate stonework that has withstood earthquakes and several hundred years of abuse. The most interesting thing about the temple is it is buried beneath a church. The Spanish Conquistadors were so keen to convert the natives to Christianity they decided to build their own place of worship right on top of the Inca temple - stick that in your Inca pipe and smoke it.

But obviously the top Inca sight on most people´s lists is the world-renowned mountain-top citadel of Machu Picchu.

Normally, the high altitude ruins are reached via an expensive tourist train or via the popular hiking trail. But mudslides earlier in the year washed away the tracks and made the trail all but impassable. After hasty repairs, both routes re-opened on April 1st, but with a backlog of tourists to get through, both the train and the trail were fully booked by the time I showed up. Fortunately though, I managed to find a lesser-known ´back way´ into Machu Picchu which even involved a bit of biking.

The back way into Machu Picchu
Instead of taking the train west from Cusco toward Machu Picchu, I headed north via a glorious paved road into an adjacent valley. The road wound its way up into the mountains via a series of hairpins, each guarded by a solitary wild dog. How those pooches got up there and what they were doing I honestly don´t know, but there were so many lonely pups that I half expected to see a satisfied looking Boddingtons surrounded by his bitches at the top. No such luck.

After riding past the dogs and through the clouds I began my descent into the valley below. Clearly the mudslides that wiped out the routes to Machu Picchu were not a one off - I frequently came across landslides, boulders and waterfalls flowing across the road.

But the going was good for the first 60 miles. After that, the smooth pavement gave way to a rough corrugated road which came complete with slow, dust spewing trucks. But that degradation was only Stage 2 of the ride. Stage 3 - some 20 miles further on - saw the wide corrugated road turn into a narrow muddy track that wound its way steeply up into the mountains. This was Jerry country all right - on the trail of some lost civilisation riding in the mud - he would have been in Hog´s Heaven. As for me, I squirmed my way through, narrowly avoiding being washed down the mountain in a deceptively deep waterfall crossing.

The tricky terrain was more than worth it though just to ride through the lush mountain scenery. And by dusk I´d reached Santa Theresa - as far as my bike could take me.

It was a satisfying day and I was pleased that I´d gotten off the beaten track and travelled a fairly unique route. At least I thought it was unique. But my dreams of originality were quoshed on finding a tourist hotel in Santa Theresa. There, I was not only greeted by a friendly German chap (Michael) who had ridden the exact same path two days before, but also a big group of hikers who were doing a similar thing on foot. Ah well, the company was good at any rate.

Up at dawn the next day I found out why I couldn´t ride my bike all the way to Machu Picchu - there was no bridge across the Villabamba River. Instead, the only way across was via a high wire cable and small metal basket. The locals seemed to trust the precarious looking contraption, and so with Alex the farmer in front of me, I hopped in the basket and got pulled across. Marvellous.

On the other side, Alex and I began the long hike to Machu Picchu. Ten miles of trudging over streams and along the railway tracks. Beautifully picturesque but tiring - I found it hard to believe that Alex made the journey everyday.

By nine o´clock we had reached Aguas Calientes - tourist base for Machu Picchu. There I bid farewell to Alex who wandered off for several hours of hard labour in the fields, while I got carted up to the famous ruins with a bus load of other tourists.

The views from the top were unforgettable. Granite spires towering up towards the clouds like skyscrapers, covered in thick jungle, with the churning torrent of the river below. And in the midst of all the natural beauty, high up in the trees, were the ruins. Extensive, ornate and amazingly intact thanks to the archaic but effective earthquake proof-niches built into the walls. Sun temples, agricultural terraces, barns, homes and more. Justifiably a city. A city in the clouds. A city with a view. Those clever Incas.

End of the Trail
With the majestic mountain ruins behind me, there was still one more Inca sight on my list of things to see - the mysterious Nazca lines of the coast. Reached by one of Peru´s great roads, I expected the going to be easy and scenic. Scenic it was, easy it was not. At 4000m above sea level, I was anticipating the final high altitude pass of the trip to be a bit chilly. Instead I was battered with freezing rain, marble sized hailstones and snow. Snow in Peru - would you believe it! I thought the Salar de Uyuni would be the closest I´d get to riding my bike in the white stuff - how wrong I was.

I shuddered my way down the mountain, descending into the merciful warmth of the desert. There, etched into the coastal plains, were the Nazca lines - giant complex murals like ancient crop circles in the rock. One in the shape of a monkey, another a frog, a shepherd, a tree, a llama. Some people have devoted their lives to discovering the meaning of these lines but their origin is still disputed. Probably the most accepted theory is they represent some sort of vast astronomical Inca calendar. Interestingly, the Incas didn´t use the stars to form their astronomical constellations but used the darker bits or "black clouds" of the Milky Way.

The shapes of the lines and the shapes of their black cloud constellations certainly seems to match up. So maybe the theory does hold water. But it seems a bit of an unnecessary effort to build such a large calendar in the desert. Who would read it? Personally, based on my own five minutes of study, I think the vast shapes represent ornate racing tracks for Guinea Pigs - the Inca equivalent of scaletrix. Only time will tell who is right.

End of the Road
And so, with my own Inca trail complete I´ve now turned my attention to the final country of my trip - Ecuador. To get there I´ve been motoring north on the dull Pan-American Highway. Having gotten as far as Lima, I was expecting to have to ride another 2000km to the equator. But, as is becoming customary in the final stages of these big trips, my bike has run into problems. A slow, but serious oil leak has the Phoenix held up in Peru for a few days. And so, with time running out, I´ve decided to leave her to recuperate for a few days and push on via other means. Ecuador will have to be done on foot.

No matter - I hear it has some of the best trekking in the world.

Here´s to a swift recovery for the Phoenix.

Breathtaking Bolivia

2010-04-18T04:20:00.010+01:00

There´s something oddly rewarding about riding in Bolivia. The difficult roads, thin air, freezing tempartures and lack of water make for a harsh environment. But all that hardship just makes you appreciate the awe inspiring scenery all the more. Crossing Bolivia is difficult, challenging, and exhausting, but I cant think of any other country that offers more in the way of adventure.

Catching up
You´ll remember from my last post that my first attempt at crossing Bolivia ended in a bit of a disaster with the Phoenix and I in rough shape after countless falls in Tupiza Creek. Fortunately though, after a few days of R&R back in Argentina we were both ready for a second go. The Phoenix was riding better than ever thanks to a new clutch, new shock absorber, thorough service, and even a bit of a paint job. And I was feeling rejeunvated following a few days of horse riding and socialising with the locals.

If at first you don´t succeed...
Having left the entertaining civility of Argentina behind, it was time for another crack at Bolivia. My mission was to reach the Salar de Uyuni - the world´s largest and highest salt flats. But rather than ride via Tupiza again, I decided to go for the more scenic and more challenging route via San Pedro de Atacama, Chile.

This is the path that most tourists take in their battle hardened Land Cruisers. It is a spectacular ride lined with volcanoes, sandy plains, mysterious lakes, and salt flats. But, despite the significant tourist presence, the route is one of the roughest Bolivia has to offer, with no discernable roads leading the way, only countless tracks heading in all directions.

I was apprehensive about riding it. There were horror stories of bikers getting bogged on the edge of the salt flats and having to wait days to be rescued. Others of riders getting hopelessly lost and escaping the area with multiple injuries. Even the tour guides with their local knowledge and seemingly bulletproof vehicles had tales of blown suspension, flat tyres, and even the odd broken chassis.

Moreover, to make the going that little bit more difficult, I had to carry extra petrol, food and water as the three hundred mile journey was beyond the range of my tank and through the desolate high altitude Altiplano. With all that extra weight, the bike would handle a little bit worse and be that bit harder to pickup in the event of a spill. And, with my previously detailed GPS maps replaced with nothing more than a blank screen there was every chance of going the wrong way and running into trouble.

But of course, those are exactly the sort of conditions that make for an excellent adventure.

As if to spur me on, even before reaching Bolivia the scenery began getting more and more spectacular. Crossing the Andes via the Pasa de Jama, I was treated to yet more stunning mountain scenery and twisty roads.

And, just on the outskirts of San Pedro was the Valle del Luna - an eerie salty area filled with otherwordly rock formations.

But the real spectacles started cropping up as soon as I crossed into Bolivia.

Premonitions
At the border, I met an American rider - Jebediah from Nebraska - who had just finished the three day odyssey from Uyuni. He was riding with his girl - two up on a Triumph Tiger. That was encouraging. If they could make it through with two people on the same bike, then I shouldn´t have too much to worry about. But as Jebediah regailed me with tales of countless drops, punishingly deep sand, and rocky stretches that had almost broken his suspension, my confidence faded somewhat. According to Jebediah the first leg of the journey to Lago Colorada was the most picturesque and easiest of the trip, while the second day to San Juan was brutally tough. The third was "tricky in places".

His description turned out to be oddly prophetic of my own journey. During the first day I was treated to one stunning sight after another. Barely five miles into Bolivia I was greeted by Lago Verde - a lifeless green lake, laden with arsenic and surrounded by towering volcanoes.

And for the rest of that day, as I made my way to Lago Colorada on decent dirt roads, I was taken aback by the majestic volcanic scenery - truly breathtaking, and not just because I was riding at 5000m above sea level.

Having completed Day 1 with no drops I was feeling good. I found a basic cabana in the small settlement on the edge of the lake and with only a few llamas for company decided to turn in for an early night.

Raring to go the following morning, I dared to dream that I´d make it all the way to the Salar without a single drop.

That was foolish thinking. Within minutes of setting off on the 120 mile journey to San Juan the bike went down in a slow speed drop, courteousy of a deep sandy rutt. Unbeknownst to me, the drop also loosened one of my panniers and I rode for two miles before I realised that the bike´s odd handling was not just because of the rough surface, but because I had lost some luggage. Fortunately, after backtracking I found my case, reattached it, and spent the rest of the day glancing back at my panniers to check they were still there.

The riding wasn´t quite as hard as Jebediah had made out. In fact, at times it was brilliant. There was one particularly special stretch made up of a vast open plain of sandy tracks fringed by volcanoes and martian rock formations.

It was sandy and rocky, but sand is only difficult in a confined space (i.e. in a deep rutt). When there are acres of room to play with you can glide the bike wherever you like. In such a situation there´s only one thing to do - gun the engine and sail smuggly past the tourist jeeps at 60mph.

Of course, my smugness didn´t last for long. After reaching another captivating lake, I basked in the brilliance of the ride for a few minutes, and chatted happily with a few tourists who had pulled up to do the same. Two minutes later, riding over rocky ground, I was down for the second time that day - a completely unexpected slide out caused by a layer of slippery sand on the rocks. Bugger it.

As I spent the obligatory twenty minutes doing post-drop repairs, it was the tourists´turn to smugly ride by. Fair play.

The rest of the day continued in much the same way with the occasional drop (invariably in front of a group of tourists) interspersed with brilliant scenery. By four in the afternoon I had made it to San Juan - exhausted but chuffed to bits. There were five drops that day - three of them big enough to spin the bike around 180 degrees.

But other than a few dents in the Phoenix´s tank, and a few more bruises for me, we had made it through. Based on Jebediah´s description the worst was over. Thank God for that.

Again, I dared to dream that the drops were over, and as a reward I stayed the night in the best hotel in town, had llama for dinner (which was delicious) and spent three hours the following morning treating the Phoenix to a tune up.

As my fellow riders know, whenever I do a bit of work on my bike I have a habit of cutting my hands. Despite wearing gloves, after five weeks on the road and two attempts at crossing Bolivia, this was the state of my mitts.

But I didn´t care that it had taken blood, sweat and a whole lot of effort to get to San Juan. The salt flats were now just a few tantilising miles away and I couldn´t wait to get there. And with the Phoenix riding well, I was adamant I wasn´t going to drop her again (particularly after spending so long getting her cleaned up). But then, after barely an hour´s riding I hit a patch of fesh-fesh - a stretch of seemingly smooth sandy terrain that has the consistency of talcum powder, and usually hides a rocky surface underneath. After fifty feet of erratic bouncing the ground ate my front tyre, snatching the bike sharply to the left, sending me flying over the handlebars and the bike down hard.

I came to an abrupt halt in a dusty ball, with a sprained thumb, bruised shoulder and a mouthful of sand. Stumbling to my feet, I saw that the Phoenix was in similarly bad shape. Both panniers had been ripped off (almost unheard of in a crash), there was another dent in the tank, one of the mirrors was broken, and she too was covered in dust.

Dejected, I spent a few minutes just staring at my bike. I couldn´t believe it. I wasn´t far off kicking sand on it (a la Tyson) but I was saved by a bit of pick-me-up pud (i.e. a chocolate bar). That helped me pull myself together, and I had soon got the bike back upright and was back riding again.

An hour later, we reached the mirrored surface of the salt flats, where I parked up and spent several minutes yelling at the top of my voice and doing a little jig in triumph. We´d finally made it.

And then it was playtime. The salt flats are much like a giant carpark (only much more dazzling and surrounded by volcanoes). And, as all schoolboys know, carparks offer the ideal surface for doing stunts and generally mucking about. That´s exactly how I spent the rest of the day, doing somersaults, tricks, and riding with my eyes closed at 88mph.

An unforgettable place, and an unforgettable journey.

Up Tupiza Creek without a Rear Shock Absorber

2010-04-07T18:32:00.002+01:00

Half of the way to being a good off road rider is being able to pick the right route. The other half is being able to get yourself out of trouble when you pick the wrong route. It helps to be lucky too.

After just two hours in Bolivia, I had picked the wrong route. I had reached the small town of Tupiza – one of the last known hideouts of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid – and was keen to push on to Uyuni, home of the world´s largest and highest salt flats. But as I rode northwest on what I assumed was the only road out of town I quickly began to realise that I was on the wrong side of the river, at least according to my map.

I was following a dirt track along the west bank while the main road (if it can be called that) was drawn on the other side. Nevermind I thought, this was the route that Butch and Sundance would have taken (following the railway), and besides my map showed that the railway and the main road crossed each other in about 60 miles. All I had to do was stick by the railway and everything would be fine.

So I pushed on - riding through the beautiful canyonlands with the sun on my back and the river next to me. Well, I say river. It was more a collection of streams that meandered their way through a very wide river bed.

But after an hour on the Sundance route I had only covered 15 miles. And, given that I still had a few hundred to go before reaching Uyuni, I figured it would be better if I made my way back onto the main road. Obviously backtracking all the way to the bridge at Tupiza was out of the question, so I decided to have a go at fording the river instead. Surprisingly, the going wasn´t too bad. Most of the small streams were only a few inches deep, so it was relatively easy to ride the bike through. The only trouble was the muddy edges that bookended each crossing. To get through without getting the bike bogged I had to gun the engine, get up a decent amount of speed, and splash my way across. This worked several times, but after getting three quarters of the way to the east bank, I unexpectedly hit a long patch of mud in between fordings. I used the throttle technique to try to get out of trouble, but only succeeded in sending the rear wheel sliding out to the side, and my front wheel over a berm. With the front wheel caught and the rear still sliding, the inevitable result was a sticky muddy drop. Number five of the trip (I think).

After tending to the obligatory post-drop tasks – reattaching my panniers, and tightening the crash bars – I trekked on ahead to find a way up the other side. Before starting my river crossing I had seen what I thought was a path, but it turned out to be a dried up tributary leading down from the mountains. It was rocky but rideable so I hiked up to see if it lead to the road. Unfortuantely it was a dead end, leading into thick bushes and up the side of a canyon. Bugger. I had to cross back onto the Sundance route and push on.

Thirty miles from Tupiza the going got extremely steep and rocky. I spied a large caterpillar clad earthmover up ahead, abandoned in the track. It was blocking the way, but I managed to edge past only to find a dead end a few hundred yards up ahead. The road had completely run out. Obviously the beastly machine was there to finish the job.

Pondering what to do, I hiked up to the top of the canyon to get a better view of the way ahead. The going looked tricky with only two riding options – either along the railway tracks, or on the riverbed. Concerned, I asked an onlooking goat herder (and his dog) if this was the way to Uyuni, and he assured me that it was. Fine I thought, time to make Butch and Sundance proud.

The smoother of the two options seemed to be the railway track. But just as the dirt road had ended the railway had crossed the river via a high bridge. As foolhardy as I am, dropping the bike over the side of a railway bridge didn’t really appeal so I decided to ford my way across the river and meet up with the track on the other side.

Having travelled several miles upstream from my previous crossing, the river was now deeper, faster flowing and with big rocks in the middle. This was going to be tricky, and potentially wet. Nervously, I stood up on the pegs, revved the engine and bumped my way across. Phew.

Now on the other side, I discovered that my seemingly dramatic river crossing was actually only the beggining of my river adventures as I had only succeeded in getting the bike to a rocky outcrop with no rideable way up to the train tracks. The only way up there was via two more river crossings.

The second of these proved particularly tricky with the river now twenty feet across and with both banks covered in grapefruit sized rocks. I spotted what looked like a relatively smooth patch of ground on the opposite bank and headed for it. But as I hit the smooth bank my front wheel plunged down into a hidden muddy hole. The bike was stuck and started tilting ominously over into the water. Jumping off just in time, I plunged my boots into the knee deep river and just caught the bike in time to stop it toppling over. Heaving on the bike while gunning the throttle I splashed mud everywhere but just about managed to get out of trouble. Double phew.

It had taken me well over an hour to travel just 300 yards upstream, but I had finally made my way up to the train tracks. Surely the going got smoother from here? It did. For 500 glorious yards I rode alongside the railway without worrying about falling in a river or bouncing the bike over a boulder. Then I came across this:

Another railway bridge with wheel sized holes in between the sleepers. This was getting ridiculous. I could see another route across the river via yet another fording, but this time I wanted to be sure that I wasn´t heading for another dead end. So I climbed off the bike and walked for a couple of miles on the tracks. Other than a tunnel, the going seemed fine. So I trotted back to my bike and began the tricky task of turning it around.

One of the things you learn when riding on big trips is how to turn your bike around in a very small space. The trick is to pull the weight of the bike onto the side stand and then pivot it around. That’s how I’ve got myself out of tight spots before at any rate. But with the bike balanced precariously on the narrow ledge beside the railway, this maneuveure was going to be much trickier, particularly with the tracks getting in the way.

After five minutes of jostling I had managed to get the bike spun 150 degrees, but now the back wheel was stuck in between the tracks. To get it out I needed to pull the bike even more onto the side stand and lift the wheel across. Just as I was tipping the bike towards me, the ground underneath gave way and the bike toppled over. I leapt out of the way as it barrel rolled down the side of the steep ditch. It took me another hour to get it out again.

With the light fading, I had barely travelled a kilometre upstream in three hours. As if to illustrate my slow progress, the friendly goat herder who I’d met earlier, strolled past me at a leisurely pace while I was in the river. I had to hand it to the Phoenix though. She had been subjected to so much abuse yet was still going strong. I on the other hand was completely exhausted, wet, battered and bruised.

Miles from anywhere, I decided to camp in a picturesque clearing that night. I made a fire to dry my wet clothes and sleapt deeply under a starry sky. It had been the hardest few hours of the trip. Little did I realise what was in store the following day.

Up at the crack of dawn I quickly made my way through the railway tunnel and was making good progress alongside the tracks. It´s slightly odd riding on the rails – you have the bizarre experience of checking in your mirrors for a big locomotive bearing down on you. But the going was good and I only saw two trains. Occassionally, I´d come across a bridge, which I couldn´t ride across, but there always seemed to be a route around either via a path or by riding through the river.

But after 10 miles, the railway started winding its way up into the mountains. Several high bridges forced endless backtracks, until the only option left was to ride in the river bed. In five hours of utterly draining riding: I got the bike beached on a berm and had to dig it out with my bare hands; dropped it so many times I lost count (I think it was ten); and crossed the river so much that eventually I was riding exclusively in it.

Having come just fifty miles from Tupiza in ten hours the river became so littered with sharp edged boulders (some as big as a St Bernard) that even riding in it was impossible. I parked the bike and hiked on for another few miles in search of the road or the train track, but there was nothing. Just endless canyons and numerous dead ends. I had to turn back. This was as far as I could get.

Despite the disappointing result, the ride wasn´t a complete loss. Two days in Bolivia had delivered a fantastic adventure that trumped all others on the trip. As an added bonus my off-road riding skills had improved significantly and I rode the fifty miles back to Tupiza at Dakar pace, splashing through the river at speed, and undoing the previous 10 hours of riding in under three.

Again, I was dead chuffed with the Phoenix. She had been through a tortuous couple of days - bouncing over huge boulders, being dropped in the river, being made to jump off river banks, and being barrel-rolled down a hill. Yet she seemed to have escaped unscathed. At least I thought she did. But when I woke up the following morning I realised she was sick, very sick. She was lying extremely low to the ground. So low in fact that I could easily touch the ground with both my feet (something that’s normally unheard of). It didn’t take me long to discover the source of the problem. A golf ball sized hole in the side of the rear shock absorber caused by the gas exploding out. Clearly, the rocky river bed was just too much for the old girl.

There are many things that can be fixed on the side of the road with duct tape and a hammer (as well as the other tools I carry). But a rear shock absorber isn’t one of those things. And, with the roads in Bolivia only getting worse I was forced to turn back and head for the smooth tarmac roads of Argentina in search of repairs. Along the way, the Phoenix became increasingly sick –snapping her clutch cable, burning through her rear brake pads, developing a slow puncture, nearly losing her exhuast because of loosened bolts, and suffering from a batch of very bad petrol. I fixed as much as I could with the tools and spares I had, but with the bike coughing we only just managed to limp back to Salta.

Now she´s with the doctor – an experienced mechanic who is on the case, getting new suspension trucked in from Buenos Aires, and dealing with the countless other little niggles as well. It will take several days for the Phoenix to recover (at least), but I´m hopeful she will. After all, it helps to be lucky doesn´t it.

New Age nightriding and more

2010-04-02T03:24:00.023+01:00

Since leaving Buenos Aires 23 days ago, I have covered just over 6000 miles and am now in the small frontier town of La Quaica, on the Argentine-Bolivian border. In the past week I´ve discovered the perils and promise of night riding, visited a ´new age´ centre in the mountains, crossed the Andes twice, been transported back in time three years, and felt a bit foolish on April 1st.

The perils and promise of night riding
As my riding colleagues will attest, riding at night (particularly in foreign countries on bad roads) is rarely a good idea. Despite that, and despite the obvious risks, I´ve found myself on the road after dusk three times this past week.

The first occasion was shortly after leaving Bariloche. I had taken it easy the day before, getting an expensive new rear tyre fitted to the bike. So to make up for lost ground I set myself a target of 500 miles for the day. I´d managed about 400 of those by the time the sun began to slip behind the mountains. The sunset sparked a debate in my head - should I push on to Malargue and try to make the remaining miles, or bush camp here and enjoy the scenery? I dawdled with my decision and it soon became too dark to identify a suitable camping spot, leaving me with only one option.

With the daylight fading there was only my headlight to guide the way. And, as Tyson and Jerry will both confirm, the light on the KLR is woefully inadequate - it barely reaches fifty feet in front of the bike, and that´s on high beam. So to keep on the right side of safe, I trimmed my cruising speed from sixty to forty and pushed on. If I can maintain this pace, I thought, then I´ll be in Malargue in about two hours. Not bad, not bad at all.

But, as is often the way with these things, the dastardly god´s of motorbiking conspired with Ruta 40 to make the riding more difficult as the night drew in. First they threw in a few unexpected twisty curves. Then they took away the pavement and replaced it with dirt. Then they added a few heavy trucks to throw the dirt in my face. And finally, they chucked in a few hidden potholes. After two hours I was knackered, riding at barely 20mph and still an hour away from Malargue. But, just as I thought all hope was lost, the riding god´s took pity on me, they returned the pavement and turned the dirt swilling trucks into a guiding line of brake lights leading all the way to Malargue. Maybe this nightriding isn´t so bad after all.

The following day I headed into the Andes towards the border with Chile. But before crossing over I wanted to visit the small town of Villavicentio just north of Mendoza. I had heard of a road of a thousand curves that winds its way up into the clouds. Such a road sounded like the thing of adventure rider dreams, but it exists - I have ridden it.

The downside of taking such a splendid route though, is that it takes a surprisingly long time to navigate. And so, for the second night in a row, darkness began closing in around me just as the Andean scenery was turning spectacular.

I stayed in a deserted border hostel that night and woke up in the midst of the Andes, just a short walk from the imposing mass of Mount Aconcagua. At 6962m above sea level it is the tallest mountain in the world outside the Himalayas.

Back on the road, I soon found myself heading north in Chile along the surprisingly cool Pacific coastal road. Catching the first glimpse of the ocean is always a splendid moment - reminiscent of all those seaside holidays as a child. But the dull Chilean motorway only offered a few brief ocean vistas before turning inland.

The going was dull and expensive - Chilean motorways charge a five pound toll every 100 miles. I was keen for a change of scenery and even more keen to stop the deluge of cash flowing from my wallet, so I turned off the main road and headed into the mountains toward the Elqui Valley. According to my guidebook, the clear skies of the Elqui Valley offer some of the best stargazing on the planet.

Glancing at my GPS I only had 50 miles to go before reaching Vicuna - centre of the valley. Perfect I thought. But, my previously faultless GPS, which indicated it would only take an hour to get there, was being far too optimistic. Contrary to what it thought, the Ruta Antakari from Ovalle to Vicuna is not a long straight tarmac road that can be ridden at 60mph. Instead it is a much more interesting rough road that winds its way up through countless tight turns into the mountains. Needless to say, it didn´t take me an hour.

As the sun was setting I snapped a quick shot of the surrounding scenery, then pushed on up the mountain. For two hours I barely got above 20mph, riding only in first and second gear. By dusk I had reached the top of the pass and I was back nightriding again.

With two successful nights already under my belt I was riding confidently and enjoying the steep descent. Then, a bright light glinted in my mirror. Surely no one else is driving around up here at this time, I thought. Glancing behind me, I saw a dazzling full moon creeping above the mountains. The air was so clear that all the luna mare and many of the larger craters were visible.

Distracted by the celestial sideshow, I turned back to find a fork in the road right in front of me. Since I was only able to see 50 feet ahead, I couldn´t tell which was the right way, so I skidded to a halt to take a closer look. But, such was the steep incline and the loose surface that my front brake couldn´t hold the bike and the wheel slipped sideways down the hill, sending the bike down for the second drop of the trip. Happily there was no damage (to the bike at least), but the steep slope made it difficult to get her back upright again. After ten minutes of dragging and heaving I had done it, but managed to wrench my back in the process. That´ll teach me for riding at night.

A New Age
The following morning, after a pleasant stay in the Valle Hermosa Hostal in Vicuna(Beautiful Valley B&B), I wanted to get something done about my back. Fortunately, as well as being a stargazing mecca, the Elqui Valley is also known as a ´high energy centre´. It is home to several hippie settlements with many practioners of ´new age´ therapies and the like. I´m not sure if there was any difference in the ´energy´ of the place but it certainly was beautiful.

Curious about the new age aspect, I figured it couldn´t hurt to find a hippy and see what they recommended as a fix for my back. I found just such a chap along with a large St Bernard in the small picturesque town of Pisco Elqui.

The hippie and his wife, both of whom had ´qualifications´ in new age therapy suggested I get a massage. Based on unsatisfactory past experiences of Thai, Swedish and sports massages, I was sceptical of the ´metamorphic´massage that was on offer. But I went along with it anyway, and somewhat surprisingly did find myself feeling better.

With my back back in order, I decided to head to the border and cross the Andes again. But by the time I arrived at the Chilean frontier it had already closed for the day. Miles from anywhere, I didn´t fancy backtracking to a town, nor sleeping at the border post. Instead, I found myself a side track and rode up 2800m into the mountains to camp for the night. This was the view from my tent. Splendid. Just splendid.

Crossing the Andes (again)
The following morning, with the Chilean border formalities quickly dispensed with, I found myself in-between countries. The Argentinian border was a full 120 miles away over the Agua Negra Pass. I spent three hours riding my bike in no-man´s land between countries with scenery out of this world. Steep mountains of all colours - lunar greys, martian reds, and even some pinks and purples.

At the summit of the pass I was 4800m above sea level - by far the highest I´ve been with my bike. The air was thin and cold and the side of the road was lined with otherworldly ice sculptures.

An April Fool
Having crossed back into Argentina for the fifth time I awoke the following day to the sound of a demented rooster clucking away at 4am. It being April 1st, I considered this a poor attempt at an ornithological April fool. I think the rooster was either mad or confused by the bright light from the full moon. Either way I wasn´t best pleased.

I was on the road at a staggeringly early hour that morning and was feeling drowsy. So drowsy that it felt like my common sense glands had been temporarily removed. At least that´s the only explanation I can offer for why I followed my (now fallible) GPS off the main highway directly into a dried river bed full of choppy sand. My reactions weren´t what they should have been and after the obligatory 50 metres of fishtailing I went down for the third time of this trip. Again no damage, but damn foolish.

But that was only the tip of the iceberg. An hour later, back on the tarmac I felt a sudden sharp stinging pain on my inner thigh. Startled by the shock and how close to home it was, I looked down to see what kind of bug was on my trousers. But then I remembered - no bug could pierce through my kevlar armoured riding trousers unless... unless they were inside my trousers. With that terrifying thought rushing through my mind I slammed on the brakes, leapt off the bike and yanked down my trousers in broad daylight in the middle of the road. Expecting to see a scorpion, spider, or at least a bumble bee I could see nothing. Unfortunately the same couldn´t be said for the bus full of locals that sailed by smiling and waving as they caught sight of my union jack underpants. I offered a blushing British salute back and feeling utterly ridiculous pulled up my trousers. I never did find out what bit me, but it certainly had a sense of humour.

Back in time
Fortunately, April Fool´s are only allowed to be played before midday, and that afternoon with the humour out of the way I approached Cafayate in northwest Argentina. This is wine lovers country with pallatial wine bodegas all over the place.

Maybe in a few years time when my taste buds have matured I´ll come back and do the Ruta del Vino. But for now, I was more than happy with Ruta 68, which connects Cafayate with Salta. It is home to some of the best riding in the world, with perfect twisty roads winding their way through a sandstone canyon. The scenery reminded me of Monument Valley in Utah - one of the sights of the first team Canuk adventure three years ago. For a moment I was transported back in time - on the same bike, in the same scenery, with the same feeling of wonder. Absolutely unforgettable.

And now, with Bolivia just a stone´s throw away, it´s time to leave the hospitable lands of Argentina and Chile and enter wilderness country. With any luck I´ll be back this way in just over a month´s time. But for now, there´s some serious adventure riding to be done.

Ruta 40 - the spectacular road north

2010-03-26T02:18:00.011Z

Since leaving Ushuaia a week ago I´ve been blow off the road, slept rough in the cold winderness and almost lost my rear suspension. I´ve now travelled over 4000 miles in South America and am currently in the lakeside town of San Carlos de Bariloche.

For the past week I have been criss-crossing between Argentina and Chile, mainly riding on Ruta 40 which tracks the Andes north. Far from the dull monotony of Ruta 3 (the long straight paved road that carried me south down the Atlantic coast to Ushuaia), Ruta 40 is infamous among bikers. A mix of smooth tarmac and rough (sometimes very rough) gravel road, it is synonymous with gusting winds, challenging riding, and spectacular scenery.

After leaving Tierra del Fuego the first breathtaking sight that greeted me was the towering granite spires of Torres del Paine National Park, Chile. Surrounded by crystal blue mountain lakes the national park has some of the best trekking in the world.

Loathed to miss it, I consulted my guidebook and looked for a suitably challenging but quick trek that I could do before sunset. The most appropriate seemed to be the "Las Torres" route - a 9km hike up 1500m to see the granite towers. The only problem was that my guidebook told me to allow 9 hours to get up there and back - I had two and a half before the sun went down. Looking at the spires, which appeared so close, I reckoned I could do it quicker than that. Surely it´ll only take half an hour to get to the top?

Setting off at a run, I stormed past the groups of English speaking tourists (all of whom were carrying heavy camping gear) and two hours later I heaved myself to the summit, panting like Boddingtons and completely exhausted. The view that greeted me was a cold barren lake and "glacier". Not quite the sunlit panorama I had imagined, but not bad. It took me another two and a half hours to stumble back down under a starlit sky.

Crossing back into Argentina I soon found myself in El Calafate - a pleasant tourist town that exists mainly to cater for the hoardes of tourists that visit the Perrito Moreno glacier every year. I cant imagine taking a tourist bus to get to the glacier though. The 50 miles of newly paved road are some of the best I have ridden. With tight hairpins, swooping corners and the spectacular vista of Lago Argentina, the road is up there with Highway 1 in California.

The glacier itself was nothing short of captivating. I have seen several so-called glaciers on the tops of mountains, but they often resemble little more than sheets of dirty ice. In contrast, the Perrito Moreno glacier is far more in keeping with the term, with shards of ice standing sixty metres tall cutting a path through the mountains. It reminded me of Superman´s ice palace and I watched it for over an hour, listening to the cracking ice like distant gunfire and watching the occasional piece crumble off into the lake below. Without a doubt, one of the best sights I have seen.

But following a few days of fairly touristy sightseeing it was time to get back on the road and begin the difficult stretch of Ruta 40 from Tres Lagos to Los Antiguos across Patagonia - 400 miles of rough gravel.

Normally, gravel is one of my favourite off-road surfaces - reasonably predictable and fun for sliding the bike around. But what I wasn´t expecting was the wind, which has a huge impact on the bike´s speed and handling. Normally I cruise at about 50mph off road, but with the wind behind me I was comfortably doing 60. For most of the time though the wind wasn´t behind and I was either riding into it (at barely 40mph), or it was coming at me from the side. The side winds are the worst. They catch the bike´s panniers and blow you off course. On tarmac you can correct the wobbles, but on gravel where there are deep rutts only a foot wide, it is much more difficult. On one stretch I cruised around a corner in what I thought was a sheltered nook only to be blasted with a hefty gust from the side. The wind was so strong it blew me out of the central rutt I was riding in and onto the loose gravel. After fifty metres of wild fishtailing I had just about brought the bike under control, now in the righthand rutt of the road. But as I was pulling up another gust hit me, blowing me completely off the road and down the steep bank on the side. Fortunately, I was only doing about 10mph so the impact was light and there was no damage. But it took me over half an hour to drag the bike upright again in the dusty sand with my gear blowing all over the place. Put that down as drop one of the South American tour.

Owing to the drop and poor state of the road, I didn´t make it to Los Antiguos that night and instead camped out in the blustery cold of the Patagonian plains. Even with all my gear on and a sleeping bag, it was still bloody freezing and I woke up with a cold. Bugger.

The following day I finally hit the tarmac again and road for a relaxing hour or two on the smooth surface, taking in the scenery around the sealike shore of South America´s second biggest lake - known as Lago Buenos Aires if you´re in Argentina and Lago General Carrera if you´re in Chile.

After stopping for a delicious salmon lunch I crossed the border and decided to continue around the lake on the rough stuff again. My guidebook promised me some of the best scenery in Southern Chile, and I wasn´t disappointed. Mystical canyonlands and lakeside stretches with a road that clung impossibly to the sides of the steep mountains.

My guidebook also promised me one of the best climates in southern Chile with 300 days of sunshine a year. But being British, I brought the bad weather with me. Not only was it overcast, but by the early evening it was raining too. Loathed to camp for a fourth chilly night in a row, I sort alternative accommodation. Hotels and B&Bs were pretty sparse in the area, as the relatively new gravel road had only just opened the area to tourism. Instead, I found myself in the tiny hamlet of Bahia Murta with little sign of life anywhere. After knocking on a few doors I eventually managed to find myself a cabana for the night - a log cabin if I´m being generous, a wooden shack if not.

The cabana was basic to say the least. No central heating, no warm water, and obvious gaps in the woodwork and windows, which let the wind in. But there was a roof over my head, and I had the expansive cabin all to myself - complete with three bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. Most importantly of all though, it had a wood burning stove, which I got going after a few attempts (doubtless Ted "Macgyver" Macher would have done it first time).

Soon I had got the kitchen warmed up and my wet clothes dried, but the question was how to transfer that heat to the bedroom across the hall. Then in a Macgyver-esk stroke of genius it hit me - I boiled some water and used one of my water bags to improvise a hot water bottle. I woke up the following morning feeling refreshed and toasty warm. Marvellous.

Back on the rough road I soon noticed that the bike was handling oddly and not riding the bumps well at all. I pulled up to have a quick check and noticed two significant problems. First, a part of my notoriously rubbish Caribou luggage rack had completely disintegrated and fallen off the bike. Second, the bolt that supports my rear suspension spring had nearly dropped out - rendering the rear shock almost completely useless. Both problems were beyond my roadside repair skills, so I cautiously climbed back on the bike and rode as gently as I could along the sixty mile stretch to the nearest town - Coyhaique. Riding at 20mph was painful, not just because I´m impatient, but because I couldn´t get to enjoy this spectacular stretch of hairpins on the way.

Eventually though I made it to Coyhaique and managed to organise the local bike mechanic to help me out with repairs.

By the following morning the suspension was repaired, Juan the mechanic had constructed an entirely new part for my luggage rack, and I even had a chance to change the oil and clean the filter. The Phoenix was back in full working order and I spent the following day traversing glorious volcanic scenery with mountains and lakes galore.

Since crossing the border back into Argentina I´ve been motoring north on good roads. The weather has improved considerably and for the first time in almost a fortnight it has been warm enough to take off my thermal layers. Needless to say, since leaving Ushuaia the adventure has really begun. And with Bolivia only a week away, it should continue.

Mad dogs and Englishman

2010-03-17T02:04:00.008Z

I´ve now been in South America for a fortnight. In that time I´ve explored Buenos Aires, visited the Welsh tea rooms of Patagonia, and voyaged two thousand miles to Ushuaia - the World´s most southern city.

Owing to shipping delays my bike only showed up from South Africa 6 days ago, so for the first week of my trip I spent my time in the welcoming metropolis of Buenos Aires. With its wide boulevards, green parks and occasional obelisk, Buenos seems very European to me. But one big difference from many European cities is the people - almost all friendly and almost all stunningly attractive. (They can probably all dance too). Needless to say, as a pasty Brit with no rhythm I stand out like a sore thumb.

But after six days of wandering around the city, seeing the sights, staying in a hotel, enjoying fine food and generally acting like a tourist, I had had enough. It was time to get out and explore. With my bike still waiting for a plane in Johannesburg I resorted to the backpacker method, lugged my gear to the nearest bus terminal and hopped on a coach.

A couple of hours later I found myself in a quiet town with single storey stone buildings, cobbled streets and a distinctive "land that time forgot" feel to it. I immediately liked San Antonio de Areco. The lines of ageing cars in the central square, the abundance of helado (ice cream) parlours, and of course the warm welcome I received from the town´s dogs.

A pack of about eight strays all made the effort to crawl out of the cool shade and bid me hello when I arrived. One particularly hot looking dog with a thick black, brown and white coat even went to the trouble of leading me to a nice hotel a few blocks away. I thanked him with a few pats on the head, and he replied with a wagging tail and said "no trouble at all". Strange I thought, a talking dog. "Ah, you noticed that did you" he barked. I did indeed, after all it´s not every day you meet a talking dog.

Boddingtons, who named himself after the famous English beer on account of his colouring, was a mixed breed - similar to a Beagle in size, but with the fur of an English Sheepdog. When asked about his lineage, he described himself as a ´pavement special´ and left it at that. It soon emerged that Boddingtons was keen to move to a cooler climate where his thick fur would be an asset rather than a burden. And I promptly mentioned I was heading south and would be glad of the company. After all my blog needs a hero. And that´s how Boddingtons the Adventure Dog and his sidekick (me) began our voyage to the end of the world.

Back in Buenos Aires at the airport, Boddingtons distracted the customs guards while I sneaked the bike out. Finally, after eight days of waiting I was on the road. I was riding and Boddingtons sat behind me with his ears flapping in the breeze. We were travelling on the smooth surface of Ruta 3, which extends all the way from the capital to Argentina´s southern tip. It was great to have the freedom of the bike back, and Boddingtons and I celebrated by motoring well over 400 miles that afternoon. But as we travelled further south and crossed into Patagonia the scenery turned more bleak, the road more dull, and the weather more and more formidable.

Wind was a permanent feature of the ride from Buenos Aires. Admiteddly for the first few hundred miles it was just Boddingtons clearing his pipes. But as we travelled further south through Patagonia the westerly gusts became more and more intense. Often we would end up riding with the bike leaned over into the wind just to keep us on the right side of the road. The howling noise was distracting too (and not just from Boddingtons). I always wear ear plugs when riding, but even with them, it was like standing next to a jet engine for hours on end. I don´t know how Boddingtons coped. But when I offered him some ear plugs he barked back "have you seen the size of my ears?".

To break up the journey and to get some respite from the wind, we stopped off in the town of Trelew on the way down - sight of one of the few Welsh colonies. I explained to Boddingtons that I was three quarters Welsh and wanted to find some signs of the original Welsh settlers. But after riding around for a little while, all I could find was a sobre looking monument with a Welsh flag outside it.

Trelew was a bit of a disappointment. But then Boddingtons picked up the scent of something good. We headed inland along the Chubut Valley and soon came across the small town of Gaiman. Welsh Dragons were all over the place and Boddingtons and I soon found ourselves sitting down to a traditional Welsh tea in one of the town´s pleasant tea rooms. They brought us so much cake and tea that we didn´t eat anything else for a full day afterwards. But boy was it good.

Back on the road as we motored further south the wind remained a distraction, but the real challenge became the temperature. By the time we got to the straights of Magellan on the southern tip of the mainland I was wearing a ridiculous amount of clothing and was still nippy. At one point I had on: a pair of boots, two pairs of socks, undies, long johns, knee guards, riding trousers, waterproof trousers, a long-sleeved t-shirt, normal t-shirt, body warmer, windstopper, riding jacket, wrist bands, two neck warmers, waterproof jacket, gloves, googles and a helmet. In contrast, Boddingtons was sitting smugly behind me, comfortable in his thick winter coat. He gloated for several hundred miles before it started raining and he got soaked. Then it was my turn to chuckle, but my gloating was short lived too, as we decided to camp that night and I woke up with the smell of wet dog all around me. Of course Boddingtons blamed my boots, but I think we all know better.

After catching the short ferry across the strait of Magellan and traversing a fun stretch of dirt road in Chilean Territory, we emerged on the Argentine side of Tierra del Fuego - the Land of Fire. The dull monotony of Patagonia was behind us, replaced with the Andes rising up from the sea. The landscapes were stunning and full of fantastic twisty roads. Perfect for biking.

And so, after just five and a half days and 2000 miles, Boddingtons and I rode into Ushuaia and reached "El Fin del Mundo" - the end of the world. We pulled up to get the obligatory shot of the sign, but as I was explaining to Boddingtons that this was as far south as I could go with my bike, the weather rolled in and soaked us again with a freezing torrential downpour. "Only mad dogs and Englishman ay Boddingtons?" I joked. "More like mad Englishman and imaginary dogs" he smiled back, and then he was gone.

La Aventura Comienza

2010-03-02T14:56:00.002Z

After spending a couple of days recuperating in the UK, I'm now off on the South American leg of my adventure. In just under twenty four hours I should be in Buenos Aires, Argentina where the weather is warm (28 degrees) and surprisingly wet. The Phoenix should arrive from Johannesburg in the next few days once I've worked through a bit of paperwork.

I'm looking forward to South America as it's a new continent for me. I cant speak any Spanish though, so there'll be a hefty language barrier to overcome. But I cant wait to follow in the footsteps of the many riders who have travelled this route before - Che Guevara, Alberto Granado, Ted Macher and Tyson Brust to name but a few.

I have 75 days on the continent and plan on seeing as much of it as possible. But I haven't got a concrete plan of where to go yet, more a general idea.

From Buenos Aires I'll travel south through the stunning scenery of Welsh speaking Patagonia. I'll go as far south as my cold weather riding gear will allow, and hopefully reach the tip of the continent in Tierra del Fuego - the Land of Fire. From there I'll turn north and follow the course of the Andes up through Chile. The devastating impact of the recent Chilean earthquake will certainly be an influence on my trip, but I plan on seeing the country all the same. From northern Chile I'll cross into Bolivia to see the world's largest salt pan and highest capital city - La Paz. Then I'll meander around Lake Titicaca up the Inca trail in Peru, before following the volcanoes up to Ecuador. I hope to make it at least as far north as Bogota, Colombia. But from there my route is undecided. Depending on time I may loop back down to Buenos Aires via Paraguay and Uruguay; continue north to Guatemala; or round off my time in unstable Venezuela. There are many options and there is lots to see. I cant wait.

Adios for now.

Out of Africa

2010-02-27T09:57:00.008Z

Since leaving the picturesque town of Swakopmund a few days ago, I've circled back through northern Namibia, ventured across Botswana and completed my whistlestop tour of Southern Africa. I've covered 5000km in 8 days in what can only be described as an iron-butt tour. Happily, I can report that the Phoenix has coped well with the testing journey.

Since leaving the Skeleton Coast I've also left behind the exciting dirt roads and barren desert scenery of southern Namibia. I've crossed into the Tropics and as I've travelled further north the land has become increasingly lush and hospitable.

Northern Namibia and Botswana remind me of the Africa I got used to on my last trip. The roads are busy, not with traffic but with people, dogs, donkeys, and all manner of livestock that use the highways as thoroughfares. I've lost track of the number of times I've had to slam on my brakes in order to avoid ploughing into a stubborn mule, dopey dog, or daft cow standing in the middle of the road.

Having spent a few days on the busier smooth roads of northern Namibia, the final few miles to the border were on tranquil dirt - a fitting end to a great wilderness country. Crossing into Botswana I was immediately greeted with a thunderstorm and a soaking. As way of a small apology, Mother Nature treated me to a glimpse of a glorious rainbow before hiding the sun behind a thick sheet of cloud for the rest of the day. Unbeknownst to me it is the wet season in Southern Africa.

With the light fading and no sign of a campsite or lodge I mulled over my options. Either ride on in my sodden state to the next big town while playing 'chicken' with the suicidal livestock, or call it a night and bush camp in the brush of the Okavango Delta. I cautiously went for the bush camping option.

As Wikipedia will tell you, the Okavango is the world's largest inland delta and home to a huge variety of wildlife including lions, elephants, crocodiles and many, many creepy crawlies. So it was with some sense of trepidation that I pitched my tent in the eerie dusk of the Delta.

Having drifted off to sleep I awoke with a start as I heard something big rustling outside. I lay still for a minute trying to work out what it might be. More rustling sounds on the other side of my tent indicated that whatever it was, there was more than one of them. Then there was the unmistakable, blood curdling sound of a .... cow mooing. A herd of cattle, not content with trying to block the roads during the day, had decided to wonder through my makeshift campsite at night. The buggers.

Of course I was relieved they were cows and not lions, but I was still irritated. I spent a few unsuccessful minutes trying to shoo them away but only managed to generate a few quizzical stares before they went back to chewing the cud. The following day I found a nice restaurant and enjoyed a big steak as revenge.

Other than bush camping, the majority of my time in Botswana was spent on long straight roads. At one point my GPS indicated I should go straight for 180 miles, then take the second exit at the roundabout, and continue straight for another 100 miles. Fun.

Keen to get the monotony out of the way, I pressed on quickly and made good progress. But as I cruised around a corner in one of the tiny towns, I got nabbed by the police. Two officers with a camera clocked me travelling at 102kph in a 60 zone. Clearly I was speeding, so there wasn't any point in denying it. Instead, I put on my best diplomatic accent and apologised in the hope of getting away with a caution. Unfortunately the officers diligently explained I would have to pay a fine because I wasn't just going a bit over the speed limit - I was booking it.

According to the official police fine book (which they showed me), anyone travelling at 102kph should pay 1340 pula (which is about £120). Shocked at the amount, I continued with my apologetic English gentleman routine and managed to talk the officer down to 200 pula. I paid the fine and rode off without too much bitterness. No one likes paying fines, but I had deserved this one. And, unlike in other parts of Africa, I didn't get a sense of being cheated by a corrupt police force. These cops were honest and genuine - I left with a receipt for my fine.

Back on the tar I soon came to the Sowa salt pan - site of so much fun from the last trip. But the pan was different from how I remembered it. Far from being dry and barren the area was filled with lush vegetation and grazing animals. Given my limited time in Africa I knew I couldn't afford to cross the pan again (it took a full day of hard riding last time). But as a small reward for the countless hours I'd spent on the tar, I gave myself an hour of playtime, pulled off the highway and headed into the brush.

The sandy track that led to the pan was tricky. Heavily rutted and with prickly bushes blocking the way I had to frequently hop the bike from one sandy rut to the other. To make matters worse, some burrowing animal had decided to make its home on the path by digging countless large holes in it, many of which were hidden from view. My wildlife knowledge isn't what it should be, so I cant tell you what animal actually made those holes, but I blame badgers. Crafty buggers.

Despite the badgers' best efforts the Phoenix coped well with the track and we emerged from the brush triumphantly onto the glorious pan.

The glinting surface looked much as I remembered it - seemingly unaffected by the wet season. Keen to have some fun, I gunned the engine and headed off onto the flats. But, after just ten metres, I felt the bike begin to bog down. Last time this happened Tyson and I got stuck in the mud for almost an hour. Fearing the same thing happening again, I pulled on the throttle and tried to power my way out of trouble. This almost worked but Mother Nature was determined to stop my fun, and after twenty metres of fishtailing I ran into a patch of slippery mud and went down hard.

I crawled out from under the bike covered in mud. Other than a slight strain in my knee from an aggravated old injury, I was fine. But the Phoenix had fallen awkwardly on one of her panniers. I needed to get her upright and assess the damage.

After five minutes of huffing and puffing with my feet constantly slipping, I managed to make a big mess but made no progress at all. With no one around for miles, the only option was to begin the arduous task of unloading all of my gear, and pickup the unladen bike and walk it to the side of the pan. So that's what I did.

After about half an hour of heavy lifting, I was repacked and ready to go again. The damage to the Phoenix had proved light, but my 'hour of fun' was almost over and I needed to get back to the road. I found my way back to the same path I had come in on and soon began dodging prickly bushes again. I was making steady progress when I spotted a badger hole up ahead. I hopped the bike out of the way to avoid it, only to encounter two hidden holes on the other side. The second of these caught my back wheel awkwardly - dethroning me for the second time in an hour. Bloody badgers.

A day later I crossed back into South Africa for the final time and enjoyed a fantastic evening ride on country roads into Johannesburg. Namibia may have the best night skies, Botswana the Sowa salt pan, but South Africa is the jewel in Africa's crown - a motorbiker's paradise. I'll certainly be back. But, with so many places still to explore it's time to get out of Africa for the time being. Onwards to South America.

Back in the saddle

2010-02-21T15:44:00.007Z

I jumped the gun a bit in my last blog entry by saying it was time to get back in the saddle for another adventure. I was willing, but my bike has had other ideas. Far from being ready to ride, she’s taken several days to get back to adventure-ready status.

Evidently her main problem – a seized engine - has been fixed. But a whole host of other minor problems ranging from a sticking choke cable, leaking coolant and a stripped oil drain plug (that last one was my fault), kept me in Johannesburg for five days. But, thanks to the advice and help from Andre - the master mechanic - and his extensive range of tools (including the magnificent crane shown below) – my bike is back in order, and I’ve been on the road since Thursday.

Many of you will already know that I’ve managed to wangle another three months off work to go adventure riding again. I’m spending the first two weeks of that in Africa - finishing off the bits that I didn’t get to see on the last trip (mainly Namibia). For the remaining two and a half months I’ll be retracing Che Guevara’s route around Latin America. More on that in future blogs - for now: Africa.

One big difference from the London to Cape Town adventure (and indeed all of my previous bike trips) is this time I’m going solo. It’s an invigorating experience riding alone as you get a sense of freedom and independence quite different from group riding. But I’ll miss my teammates and so will you, as the quality of this blog will deteriorate from an amusing trip account filled with interesting characters, to an egotistical monologue. For that I apologise in advance.

The Phoenix Rises
I’m slightly superstitious when it comes to my bikes, so like a good ship I always give them a name. Previously my bike was “The Odyssey” on account of the epic trips we’ve taken together. But due to the extensive repairs she’s undergone, it seems fitting to give her a new name. So, having risen out of the ashes of the Odyssey’s burnt out engine, she’s now christened “The Phoenix” - may she voyage far and wide.

Despite her difficult birth, the Phoenix has already carried me 2200km in just four days. That’s one tenth of the distance from London to Cape Town and about twice the distance from Land’s End to John O’Groats (as the crow flies).

My first butt-numbing day was spent riding 890km on good roads from Johannesburg to Augrabies Falls, near the Namibian border. It was a nice re-introduction to the world of adventure touring, but not particularly interesting for you readers. The following day was better. It began at dawn with a visit to Augrabies Falls, which locally means “the place of big noises”. The Orange River, which flows over the falls had swelled from heavy rains earlier that week, so the falls were noisier than normal and an impressive sight (and sound) to behold.

Back on the road, I soon reached the ominously named town of Pofadder, where I filled up with petrol and kept a lookout for snakes. Fully gassed up, I turned off the main highway and headed for the Namibian border. To my surprise, the smooth tar road quickly gave way to a dirt track. Glancing at my map, it soon became clear that I’d be on this stuff for well over 100 miles. And, after 18 months away from dirt biking, I don’t mind telling you I was more than a little apprehensive about off-road riding, particularly with a fully laden bike.

It took me several miles of wild fishtailing before the memories started to come back. "Stand up, keep loose, and use the throttle to get you out of trouble", I kept repeating to myself. Drenched with sweat from the stifling heat (40 degrees plus) and the high octane drama, I eventually reached the frontier. And, with the formalities quickly taken care of, I spent the rest of the day relearning my dirt-biking skills. It was a tough day, but after about 500km I was rewarded with the spectacular vista of Fish River Canyon. I arrived just before sunset, and with the place deserted I was able to ride my bike right up to the edge of the Canyon.

The following day proved even more eventful. With my riding confidence starting to swell, I came across a big “Road Closed” sign early in the day. Seeing no sign of immediate trouble, I belligerently ignored the warning and rode on. A few miles later I came across the obstacle that had closed the road - a dried up river bed, which consisted of 50m of deep choppy sand with no obvious route through. Bugger. With back-tracking out of the question, I had two options - either gun the throttle and attempt to bounce my way across the uneven surface, or inch my way gradually across using my feet as paddles. I opted for the more foolhardy approach, gunned the throttle and bounced about 10m before the front wheel dug in and I came to an abrupt stop in the soft sand. My top heavy bike comically toppled over to complete the maneuver. With my riding confidence restored to a more fitting level, I heaved the bike back upright and humbly paddled the rest of the way across.

200km later I was getting worried about fuel. Namibia is a sparsely populated country and the major towns on maps are often nothing more than a collection of shanties. Having ridden through one well-signposted ghosttown I made my way to Bethanie, which was clearly marked as a town with a fuel pump on my map. Just on the outskirts I switched to reserve, and was relieved to pull into a petrol station just a few minutes later. That relief was short-lived though, as I was quickly informed that the whole town was out of gas. A knowledgeable gentleman informed me that the next town definitely had some petrol, ‘just’ 85km up the road. I tried explaining that with barely two litres of fuel left in my tank that it was very unlikely I’d be able to make it. I asked when the next petrol delivery was expected - “two days” was the uncertain reply I got from the petrol attendant. The knowledgeable gent then encouragingly said “if you go slow, you will make it” – by which I’m sure he meant, “if you ride at about 50mph, keep the revs at 4000rpm and tuck yourself into the most aerodynamic shape possible, there’s a chance you will get there”. And so, with little other option, that’s exactly what I did.

After a commendable 75km, my fuel starved bike finally conked out just 10km short of town - at least now I know the range of my tank, 435 km (272 miles). Having seen less than a hundred cars during my first two days in Namibia, I began preparing to trudge the final stretch into town. But, as luck would have it, a shiny new Land Cruiser came over the hill and I blagged a lift in the back of the air conditioned beast. Within an hour I was back at my bike, refueled and ready for another long stint.

A day later and I am sitting on the Skeleton Coast in a town called Swakopmund. It’s been a fun few days, but not quite what I expected. When I googled Namibia in preparation for my trip, most of the images that popped up were of stunning vistas of sand dunes and canyons. Namibia has many of these, and it has been a pleasure riding my bike through them. But the vast majority of Namibia, which is about four times the size of the UK, is made up of baron wilderness. Beautiful in its own way. There are very few countries where you can park your bike in the middle of an intercity highway and take a photo. But in Namibia you can stop and eat your lunch in the middle of the road without any fear of seeing another vehicle let alone being runover.

Those sorts of insights you can’t really get by reading Wikipedia or a guidebook, and that’s why it’s such a privilege to travel through these places. You get a sense of the country beyond the standard promotional guff. Needless to say, it's great to be back in the saddle.

PS. Despite what I’ve said it would be amiss of me not to show you some of the spectacles that Namibia has treated me to over the past few days. Below is a shot of some of the stunning landscapes I passed through yesterday evening, and below that is a shot of my bike next to some of the enormous sand dunes on the Skeleton Coast (I got my bike stuck getting that photo). But probably one of the greatest sights, which I can’t show you, is the night sky. Truly spectacular, and like nothing we get back home. I recommend a visit for that alone.

The swan song of an epic trip

2010-02-15T23:52:00.006Z

It has been a full eighteen months since my last blog entry and much has happened in that time. The first decade of the 21st century has past; the world economy has fallen into (and is slowly emerging from) one of the biggest recessions in history; and space enthusiasts around the globe have celebrated the 40th anniversary of the moon landing. But one other much less significant thing also happened in that time - Team CanUK finished its London to Cape Town adventure.

For those loyal readers who have followed this blog since its inception, that final piece of news may come as a bit of a surprise. You'd be forgiven for thinking we never made it to Cape Town such has been the delay in my writing. But finish we did.

Why the delay then? Simply because the fate of one team member (my bike) and the story has only been concluded recently.

When I last signed off, the trip was on a bit of a cliffhanger. Jerry had lost one of his panniers in Tanzania and had boldly set off alone for Dar Es Salaam to replace his paperwork. My bike had ground to a halt in Malawi and was sitting in pieces waiting to be trucked to Johannesburg for repairs. And Tyson and I were setting off on the back of Rosa - west toward Zambia.

Even though it was over a year ago, the memory of sitting on the back of Tyson's bike as we rode out of Lilongwe is still with me. I remember glancing over my shoulder and watching my bike disappear into the haze behind us. The plan was to get it trucked to Johannesburg and repaired. That way we could reunite for the final triumphant stretch into Cape Town. But as I saw the Odyssey vanish into the distance, I couldn't help but think it would be a long time until I saw it again.

As it turned out it wasn't my bike that got me to Cape Town in the end. Instead it was the kindness of strangers, the help of a good friend, and the durability of his trusty bike. Those are the heroes of this final chapter of the London to Cape Town Adventure and to whom my attention turns now.

Jimmy - the South African ball buster
The first of the strangers that deserves a mention is Jimmy McDaniel - the hardy South African owner of the Dirt Bike Centre in Lilongwe, Malawi. Jimmy was easily one of the most interesting characters I met on the trip.

On a continent where waiting is to be expected, it's always nice to have someone around who can tell fascinating stories to pass the time. Jimmy is just such a fellow.

At 68, few people can convincingly say they've hunted sharks, raced dirtbikes, and ridden one handed into an enemy ambush while firing a machine gun. But Jimmy is one of those people.

Yet even though Jimmy may sound like the hero of a conventional action thriller that's not the reason I mention him here. Instead it's because of his trustworthiness, generosity and sheer bloody mindedness, without which I wouldn't have been able to abandon my beloved bike, confident in the knowledge that I would see it again (someday).

Jimmy's Dirt Bike centre is the closest thing to a Kawasaki dealership this side of the South African border. But that's not saying much. Far from a gleaming dealership full of expert mechanics and tools, Jimmy's business is relatively small, and gets most of its revenue by selling small bikes to the wealthier residents of Lilongwe. But what the Dirt Bike Centre lacks in parts, tools and equipment, it more than makes up for with character, knowledge and contacts. And that's all down to Jimmy. Having worked for Honda for the best part of his life, he knows his way around a motorbike and he knows when one is buggered beyond the repair skills and tools of his mechanics. And “buggered” was the unfortunate diagnosis that befell the Odyssey. But far from being defeated this spurred Jimmy on. And, after a few days of frantic phone calls and conversations, many of which ended with "well, you're bloody useless then", Jimmy seemed to have managed to organise safe passage of my bike to one of the few places on the continent that stood a decent chance of fixing it - South Africa.

Now if you're sitting back in the UK thinking - that doesn't sound particularly difficult - you're in good company. Tyson and I thought organising a truck to take a bike across a few borders would be a relatively simple and relatively cheap too. How naive we were.

Riding off into the distance we were blissfully unaware of the nightmarish logistical challenge that faced Jimmy. Truck driver after truck driver promised to transport the bike to Johannesburg, only to flake out days (sometimes weeks) later. A fuel shortage in Zimbabwe made matters worse by limiting the number of trucks crossing the border. So in the end, it took two and a half months, a 10,000 rand bribe (£700), and tireless efforts from Jimmy to get my bike to Johannesburg. How can you explain such bothers? Jimmy's simple answer was "TIA" - This Is Africa.

Heiko - The German living the dream
The next stranger worthy of a mention is Heiko, a friendly German who lives happily in Livingstone, Zambia with his four dogs.

Tyson and I met Heiko after being disappointed at Victoria Falls. We’d both been planning to do a bungee jump over the falls ever since we set off from London but such was our luck, the bungee was closed on the day we turned up. So, as a consolation prize, we decided to take a microlight flight.

Seeing Victoria Falls from the air was breathtaking - it allows you to really appreciate the scale of the vast fissures of rock over which the river flows. Add to that the thrill of flying in a microlight (which has to be the closest thing to riding a motorbike in the air) and the chance to see hippos, elephant and giraffe from the air, makes it definitely worth it.

But to seal the deal, Tyson's pilot - Heiko - was a keen rider and massive KLR fan. He had biked across Africa several years earlier and had fallen in love with the place. He now spends his days living the dream - riding his bike, playing with his dogs, and flying over Victoria Falls for most of the day. An enviable lifestyle if ever there was one.

Such is Heiko’s fondness of the KLR that he’d spotted us from the air several hours earlier. Such was his generosity that after the flight, he invited us to stay with him and his dogs. Happy to spend an evening swopping adventure stories and playing fetch, Tyson and I followed him back to his house and wittled the hours away talking bikes and getting advice.

Two things Heiko said made a big difference to my trip. The first was the revelation that many KLRs suffer the same fate as mine – apparently losing oil is a common fault. So common in fact that Heiko used to make a decent living rebuilding KLR engines back in Germany that had run out of oil. That gave me some comfort that my duffer’s negligence wasn’t entirely unique.

The other bit of advice was on route choice. Heiko recommended that we travel through the Sowa salt pan in Botswana on our way to Johannesburg. And that little off-road excursion turned out to be one of the most thrilling parts of our trip.

Getting to the pan was by no means trivial. We had to ride through sand for a few kilometres, which is challenging enough when you’re on your own, but all the more difficult when you’re riding two up. But after a bit of relay riding (one guy riding the other guy running) we made it to the pan.

Of all the places I visited on the trip, the Sowa salt plan was one of my favourites. I have always wanted to go to the moon, and the pan is the closest that I have been to experiencing it. Made from a dry lake bed, the salty crust cracks as you walk over it so you leave explorer-like footprints as Armstrong and Aldrin did forty years earlier.

The flat surface of the pan also provides the ideal setting for honing stunt riding skills. And for much of the afternoon, Tyson and I tried pulling off our best moves as well as recreating the famous cover shot from the ‘Motorcycle Diaries’.

But after several hours of tomfoolery we still had a hundred kilometres to cover before nightfall and decided to push on further south through the pan. Little did we know that the coming hours would be some of the most difficult riding of the trip.

The trials began at the southern end of the pan when Tyson noticed Rosa was beginning to overheat. His response was to stop and allow the bike to cool off. This was the sensible thing to do, but turned out to be a bad move. The reason Rosa was overheating was her rear tyre was slipping on a thick layer of mud, which was lying hidden just below the salty surface. As we stopped the bike sunk into this slick muddy layer, meaning we lost traction completely. The tried and tested technique of gunning the throttle only served to splatter mud everywhere and dig the bike deeper. So our only option was to tip the bike over, scrape off the mud with our bare hands and drag the bike to slightly firmer ground and attempt a restart. Three attempts later and we were back up and running. But now, anxious not to get bogged, we were travelling fast. And then it happened. Slowly at first, but the bike began to weave. Tyson did a good job of controlling the bike’s momentum, so we continued to travel in ever increasing weaves. But there was no stopping the inevitable and after two hundred metres or so, we crashed.

Crashing had become a regular part of the trip for me, but this was the first time I had experienced it as a passenger. It was an odd experience. You know the bike is going to go down, but there is nothing you can do about it. So you just accept your fate, shield your camera, and brace for impact.

In the end, it was a fairly minor high speed slide out – the main result of which was to cover us both in stick muddy. But fair’s fair and Tyson relinquished the driving seat only for me to repeat the favour about an hour later when we ploughed into some deep sand. And with darkness falling we proceeded to plough on into the night through some of the most challenging deep sandy ruts that we had seen. Relay riding was required for a couple of hours, and by the end of it, we emerged from the pan knackered, humbled (as we weren’t the riding masters that we though), but overall relieved. An unforgettable experience.

Andre - Gatekeeper of Johannesburg
Several days later on the freeway just on the outskirts of Johannesburg, a shiny green sports bike sped past us. Strangely, instead of blasting off into the distance, the rider slowed down to our more modest speed, and beckoned us to pullover. And that’s how we came across Andre who, like Heiko, was another KLR enthusiast interested in finding out where we’d come from and where we were going. We went through the usual story, and Andre responded with the generosity that must come naturally to South Africans – offering us his house and workshop (he was an electrical engineer and part-time master mechanic) as a safe haven from the mean streets of Johannesburg. We hadn’t decided our plans yet, as they were conditional on whether my bike had arrived and been fixed, but we thanked him graciously and agreed to call him later.

At Russell Campbell Motorcycles – the Kawasaki dealership that were expecting delivery of my bike - we learned the sad truth. Not only was my bike not fixed, but it still hadn’t left Lilongwe. This was a heavy blow, as it was now clear that I wouldn’t get to finish the trip on the Odyssey. News from Jerry, who had been making fantastic progress in catching us up, was similarly downbeat – as he was stuck at Victoria Falls waiting for his replacement documents to arrive. And so sadly, the three amigos didn’t get to ride triumphantly into Cape Town on our trusty steeds together. A massive shame, but then it wouldn’t be an adventure if everything went to plan would it?

And so we did our best to cobble together a happy ending. With copious amounts of help from the folks at Russell Campbell’s and Andre, we managed to: organise a few repairs on trusty old Rosa (to ensure she made the final leg); hired me a showroom fresh BMW bike (a farcical off-road machine, but fast and fun); and even recruited Andre to join us for the final leg of the trip. And so, a different three amigos on a different set of bikes did set off from Johannesburg, and a week later, after riding through a snowstorm, experiencing another terrifying crash (this time involving Andre, a reckless driver and another lucky escape), jumping off the world’s highest commercial bungee jump (it was very high), and getting our name in the paper (see here) we reached Cape Aghulas – the most southerly point in Africa – and a little later, Cape Town. We had made it. And it was a good feeling.

Two weeks later, after his own epic adventure, Jerry triumphantly rolled into Cape Town on his battered bike. And 18 months after that, following extensive repairs, my bike has been lovingly restored by Andre and Co. It is now ready for the next big adventure, and I am back in Johannesburg. Time to saddle up.

A Duffer's Negligence

2008-08-22T10:07:00.008+01:00

Riding a motorbike is a lot like playing a game of golf. You're outdoors, taking in the scenery, the sun's on your face and you're having fun. But like golf, sometimes you have your good days and sometimes you have your bad ones. It was on the road from Kasulu to Mpanda in Tanzania that Jerry was having a bad day. We'd already covered 250 miles on Tanzania's dusty dirt tracks without too much bother. But this road was different. Fesh-fesh, rocky terraces and deep sandy rutts.

It was the rutts that had Jerry's number. Like a particularly deep bunker, Jerry often found himself in the rutts, and when he did he found it difficult to get out. In the 150 mile stretch to Mpanda he dropped his bike 14 times – seven of which were in a sandy section not more than two miles apart. Par for the course was about three or four drops - at least that's how many times Tyson and I came off anyway.

When you get stuck in a mental funk, either playing golf or riding a bike, it's very difficult to pull yourself out. But Jerry shook off the yips and emerged from the road to Mpanda triumphantly - riding the last fifty miles at break neck pace. Despite falling multiple times, both he and Buffy (his bike) seemed unscathed. The same couldn’t be said for Tyson and I though. Tyson, who had gone on ahead to find water, had been forced off the road by an oncoming truck. That spill, or one of his others, resulted in a worryingly large hole in his fuel tank. So with gas pouring onto the ground at an alarming rate, he tore in to Mpanda to get a hasty weld.

As for me, I was riding in the rear gunner position. Riding at the back of the group is a nice place to be. You don’t have to wait around. You’ve always got a bike in front of you as entertainment (just in case the scenery gets dull), and you can muck about without putting the other guys off. But you’re also responsible for picking up anyone who falls over and for looking after yourself.

On a bumpy bit of fesh-fesh I stole a rearward glance at my left hand pannier – the metal rack which holds my case onto the bike had developed another crack and I thought it might have sheared. But taking my eye off the road was a bad move – like looking up in the middle of a golf swing. With my eye off the ball, my front wheel dug into the ground, twisting awkwardly and sending me crashing to the ground. On the way down my foot got caught under the pannier trapping my ankle underneath. I yelled out in pain but no-one was around to hear. I was riding at the back after all.

Fortunately it was only a sprain and I could still ride without too much discomfort. My bike suffered minor injuries too – a bent front fairing, wonky handlebars and a few more scratches to add to the growing collection. Together we limped in to Mpanda just as the sun was setting.

The following day, we did our best to service the bikes and get them back to roadworthy condition. It was late in the afternoon by the time we eventually got going. Despite our late start we had the ambitious goal of making it another 150 miles to Sumbawanga (whoever named the towns in western Tanzania had a sense of humour).

The ride out of town was a pleasant one. Smooth tracks lead us through Katavi National Park and for once I was leading. As I rounded a corner I saw a majestic sight – a lone giraffe standing by the side of the road. She looked at me curiously as I slowed down. Then as I edged closer she dashed into the trees camouflaging herself expertly. Seeing a giraffe run is quite a sight to behold – they gallop in slow motion as if their hooves barely touch the ground. Graceful.

We saw more giraffes as the warm red sun dipped slowly below the horizon. At dusk, we had the option to camp or push on a bit further and make up some miles. The lights on the KLR aren’t the best in the world and you’re always advised against riding at night in Africa. But we pushed on anyway as it was still a long way to Sumbawanga. We got a few miles before it got so dark that I needed to turn on my high beams. But as I flicked the switch all of my lights went out – a classic sign of a blown fuse. Fortunately Tyson was looking in his mirrors and circled back to help out. As we were replacing the fuse, a ranger pulled up to warn us that there were lions around. Our repairs gained a sense of urgency after that. Good thing we didn’t camp.

We pushed on for another 30 miles or so, Tyson and I riding side-by-side, his high-beams lighting the way. As we passed a wildfire we pulled over to wait for Jerry. Half an hour went by before we saw his headlight wobbling slowly towards us. Something was very wrong with his steering. Like an extreme version of the problem I had in Europe (a loose steering bearing). We decided to camp again that night (now safely out of lion territory) and diagnose the problem in the morning.

It was Jerry’s birthday when we woke up, but Buffy hadn’t got a present for him. Far from it. An initial inspection of her steering revealed nothing wrong until Tyson spotted an ominous crack in her frame. I’ve done a lot of research for this trip and read a lot about KLRs, but I’ve never heard of anyone cracking their frame before. This could be a trip ending incident. It’s still a bit of a mystery as to what caused the crack. Jerry hadn’t fallen that day, so the road to Mpanda must have been the culprit. One of his 14 spills must have weakened the frame causing it to slowly crack over the course of the day.

We rode slowly in to Sumbawanga to look for a mechanic. It was Sunday and we figured everything would be closed. But good fortune shone on us again. Not only did we find a mechanic, but we found a competent one. Within three hours he had completely stripped Jerry’s bike, welded the frame (which had cracked in two places – effectively splitting the bike in half) and put the whole thing back together. We decided to celebrate Jerry’s good fortune with a night on the town. But Jerry’s luck didn’t last for long.

The following day on the ride to Tunduma there was another mishap. The roads had gotten a little bumpy again and Jerry was concerned about his frame. So concerned in fact that he didn’t notice one of his panniers fall off. Tyson’s pannier had slipped off his bike three times on the same road but each time he had noticed quickly enough to circle round and pick it up. Everytime a local had already got the case in their hand. On one occasion a car even picked up the case and Tyson had to follow it for two miles before it would relinquish his luggage.

Jerry wasn’t so lucky. He didn’t notice his case was missing for 100km. And, since our cases look exactly like those that drug dealers might use to haul vast quantities of cash around, it’s almost certain that it has been prized open in some Tanzanian village.

There was a bit of cash in the case, but the real expense, and the reason that Jerry is now in Dar es Salaam rather than here with Tyson and I in Malawi, is because all his ID documents were in that case. There have been four occasions when Jerry thought he might have to end his trip early. None of us thought it would be paperwork that would be the final nail in the coffin.

But if you’re thinking that Jerry is the negligent duffer in this story then you’re mistaken. That unfortunate title falls to me. Jerry is well on his way to replacing all his documents and should be continuing south to the Cape before long. The journey on my bike has come to a more abrupt end however.

Since entering Malawi, Tyson and I have been soaring on the smooth blacktop travelling at highway speeds for the first time in a long time. The roads are in excellent condition and a nice reward after the trials of Tanzania.

It’s a harsh irony that in such idyllic riding conditions, my bike (The Odyssey) has finally stopped working. And it’s not her fault either, it’s entirely mine.

Bike maintenance is a crucial part of a trip like this. Everyday you check your tyre pressure and your engine oil. But over the past few days I’ve got sloppy with my maintenance. Too preoccupied with my front fork seal, which has been leaking oil since Sumbawanga, and my tyres (which got a puncture shortly after Tunduma) I forgot to check my engine oil. That’s a cardinal sin in the motorcycling world and one that I’ll pay for dearly. Oil is the lifeblood of the engine, and without it things can seize up pretty fast. In normal conditions a bike won’t use much oil and the only way it can get dangerously low is a leak, which is obvious by a thick tarry covering over the engine. But occasionally the engine can use up large quantities of oil unexpectedly. It was one of those unexpected occurrences that happened in Malawi.

Maybe it was because we were riding at over 80mph for the first time in ages. Maybe it was because we covered over 400 miles that day. Whatever the reason, the ride was taxing the engine and burning oil. 50 miles north of Lilongwe it finally conked out. First I thought it was a simple problem – like a worn out spark plug. But when Tyson circled back and asked me how the oil was doing I realised I hadn’t checked it. Glancing down at the oil gauge window, I saw nothing there. Even when the bike was fully tilted over there was no sign of the black stuff anywhere.

With my bike going nowhere, and Tyson’s electrical problems back, we both had to load our bikes onto a truck to take us the final 50 miles to Lilongwe. And that’s where we’ve been for the past few days. Tyson’s electrics are fixed, but unfortunately the problems with my bike are terminal. The lack of oil in the engine has damaged the camshaft and the cam-seat has worn out. That makes riding impossible, and with spare parts and tools thin on the ground out here, that means my bike will have to be trucked to the nearest Kawasaki dealer which is in Johannesburg. A sorry way for The Odyssey to finally come to an end – 17365km from London.

So what now for this silly duffer? Well. Tyson has kindly agreed to give me a lift to Johannesburg on his beloved bike - Rosa. Two-up is not the most fun way to travel, so we’ll be keeping a close look out for cheap local bikes. Maybe I’ll be able to snag myself a red devil, just like Claudio, the cameraman who wrote-off his bike on the Long Way Round. Either way, it certainly beats a bus.

Perhaps it’s a fitting way for Rosa to finish the journey as well. Tyson named her after La Poderosa (‘The Mighty One’) – the bike that Che Guevara and Alberto Granado rode two-up on their adventure in the Motorcycle Diaries. If she carries us all the way to Johannesburg she certainly will have earned her name.

African Wildlife II - Enchanting Uganda

2008-08-21T19:18:00.007+01:00

After leaving the Brit-like sanctity of Kenya we crossed onto the manic roads of Uganda. Strewn with potholes big enough to tip lorries over, the Ugandan roads are some of the worst we’ve ridden on. Better not to have paved them at all than allow them to deteriorate in to such a patchy state.

Any normal driver treats a pothole in much the same way as a speedbump, slowing down carefully to gently roll over it. On a dirt bike it's a bit different. Ususally you gun the throttle and hope that gravity is feeling generous. If she is, then you'll soar over the top and land happily on the other side. If she's feeling mean, you'll receive a nutt-busting bump as penance for your bravado. But whether you're driving a car or riding a bike, the way to go over a pothole is straight. Or at least it should be. Not so in Uganda though. Most Ugandan drivers come from the homicidal school of motoring and prefer to brake harshly and swerve recklessly around potholes, sideswiping whoever might be in the other lane.

On one occasion I was following an articulated truck which suddenly slammed on its brakes and skidded to a halt. I just about crashed in to the back of it. Was there a child that had run out? A dog perhaps? Had a tree fallen over? No. There was a pothole and the driver was more concerned with his suspension than who might be following. If that were an isolated incident then it would hardly be worth mentioning here. But in Uganda, thanks to the insane minibus drivers, that sort of behaviour is the norm rather than the exception.

Fortunately the trials of the Ugandan roads were all worth it when we got to Mburo National Park. We arrived at night, as is usually the case, and there was a stretch of dirt road in front of us. But there was another more immediate challenge too. The headlight on Tyson’s bike was barely working - his electrical problems had returned yet again. But rather than camp near the road, our solution was to ride the 15 mile stretch to the lodge side-by-side with my headlight lighting the way for both of us. It was like a computer game - riding three feet off Tyson’s rear wheel - and like any computer game it had levels.

Level 1 – the ride to the lodge – was reasonably challenging on the rutted gravel, but Tyson and I managed to bump our way to the end without incident. Jerry on the other hand took a wrong turn, forcing us to go back to look for him and for Level 2. With the terrain now familiar we egged each other on to go faster, skidding round the corners and braking only for the occasional zebra crossing (that’s literally a zebra crossing the road). Having ridden all the way back to the park gates with no sign of Jerry, we turned back for Level 3. Even faster this time and standing up we nearly made it the entire way. Tyson did actually complete the game. But a slight twitch on my front wheel sent me sliding out on the final corner. I stopped the bike from skidding into the adjacent ditch, but because I was standing I failed to jump off in time to stop the bike from falling over. The bike toppled on to its side in a cartoonish slow motion fall. Gameover. Can I play again?

After the rangers had found Jerry, we pitched our tents on the shore of Lake Mburo, falling asleep to the sound of warthogs grunting outside our tents. The following morning we got up for a wildlife tour Team Canuk style. With our cameras dangling round our necks we rode through the park one-handed using the other hand to snap blurry pictures of zebra, impala and buffalo that would occasionally cross the road. We’d seen these animals just a few days before, but the experience was much more memorable on a bike. A motorcycle safari – how many people can say they’ve done that?

But the best was yet to come. Making our way further south in to the heart of Uganda the scenery turned from the mundane to the spectacular. Volcanic mountains jutted sharply in to the sky creating winding mountain roads around crisp blue lakes. Our destination was Kisoro and the Parc de Volcan – home of the gorillas in the mist.

It costs five hundred dollars to go gorilla tracking and only eight people are allowed to do it per day. You have to book months in advance to secure a place and even then double bookings can mean you don’t get to see the beautiful creatures at all. We had written off any hope of seeing the gorillas. We hadn't booked. Our calls earlier in the week had proved fruitless. But Tyson’s desire to see them – a childhood dream of his – was enough for us to go through the motions anyway. And what a good thing we did. Fortune shone on us and we managed to secure three places for the very next day. Unbelievable luck.

The mountain gorillas are found in the Impenetrable Forest – an area named for the endless shoots of bamboo that block your path. It’s a bit of a misnomer. Armed with a machete you can hack your way through it. But it’s an exhausting experience and one that makes finding the gorillas all the more rewarding.

The gorillas are visited everyday by the same guides and a different group of tourists. Usually there are eight tourists in each group, but in our group there were just four. Us three and an Australian pilot named Matt. More good luck.

If I were a gorilla that was visited by tourists everyday, I would occassionally want a day off. The gorillas seemed to be thinking the same thing, so they sent one of their number in one direction up the volcano while the rest of the group scarpered in the other. Our guides mistakenly followed the lone gorilla's track leading us on a six hour hike up Mount Gahinga.

By early afternoon, with only piles of gorilla dung and shoots of half eaten bamboo as encouragement, we were all starting to get a bit tired. But then, Matt turned around and passed on a message from the guide - 'they're up ahead' he said, 'we can smell them'. The thick ozzy accent could only be reminiscent of the late great Steve Irwin - a fitting character to be with us at such a time.

And sure enough, up ahead I caught my first glimpse of a black ball of fur rolling playfully down the hill. The guides were muttering their greeting call - a low nnnnnnnnn sound, which the gorillas interpreted as hello. Their response was a much deeper and slighty bored nnnnnnnnmm sound, as if to say 'not you again'.

There were eight gorillas in all. A couple of silverbacks, a few females and a baby. The mother with her baby only gave us a quick glance before heading off in to the thick brush, but the head Silverback - Big Mac - was more than happy to put on a show. Initially he was completely unbothered by our prescence, lying sleepily on his back, sunning his giant belly.

After a short while he got up. Obviously hungry, he wandered over to a shoot of bamboo and proceeded to pull down half the forest. Then he munched happily away, stripping vines with his teeth, occassionally giving us a glance to say, 'well, what are you looking at?'.

But Big Mac warmed to us and before long he was happily sitting just a few feet away. In fact, I think he liked the attention. All four of us were snapping pictures left, right and centre. Ever the showman, Big Mac got up from his spot about 8 metres away and wandered over to sit right in front of us. You're not supposed to get closer than 7 metres to the gorillas, but here was the biggest one of them all sitting just six feet away. Those intelligent orange eyes gleaming at us.

The hour we were allowed to spend with the beautiful beasts seemed to fly by in seconds. The experience was completely different from the safari in the Masai Mara. Much more engaging. The animals not only knew we were there, but they accepted us, and even looked upon us with interest. To answer my question from the previous blog - seeing the gorillas in the flesh was completely different from any image you see on TV. It's the proximity of the encounter. The connection you feel with the animals. Such a priveledge - I'd recommend it to anyone.

African Wildlife I - The Masai Mara

2008-08-19T12:44:00.008+01:00

When you think of a trip across Africa, one of the first things that springs to mind is the animals. National Geographic, the Discovery Channel and the BBC have spoiled us with stunning images of some of the planet's most captivating creatures. But the question is - are those same beasts even better when you see them in the flesh?

Over the past couple of weeks I've had ample chance to answer that question. Since leaving Nairobi we've been on something of a wildlife tour, visiting four national parks and seeing too many animals for me to recount. Our first stop was the infamous Masai Mara National Park in southern Kenya.

Predictably we left Nairobi late and were still fifty miles away from the park by the time the sun set. Dusk coincided with the end of the tarmac, and so it was on a dark, dusty track that we rode through the Rift Valley to the gates of the Masai Mara. What a spectacular ride. Standing up on the pegs, kicking up huge clouds of dust behind us, watching our headlights reflect in the retinas of fleeing animals. Unforgettable.

It was well and truly dark by the time we got to the outskirts of the park and finding a campsite proved tricky. After riding around for half an hour we stumbled across one fenced off enclosure which looked promising. Three red cloaked owners soon appeared from the shadows to tell us that their campsite wasn't yet finished but we could still stay there if we wanted. Hungry, thirsty and keen to find some working facilities we decided to push on. But as we left, the owners warned us of the dangers of riding at night - 'there are elephants around' one of them said in a hushed whisper, so as not to be overheard. Elephants do have big ears after all.

We didn't encounter any elephants that night, but judging by the huge piles of dung in the middle of the path, they weren't far away. The following day proved more fruitful though.

Up with the dawn, we piled in to our rented land cruiser and made our way to the park (you're not allowed to ride motorbikes in the park - something about it being too dangerous). Our visit was well timed, coinciding with the wildebeast migration. In such a time of plenty the wildlife was abundant. We saw dozens of different animals in just a few short hours. I wont list them all, I cant remember most of them, so I'll just write about my favourites instead - the elephants, the lions and the cheetah.

We saw the elephants first or rather our guides did. I took rather longer to distinguish the elephants from the elephant shaped bushes that dotted the savannah. But by the time we were twenty feet away the distinction was obvious even to me. Such gentle giants roaming the savannah, guarding their young and eating pound after pound of grass. They looked curiously at us while munching away. Their wrinkled skin giving them a hundred different expressions. Captivating.

Next was the cheetah. He was on his own, slowly meandering his way after some zebra. He looked full and in no hurry to catch them up. Instead he just sat among the golden grass, in a house-cat pose, surveying the meals in front of him. A proud animal.

Then came the lions. We found a pack of them near a recent kill, sleeping in the shade. Theirs was the easiest life of all. Sleeping for most of the day, occasionally wandering over to a watering hole for a drink, then back to the bushes for another cat nap.

Like most of the animals, the lions were unfazed by our presence. Many of them barely gave us a second glance. Perhaps because of that - the lack of interaction - the experience didn't feel all that different from going to the zoo. There was still a cage after all (the land cruiser) only this time we were in it. My doctor friends will disagree with me of course. Biologists for the last two decades they were thrilled by the whole experience and will fall over themselves to tell you about it. As for me, I certainly enjoyed the safari. Seeing the animals in the flesh did add something - the smell of rotting carcasses, the sound of trumpeting elephants and growling lions. But the sights I had seen before, better even, thanks to the film crews that come every year to capture them.

I’m glad I went on safari, it gives you a renewed respect for the stunning images that the film crews capture. Although I don’t have the patience to be a wildlife photographer myself, I’ll always enjoy watching the work of those who do.

Ethiopia/Kenya - Food, Dubious Food

2008-08-04T18:59:00.007+01:00

Sampling the local cuisine is an integral part of travelling. It's also a necessity when travelling by bike as it's hard to carry enough supplies for a single day let alone three months. But with the local 'delicacies' come side effects. We've all had GI issues on this trip (that's Gastro-Intestinal issues to anyone who hasn't spent the last couple of months with doctors, or tummy trouble to everyone else). Since leaving Turkey our bowels have developed a bipolar disorder flipping between a dammed state and one of uncontrollable flooding. Anyone who has ever accidentally taken four immodium will know that the dammed state is uncomfortable, but manageable. It's when the dam bursts that you run in to trouble. In that situation it's not uncommon for one of us to yell 'campo' at the others - our code word for telling the other two to carry on ahead while business is taken care of in the nearest bush.

Of the three of us, I've probably got the weakest stomach. No doubt caused by my unadventurous diet back home. I'm a typical Englishman and I like my food bland. Those who know me well know that it's quite normal for me to have the same meal day-in day-out for a week or more. But tuna sandwiches, cornflakes and my mum's roast dinner are thin on the ground out here, so I've had to make do. Thankfully the dambusting days have been relatively few and have usually come when we're held up in hotels. But that's not always been the case. Sometimes they occur at the worst possible time.

On the ride out of Addis Ababa, I was feeling a bit peaky. That condition wasn't helped by the choking traffic. In Ethiopia, petrol is scarce so diesel is the fuel of choice. Not normal diesel though. Ethiopian diesel is laced with a special mixture of toxins which cause even the newest cars to spew out thick black smoke. Sitting behind slow moving trucks is particularly noxious and encourages you to overtake. But overtaking in Ethiopia can be very dangerous - as Tyson found out.

Tyson was pulling past a particularly slow moving diesel tanker on the outskirts of Addis when a dog rushed out. With his view obscured by the tanker, Tyson only saw the dog at the last minute. He had no time to react and hit it head on. The impact sent Rosa's front wheel high up in the air and the dog twisting awkwardly underneath. Rosa came down hard on her right hand side, pinning Tyson's leg against the ground. Looking back towards us with his face grimaced in pain, Tyson and his bike ground to a halt just a few feet from some railway tracks. By the time I'd pulled over and got to Tyson, the dog was gone. Presumably crawled off to die in a ditch.

Seeing Tyson sitting up and Rosa on her side with the engine still roaring, I rushed over, hit the kill switch and dragged the bike to the side of the road. Jerry was checking Tyson over. He was standing, clutching his arm and hip. He had some nasty road rash but he'd live. That was all the information I needed. With precious seconds before the dambusters rolled in, I dashed off into the scrubland, yelling 'campo' over my shoulder.

With business taken care of, I returned to find Tyson in a distant state. This wasn't our first crash in Ethiopia. Far from it. I'd come off my bike barely half an hour earlier by crashing in to a sewage pipe laying in the middle of the road. But this one was different. This one was unavoidable. You could argue that we shouldn't have been overtaking. But on any other road in any other country that manoeuvre would have been completely standard. It's only in Ethiopia that such standard moves result in accidents.

Of all the countries I've ridden my bike through, Ethiopia has the most dangerous roads by far. And that's not because the road quality is particularly poor either. For the most part, the roads are actually quite good - smooth tarmac, recently paved and paid for by the Japanese finance ministry. (That explains the prevalence of Japanese cars anyway - in Ethiopia the car in front is always a Toyota). The real danger comes from the traffic, be it: human, donkey, goat, dog, horse, cow, cart, truck, or badly ridden bicycle. Regardless of who or what is on the road, none are traffic savvy and all can jump out in front of you.

We were only in Ethiopia for ten days, yet in that brief time I saw a child and a dog run over. And that was just the accidents I witnessed firsthand. There were signs of countless other incidents on the road. Donkeys, dogs, cows, even horses lying dead with their legs in the air struck stiff by rigor mortis. The animal traffic is heavy in Ethiopia but it's not unique. You encounter similar conditions in other countries - Mexico, Romania, Syria to name a few. What makes the roads particularly hazardous is the people. I cant tell you the number of times I had to slam on my brakes to avoid someone who didn't look before crossing the road. Looking both ways seems so natural to us. The highway code is drilled in to us when we're children. But that education - like so many things in Ethiopia - is lacking. I shudder to think of the number of traffic fatalities in the country every year.

With resources spread so thinly there is precious little for people to do. The kids are particularly bored. Many of them amuse themselves by waving at passers by. Those are the sweethearts. Others - the beggars - rush to the side of the road to yell 'money, money, money, money, money' in the vain hope that people will slam on their brakes and heap riches on them. Then there are the buggers. They entertain themselves by pelting passers-by with rocks. We managed to avoid being stoned in Ethiopia by waving at all the kids. A simple wave was enough to confuse the rock throwers just long enough for us to escape. But other travellers weren't so lucky. One German cyclist - Adrian - was heavily pelted as he rode his bicycle up the steep mountain roads. Rather than get angry he got even. His response was to calmly pick up a goat and cycle with it for 10km. A goat is worth a lot of money in Ethiopia. So after 10km of running after a bicycle you can bet that kid wont be throwing stones any time soon. You might think such a response is uncalled for. After all the kids don't know any better so why punish them? Maybe so. But you've clearly never had a rock thrown at you for no reason. Never experienced the blood curdling rage that overcomes you. Adrian's response was witty and measured. I cant say I would have been so level headed.

With one eye always on the road and the other watching the erratic children, we had precious little time to take in the scenery. When we did steal a glance, we saw the true beauty of Ethiopia. The undulating mountains covered in lush vegetation. Peaks shrouded in cloud. It reminded me of the Scottish highlands.

Could this rich fertile land really be the same country that experiences mass famine? So much potential for agriculture yet no sign of industry. Only subsistence farming. Maybe it was because we visited during the wet season when the country was at its most verdant. But maybe not. When we asked the locals for an explanation of the backward state of the country, they pinned the blame on two things - 'bad government' and 'lazy people'. No-one mentioned the weather.

I cant say whether the people are lazy or not. The back breaking hours spent farming the fields and herding animals certainly didn't strike of laziness. But I cant say I was particularly endeared by the Ethiopian people either. There were exceptions of course. Friendly people, like David who welcomed us in at the Ethiopian border in Metema. He gave us an excellent meal and handed us our first beers since Egypt. But more often than not the locals were an irritation. Interfering with our bikes when we tried to repair them, or trying to scam us whenever we bought something. It got quite tiresome after a while, so by the time we reached the border we were all looking forward to a new country.

Kenya has been the change we were looking for. The locals are still curious about our journey, and some still try to charge us farangi (foreign) prices. But it's a different world. The British colonial influence is strong. Cars drive on the left, tea is universally available, football dominates conversation and the logos of Man United and Arsenal are emblazened everywhere - even on the walls of corrugated shacks in remote tribal villages. British road signs, road names, land rovers, pubs, electrical sockets, supermarkets, post offices, Cadbury's chocolate, cornflakes and Ribena. Kenya is like a home from home right in the wild heart of Africa.

This spectacular country has some of the most thrilling roads I've ridden. Not because they're beautifully paved. Quite the opposite in fact. The stretch from Moyale (at the Ethiopian border) to Isiolo is 350 miles of rocky, sandy, dusty terrain that tests your metal and your bike. On this road the Long Way Down boys busted two shock absorbers. Our shocks remained intact, but by the time we rattled and bounced our way to Nairobi, Tyson's bike would only start if we pushed it, my fork oil had leaked, all our bikes had electrical problems and we were in desperate need of a welder. But bush camping in the middle of the rocky desert, amongst the scorpions, spiders and stars was truly blissful. The taste of adventure we all love. The trip we'd all hoped for.

Now in Nairobi, the milestones are passing by fast. We're over two months in to our trip, we've crossed the equator, and we've covered 15,000 kilometres. Also, thanks to the availability of western food, some semblance of normaly has returned to our bowels. Thank you Kenya.

Ethiopia - A tragic accident

2008-07-26T20:41:00.000+01:00

Three days ago I witnessed one of the most horrifying sights of my life. It was in Gonder, Ethiopia after meeting up with two other overlanders – Sam Millar and Peter Loewen – where the shocking event occurred. We were riding in convoy out of town. Tyson was leading followed by Jerry, Peter, Sam and me. It was great to be riding with the others. Seeing the line of bikes glistening in the morning sun brought a smile to my face. But that was quickly wiped away and replaced with a grimace of concentration as the streets began to get crowded.

On our way out of town a donkey trotted nonchalantly in front of Sam’s bike causing him and me to brake hard. We avoided a collision with the donkey - just. But a gap had built up between Sam, me and the rest of the group. That gap was probably what tricked the local boy into thinking the coast was clear. And so, without looking, he darted straight across the road and collided head on with Sam’s bike. A cloud of dust and debris flew up as the terrible spectacle unfolded right in front of my eyes. The boy was thrown like a rag doll to the left side of the road as Sam came to an abrupt halt on the right.

Sam did all he could. He broke hard without skidding and did his best to swerve to avoid the young boy. But the boy just wasn’t looking and there was nothing Sam could do. Even though we were traveling at less than 30mph the collision was severe. By the time Sam and I had pulled over, a crowd had formed around the boy. I could hear gasps of disbelief as I walked slowly over to the motionless body lying on the ground. It was a shocking sight. The boy’s right leg was clearly broken at the shin and his head was misshapen by a rapidly growing bruise. Before I could blink, a local man had whisked the young boy up in his arms causing the boy to stir in pain. It was exactly what you shouldn’t do in this sort of situation, particularly if you think there might be spinal damage. But before I could protest, he had carried the boy limply into a minibus and sped off to the local hospital.

I went over to see Sam. He was clearly in shock, but was handling himself well, all things considered. He asked me whether the boy was dead and I explained that he was alive but badly injured.

As we readied ourselves to go to the hospital a local man told us to wait for the police. Sam followed orders while I hopped on my bike to go and fetch the others. Everyone was shaken by the news - the same thing could have happened to anyone of us – indeed both Jerry and Peter had swerved to avoid the same boy just moments before.

Downtown at the police station, news of the boy’s condition and the repercussions of the crash came to us in piecemeal fashion. Sam and Peter contacted the Canadian embassy and learned that a traffic accident is always the fault of the driver in Ethiopia - a very harsh verdict given that Sam had done nothing wrong. We also learn that a traffic fatality automatically carries a 17-year prison sentence in Ethiopia – an unfathomable amount of time and sobering news indeed. At one point things seem so desperate that we consider smuggling Sam out of the country.

Through hearsay we learn that the boy’s condition is stable. That level of detail just wasn’t sufficient given the severity of the situation. So Tyson and Jerry went to the hospital and performed their own exam. When they returned the news was gloomy. Five hours had elapsed since the crash but nothing material had been done for the boy. He was still in his blood stained clothes, lying dazed and in pain. Only an IV had been put in his arm. No painkillers had been given.

The conditions in the hospital sounded squalid. Hoards of sick and injured people littered the blood stained corridors of the ill-equipped facility. The only positive news from the report was that the boy was responsive to a neurological exam. Tyson and Jerry’s main concern was that the trauma to his head would result in a slow internal bleed. The injury to his leg, though gruesome, would heal.

I hoped they were right about the boy’s leg. But glancing around town I saw too many deformed bodies limping uncomfortably to be certain of that fact. Despite the awful news, Tyson and Jerry delivered their report to Sam in a professional and compassionate manner. I’ve no doubt they’ll make great doctors.

While the Docs had been performing their exam, Peter had gotten in contact with a village elder and lawyer through an ex-pat living in town - a very clever idea. With the lawyer in tow, Sam and I went to the police station to give our statements. Somewhat surprisingly we were turned away, and told to come back at 8:30 the following morning to discuss ‘compensation’. It seems that most traffic incidents in Ethiopia are settled outside the legal system and so formal statements are avoided. Instead the matter is settled by a bargaining process between the injured party and the culprit. It strikes me as extremely barbaric to bargain over the cost of injuries. But thinking about it, that’s exactly what western insurance companies do. The difference is that the insurers agree how much an injury is worth before the accident happens. In Ethiopia, the two main parties have to argue it out in a room.

The following morning the bargaining process began. Being westerners, the Ethiopian family saw the accident as a meal-ticket and demanded 100,000 Ethiopian Birr (approximately 10,000 US Dollars). That’s a very large sum of money in a country with an average income of less than 5000 dollars. Moreover, the Docs had visited the boy that morning and confirmed that his head injury was not as severe as they feared. He was recovering well.

Sam’s opening bid was 2,000 birr – an offer that was turned down in disgust by the boy’s grandfather. The 100,000 figure being demanded by the family seemed to be based on the fact that Sam was accompanied by four western friends who presumably would help out with the bill. So, to speed up negotiations, Tyson, Jerry and I made a big show of leaving. When we left, the bids stood at 50,000 birr from the family and 7,000 for Sam.

On the ride out of town my thoughts were with Sam and particularly with the boy. Sam had done nothing wrong yet was now facing a severe fine. I could only imagine what kind of pain the boy was in, lying in the ill-equipped hospital with his broken leg. The awful experience left me feeling exhausted, as if I’d aged 10 years in a day. I’ve been riding on edge ever since.

Wonderous Sudan

2008-07-19T07:15:00.015+01:00

Of the twenty odd countries that we will pass through on this trip, Sudan is probably the least visited of all. It's a difficult country to get in to. The visa process is fairly involved and if you're overlanding from North to South, there really is only one entry point - the 17 hour ferry from Aswan to Wadi Halfa. But despite that, or perhaps because of it, Sudan is one of the countries I've most been looking forward to. This is where the African adventure really begins.

We awoke early on Monday morning to head down to the Aswan ferry port. Our fixer (Mr Saleh) had told us to be there at 9:30 sharp to clear customs by noon. Despite our best efforts we rolled up an hour late and frantically hurried through the border procedure. We needn't have rushed though. It took another 12 hours - till 9pm that night - before the ferry eventually set sail.

During the first few hours, we busied ourselves with paperwork and loading the bikes onto the barge. Getting the bikes on board was quite an event. With precious little room on the narrow deck we needed to navigate our way up a gangplank, manhandle the bikes over a steel girder and spin them in to a single parking space on board. Tyson went first, preferring to walk his bike up and then lift it over the girder. That seemed like the sensible strategy, but it also looked possible to ride all the way up with just a minor repositioning of the gangplank and the addition of some cushioning rags over the girder. And that's more or less the approach I took, though the cushioning rags didn't quite serve their purpose. Instead they collapsed under the weight of the bike, sending the bottom of my bike clanging in to the steel girder. No damage fortunately but Jerry sensibly opted to walk his bike up.

With our bikes on board, we whittled away the remaining hours chatting to some of the other Westerners that were making the journey with us. There were four groups in all: four Italians; a South African couple; a German; and two Canadians. By far the most organised were the Italians. They had two heavily modified KTM motorbikes (the bike of choice for most serious off-roaders) and a fully stocked support truck. We looked on enviously at the light bikes and imagined some of the luxury items that were being carried inside the truck (laptops, hammocks, cookers and most importantly of all a fully flushing WC - or so we speculated anyway). Unlike the rest of us, the Italians were so well organised they'd managed to secure a first class cabin with air conditioning.

The other groups stayed with us and slept on the packed deck with the locals. The South Africans - Debbie and Andy Descroizilles - were returning home after several years spent working in London. They were taking six months to make the journey and were driving a nice old English Land Rover kitted out with expedition gear. Stefan the German and the Canadians (Sam Millar and Peter Loewen) were doing it for fun. The Canadians were riding clapped out old KLRs while Stefan was on a twenty year old Yamaha Tenere. They were all good bikes back in their day, but you could tell this was going to be their last trip. Sitting on deck, it was interesting to hear their tales of the road. They'd all had their own adventures and challenges to overcome. But it was nice to hear that even though we were all making the same journey, each one was quite unique.

As night fell on the deck of the good ship Sinai, the searing heat of the day began to subside. By 9pm after several hours of deafening foghorn tests, the ferry finally left dock and a cooling breeze from Lake Nasser began to drift over us. Lying on the deck, gazing up at the stars, we fell asleep as the ferry passed quietly through the Tropic of Cancer.

The tranquility of night soon gave way to the scorching heat of day. Shade became a precious commodity on the crowded deck, and many hours were spent rigging makeshift awnings and moving around with the sun. It took us till 4pm Sudanese time to reach the desolate port of Wadi Halfa and another couple of hours to get off the boat. In the distance we could see the town itself - nothing more than a collection of mud huts. This is where we'd be staying until our bikes turned up? Our hotel, if it could be called that, was the Deffin Toad - the best one in town. Conditions resembled an upscale prison. Each cell-like rooms had metal shutters and metal doors which slammed loudly throughout the night. A ceiling fan was spinning frantically overhead but a powercut during the night soon saw the end to that, resulting in a suffocating heat. The South Africans smartly decided to drag their beds out in to the relatively cool courtyard. We weren't so smart, and woke up exhausted and with mouths as dry as the desert we'd soon be riding through.

The barge carrying our bikes turned up late the following day. It cant sail at night because it doesn't have radar, and so takes a day longer than the passenger ferry to make the 380km journey. With our bikes unloaded and all our gear repacked, we stocked up on water and supplies, and waited for the sun to dip. By 6pm we were back on the road and within a few miles had left the tarmac and were snaking our way along the course of the Nile. The scenery was spectacular. Sandy dunes, interspersed with jagged rocks, burnt black by the scorching sun. I've always wanted to go to the moon, but I never thought I'd get to ride my bike on it.

That night, after kicking up dust clouds for 100km, we pulled off the road and camped under the stars in the desert. With a full moon overhead and a campfire at our feet, we had a serenely lit view of the empty Nubian desert.

The following morning we rose with the sun, and made the most of the cooler early hours to put in some miles. Riding along the gravel we past through a number of Nubian villages. They seem quiet and empty now, but a few miles away a new road is being built that will link Wadi Halfa with Dongola. Within a couple of years, it will be possible to ride all the way through Sudan on smooth tarmac. There wont be any need to bring a dirtbike - a big fat Honda Goldwing will be able to make the journey. That's probably a good thing for the locals. The new road should bring prosperity and a steady flow of tourists. But it's a shame for adventure motorcyclists. The off-road stretch from Wadi Halfa is easily the most exhilarating of the trip so far.

The terrain is generally solid ground just with a few loose rocks over the top. But in places the gravel gives way to deep sandy ruts. The single or double tracks of the normal road diverge into a delta of different paths that spread out in all directions as if searching for the most accessible route. In these places the sand is particularly deep and often covered by a fine layer of dust which masks the shape of the underlying terrain. In such places it is both easy to fall off your bike and to get separated. They call this terrain - fesh-fesh.

Late in the afternoon, after a kip under some palm trees, we came to the end of the gravel road and could see two paths of fesh-fesh - one straight ahead and one to the right. I took the right hand route, plowed my way through and carried on for a couple of miles before waiting for the others. Ten minutes went by with no sign. Then another ten. What to do?

Earlier in the day, I had waited for a similar amount of time only to find out that Jerry and Tyson had taken the other route and leapfrogged in front of me. Figuring the same had happened again, I pushed on through the fesh-fesh on my own.

The riding was challenging but thrilling at the same time. Riding in sand is a lot like snowboarding - you surf over the top and try to keep your speed up, putting light pressure on the steering to stop the front end from digging in. It's brilliant fun, but as with snowboarding, occasionally you take a tumble and end up with your face in the sand/snow. One such incident, involving a hidden bump and a deep sandy rut sent a huge cloud of dust in the air and left a nice motorbike shaped imprint in the soft ground. The virtue of fesh-fesh is that it's a relatively soft place to fall over.

Pushing on through the sand with no map, no GPS and just a compass to guide me, I made my way for the Nubian ruins of Karma, some 50km as the crow flies from where we stopped for a kip. Asking for directions I was pointed towards the desert and told that Karma was about an hour's ride away. So I set off on a sandy track straight out in to the Nubian desert. What a ride. Wide open desert, with just a few rocky hills in the distance, and no-one as far as my eyes could see. It was thrilling to be there on my own. At one point I just stopped to listen to the sound of the desert. A light wind whistled the sand gently through my bike, but other than that there was nothing.

Before starting off on the desert road I had been told by one of the locals that I needed to turn off to get to Karma. After an hour or so, I headed back towards the Nile to find a settlement and ask for directions. They told me that Karma was another hour up ahead, so I pushed on. As the desert road wound its way south, it edged back towards the Nile. The sandy ground turned back in to gravel and picked up the beginnings of the new highway. No tarmac had been laid yet, but the gravel had been compacted, making for a relatively smooth ride. As the settlements began to multiply I saw another local and asked for directions again. He told me that Karma was an hour back in the other direction and Dongola was only 15km further ahead. Rather than back-tracking I thought it better to push on and find a phone in town to let Tyson and Jerry know where I was.

I arrived on the bank of the Nile at dusk, and hopped on the ferry to the west bank, and the town of Dongola. Far more vibrant than Wadi Halfa, Dongola has all the makings of a fast growing tourist town. The people that live there seemed delighted to see me and like all the other Nubians we had encountered were friendly, honest and hospitable. When searching for a phone, one friendly chap offered me his mobile. I made the expensive international call to Tyson's mobile and tried to offer some cash as payment - but the local wouldn't accept a penny. Unbelievable generosity with no strings attached. Quite a contrast from the swindlers of Egypt.

On the phone I find out that Tyson and Jerry are back in Karma, so we agree to meet up in Khartoum, Sudan's capital - the following day. That night, I rode to the outskirts of Dongola and found a secluded field to setup camp. Bathed in light from the full moon, I drifted off for a satisfied night's sleep.

Friday morning, I was up even before the Imam's started chanting. Fully fuelled, with petrol, water and some local doughnuts I set off on the desert highway to Khartoum. In fuel economy mode (i.e. travelling at 55mph keeping the revs low) I can get about 480km out of my 21 litre fuel tank. It was just over 500km to the capital, and no petrol stations were marked on Tyson's map. Fortunate then that the desert highway has been a recent point of investment. The road was as smooth as silk, recently paved and painted as if especially for my ride. With the new road have come new businesses. and among them is a brand spanking new petrol station. A welcome sight after 300km of baron desert. There I filled up and rode the remaining few hundred kilometres in to town. Along the way my odometer ticked over the 10,000km milestone - marking two-fifths of the distance from London to Cape Town.

Khartoum is a bit of an oddity. Mud huts and dusty roads line the outskirts of the city, but as you approach the centre the presence of wealth becomes obvious. Steel and glass buildings are sprouting all over the city. Oil revenues and the presence of the UN have sparked the surge in investment, and that has bid up prices, meaning Khartoum is one of the most expensive cities we've stayed of the entire trip. Despite that, we've been enjoying the good life since we arrived. We're now staying in the luxurious Bougain Villa Guesthouse - firmly back in the comfort zone after a few days well outside it. Although westerners are relatively common around town, our prescence has generated a bit of interest. So today we spent a few hours getting photographed and interviewed by AFP correspondents. Here's the write-up on AFP's website.

Tomorrow we leave for the cooling highlands of Ethiopia. I'm looking forward to it - I haven't seen a proper cloud since leaving Istanbul - and this Brit has been missing his weather. So until next time.

Eventful Egypt continued

2008-07-13T10:09:00.006+01:00

A week ago we left Cairo with the intention of travelling all the way to Aswan in a single day. That master plan was upset by Jerry's accident, but it turns out it was just a pipe dream anyway. It has taken us all of the last week to make the 1000km journey.

Admittedly, for the first few days after the crash we were held up in the same place - the small town of Bani Suef just a hundred kilometres south of Cairo. Our guidebook informed us that "there's nothing particularly interesting to do or see in Bani Suef", and with the exception of an excellent cake shop, they were right.

By Wednesday, after four days of R&R, we were all looking forward to getting back on our bikes. And with Jerry's leg in reasonable working order we set off on our southerly course following the Nile Valley. What an interesting landscape to ride our bikes through. Vast sandy desert bisected by a channel of verdant fields and palm trees that hug the edge of the glistening blue river. Sahara meets the tropics in just a few feet. Marvellous.

Despite the breathtaking scenery, I wasn't enjoying the ride as much as I'd hoped. My new tyres were taking a long time to bed in, limiting my speed and my cornering ability (two of the more enjoyable aspects of riding a motorcycle). When they did eventually smooth off, the freedom of the open road was interrupted by a series of police checkpoints. In Egypt, the authorities are so concerned about tourist safety (following the '97 Luxor bombings) that they insist on escorting tourists as they travel through. Normally, great convoys of tour buses are escorted from one sight to the next. But we weren't part of the normal tourist crowd and so warranted special attention.

Each checkpoint took it upon themselves to give us a personal escort. What a privilege you might think - being treated like royalty. Not so. The novelty of having a police car lead the way soon gave way to a sense of frustration (at the loss of freedom) and coughing (from the diesel fumes being spewed out of the back of the clapped out old trucks). After one afternoon and an evening of this, we arrived in Sohag - a dingy Nile town about halfway between Bani Suef and Luxor. That night, while staying in a flea infested hotel, we agreed that we'd had just about enough of the escorts and would do our utmost to get rid of them. The following morning we woke up to find three bored traffic cops waiting for us in a navy pickup truck. Unlike the previous day, our escorts were well organised. Damn.

As we moved from one district to the next, a new navy pickup truck would be waiting to lead us on. It was quite an efficient process for the first few cars, but our third escort was frustratingly slow. Driving at 30mph behind a smoke spewing truck was too much for me. So, with the Great Escape theme playing in my head, I pulled up beside the police driver, gave him an appreciative salute then gunned the throttle. We lost them after a couple of kilometres and for the first time in what seemed like days we had our freedom back. It lasted for a good 20km too before we arrived at the next checkpoint and picked up yet another escort.

Arriving in Luxor late that afternoon, we navigated our way through the dusty streets to find the Amon Hotel - a quiet air conditioned sanctuary on the west bank of the Nile. As is customary, we arranged to park out bikes in the safety of the hotel's courtyard. This involved riding them up two steps and around a narrow garden path. Tyson went first and I followed, nearly dropping my bike on the tight turn. Around the corner in the courtyard I could hear Buffy (Jerry's bike) ticking over quietly. Suddenly the engine went from a quiet thump to a loud roar. A few startled shouts and a crunching sound followed. Rushing around the corner, I expected to see Jerry's bike on its side in the garden - a standard low speed drop. But Jerry and Buffy were nowhere to be seen. Not in the garden, not in front of the hotel, nowhere. Nowhere outside anyway.

Peering through the hotel's front door I couldn't quite believe my eyes. Buffy and Jerry were both lying on the floor on the other side of the lobby, below a big dent in the wall. The roar from the engine was apparently the sound of Jerry clearing not just the garden steps, but the garden path, the doorstep and the lobby as well.

Jerry was thankfully unhurt, though his legs were shaking in disbelief at what he had just done. Actually, everyone seemed stunned. I couldn't quite understand it until I was told just how Jerry had managed to plough all the way up the garden path and into the hotel. This picture - snapped by a startled Tyson just before he jumped out of the way - shows what happened.

Not only is Jerry doing a monster wheelie, but if you look closely you can see that his back tyre is clearly off the ground too. An amazing stunt, which is all the more remarkable when you consider that the bike is fully loaded and was completely stationary just a second before this shot was taken.

Though Jerry was unhurt, the same couldn't be said for poor Buffy. The lobby's stone wall had left its mark on her face (the front fairing and headlight assembly), giving the impression that she had been slapped around a bit. Initially we thought the fairing was so badly damaged that it would have to be discarded, but some reconstructive surgery at the local mechanic left Buffy looking much better, though still scarred.

With the bikes back in working order, we spent the following day taking in the sights of Luxor. The ancient city is covered in ruins, and it would take days to visit them all. For me, the unquestionable highlight was the tomb of King Tuthmosis IV in the Valley of the Kings. Unlike many of the tombs, an early death left King Tuthmosis' tomb unfinished. The walls are plain, with few paintings and even fewer hieroglyphics. But that stark beauty just adds to the sense of majesty of the sarcophagus, which sits illuminated and alone, deep in the pillared tomb. As pure a taste of ancient history as you're likely to get.

In the Valley of the Kings the touts were out again, but with no restriction on where you can walk (as was the case at the pyramids) their powers were diminished. Ours had grown though and in one amusing incident, a tout tried to sell Tyson an Egyptian figurine for an exorbitant amount of money. Tyson's response was to try and sell the tout back a tacky bit of Canadiana. No sales were made that day.

Now in Aswan, we've spent the last couple of days finalising the paperwork for the Wadi Halfa ferry, which we'll catch tomorrow. It's with mixed feelings that I leave Egypt. We've spent two full weeks here and seen some amazing sights. But the experience has been coloured somewhat by the suffocating bureaucracy and the profit-seeking attitude of the locals. Roll on Sudan.

Eventful Egypt

2008-07-06T13:16:00.027+01:00

To say that the last few days have been eventful is probably an understatement. We've been on a tight schedule and had much to accomplish. In just under a week we had to get the bikes serviced, tyres changed, get me a Sudanese visa and replace some of the countless items that we've lost during the last month. We managed all of that during one manic day in Cairo. See Tyson's blog for an entertaining account. But we had another mission to accomplish too - that was riding the 1000km from Cairo to Aswan to catch the ferry to Sudan. The ferry only leaves on Mondays. Miss it and we faced a week-long delay.

Thursday - A lesson in bargaining
Setting off from downtown Cairo early on Thursday morning, the streets were surprisingly quiet and cool. A welcome change from their normal manic state (filled with tooting cars and suicidal pedestrians). In such mild conditions it didn't take us long to get to Giza and catch our first glimpse of the pyramids.

Unlike the photos would have you believe, the pyramids aren't actually in the middle of the desert. Cairo has expanded to such an extent that its suburbs reach right up to the edge of the pyramids and beyond. Only the south eastern quadrant of the site is kept as desert, and that's where the majority of photos are taken (the one above included).

Riding up to the historic monuments we were greeted by a local tour guide - a tall thin man dressed in traditional arabic clothing. He introduced himself as Emad, and explained that he could give us a tour of the pyramids. When we asked how much it would cost he simply said - "when I've made you happy, you can make me happy" - implying we should give him a decent tip at the end. Still unsure of what a decent tip actually amounts to in Egypt, we were a little uneasy, but decided to accept his vague offer anyway.

Emad explained how there were actually 9 pyramids of giza, the three larger pyramids and 6 smaller ones built for the Pharaohs' wives. In order to see all nine in their splendor we needed to ride out into the desert. That was fine with us - we'd been planning to get some photos of us riding our bikes in front of the pyramids anyway. But Emad explained that only two methods of transport were allowed in the desert: camels and horses. Walking wasn't even allowed, giving the tour guides a cosy monopoly over the entire site.

A camel seemed like a much less appealing option than our motorcycles, but with no choice we agreed to the tour - after all, how often do you get to see the pyramids? Foolishly though we didn't negotiate the price. Emad said it was 180 Egyptian pounds per person for an hour-long ride (about 18GBP) and so, like a bunch of schmucks, that's exactly what we paid. Only a few days later did we discover that the going rate for a camel ride is more like 20EP. Score one for Emad.

The novelty of riding a camel soon began to wear off - replaced by a distinct sense of chafing on the backside. So, after snapping the standard photograph of the pyramids I amused myself by finding out a bit more about my dromedary friend - Moses the Camel. He was a bit of a grumpy chap, grunting and groaning every time he had to get up and down. (Incidentally, the way to get a camel to sit is to make a hacking noise like you're clearing your throat. Saying "sit Moses" is less effective.)

According to Emad, the average camel costs about 30,000EP or 3000 GBP, which is the same price we paid for our bikes. I briefly consider trading in my KLR 650 for a camel, thinking that sand riding would be much easier. But when I discover that camels can only run at about 30mph, I decide that it would probably take too long to reach Cape Town. Camels smell too.

To round off our camel tour, Emad took us to a papyrus and perfume museum. 'Museum' is a euphemism if ever I've heard one. The building was actually just an ornate shop - one of hundreds that are dotted around Cairo. We were ushered in and immediately given a drink as part of the owner's 'Egyptian hospitality'. The owner dramatically threatened to slit his throat if we refused, so we knocked back the cool drinks while he led us around the store. We were shown how papyrus was made and were told several stories that were depicted in some of the craftwork. But we were less than interested, and with time ticking away Tyson started getting frustrated. Seeing that we were moving toward the exit, the owners pulled out all the stops to try and keep us in the store. They tried showing us books of endorsements from other tourists who had shopped there, then a list of international firms that they had supplied papyrus and perfume with, they even offered us discounts. But we were wise to the scam - I had fallen for it the previous day while shopping for a birthday present for my sister. So we made our excuses and walked defiantly out of the store. Score one for us.

Back on the camels, we bounced our way past the Sphinx (which was much smaller and distinctly less impressive than I'd expected) and made our way back to the bikes. I was relieved to get off Moses and was looking forward to getting back on my bike and out of Cairo. During the short while we had spent in the city I had felt like a very obvious tourist - out of place and a clear mark for all the street vendors. I got the distinct impression that every time I bought something (with the exception of an ice cream for 20p) I had overpaid. Not a pleasant feeling, but a learning experience. I'm used to fixed prices and only haggling on certain deals - like buying a motorbike. But in Egypt it seems that almost every price is up for negotiation. It's like a game and one that the locals are very skilled at. From what I have learned, the trick is to dispense with your English sense of politeness and freely offend the vendor by offering a ridiculously low price. Only then will you settle on something sensible. Also, as we found out at one restaurant in Cairo - negotiate the terms of your deal up front, otherwise you risk receiving an unpleasant shock when the bill turns up.

Almost free of the city, Emad made one last attempt to get us to stay a little longer by offering a tour of the Pyramids of Saqqara - a quieter site just 25km away. I was still keen to move on, but the promise of riding our bikes through the desert in front of some pyramids was enough to convince Tyson and Jerry to accept. Learning from our previous mistake, this time we negotiated the price. Starting at 300 Egyptian Pounds per person, Tyson haggled Emad down to 250, which given what we'd paid for the camel ride earlier on (our benchmark for a fair price) seemed reasonable. In hindsight though, we'd been taken to the cleaners once again. 2-1 to Emad.

As part of the deal it emerged that Emad and his young helper Salouma would have to ride on the back of our bikes. Carrying a passenger is not an enticing prospect when riding through deep sand. And I drew the short straw, having to take Emad on the back of mine. Jerry got Salouma and Tyson escaped unhindered (lucky bugger).

With Emad shouting directions, we passed through back alleys, sandy trunk roads, and a rubbish tip before finding the desert. The heavily loaded bikes snaked wildly in the deep sand, sending us tumbling off a number of times. Hot, bothered and with sand in places I daren't describe, we reached the shaded camp of Saqqara with an enormous sense of relief. Tyson and I arrived together, and pulled over to wait for Jerry. After a few minutes there was still no sign, so I traipsed back to find out what had happened.

I didn't have to go far before I saw Jerry and Salouma staring at Jerry's bike on its side. The bike looked alright, but it couldn't engage gear. I figured that we might be able to get it going if we got it onto flat ground and bump-start it. That meant pushing the bike about 400m through deep sand. An exhausting prospect to say the least. But together we just about managed it. Sadly though, a bump start wasn't sufficient. The only alternative was that Jerry had burnt his clutch out. Something we didn't have the parts or technical know-how to fix.

At this point, we were already a few hours behind schedule and our chances of making the Aswan ferry on Monday were looking increasingly slim.

But, with business out of the way, Emad transformed in to a different person. It seemed like he felt partly responsible for the damage to Jerry's bike, and so, after a quick tour of the pyramids, he arranged for a truck to take Jerry's bike to a local mechanic. He spoke firmly to the mechanic, and relayed back to us that the mechanic could fix it for 700EP. The only difficulty was finding the parts. The price seemed quite expensive, but with few other options we agreed - and the mechanic sent out runners to scour the streets of Cairo looking for replacement clutch plates.

In the meantime, Emad graciously invited us to stay at his home "as his brothers". Keen to learn more about the culture and worried that we wouldn't be able to find the mechanic without Emad's help, we accepted his generous offer. He told us to treat his house as if it were our own, so within the hour we were showered and sitting down to a delicious meal of camel stew.

Over dinner, Emad played an excellent host, serving drinks and asking us what we would like to do in the evening. He suggested a night ride in to the desert to see the light show at the pyramids. Taken aback by his generousity we all nodded in agreement - it sounded like an excellent idea. And it was. We had an unforgettable time riding through the desert on horseback galloping past the illuminated pyramids.

Returning late to Emad's house, we were treated to another large meal of camel stew. This one was prepared by his brother, rather than his wife, and wasn't quite up to the same standard. There was plenty of gristle and the odd bit of cartilage. But we still enjoyed it. It was past 2am by the time we finished and our eyelids were heavy. Before turning in, Emad suddenly switched back to business mode again. He told us that he would only charge us 400EP for the night ride - the rate he reserves only for his friends. This surprised us. We'd thought the night ride was part of his generous hospitality. But sitting there in his home having been fed and watered, we were powerless to object, so we each nodded quietly in agreement. Then he adds the words 'per person' and we realise we've been completely shafted again. A real shame, and a bitter way to end an otherwise thrilling day.

Friday - Our education continues
We woke up early after a short night's sleep on Emad's floor. With business seemingly out of the way, Emad was all smiles again and was back to being the perfect host. He served us some sweet milky tea for breakfast and then arranged for a private car to drive us back to Cairo to visit the Egyptian Museum. We enjoyed a pleasant morning whittling away the hours researching clutches on the internet and exploring the countless artifacts, mummies, and sarcophaguses in the museum. It's a fascinating place and would take days to take it all in. The unquestionable highlight was the Tutankhamun exhibition - artifacts from which have been displayed all over the world. I'm particularly thrilled to see King Tut's mask, as it reminds me of a project I did back when I was in primary school. Happy memories.

Back at Emad's apartment we spend the afternoon chatting with our host learning about his business and his life. He's 28 and has been working at the pyramids for 19 years. In that time he's learned to speak half a dozen languages and is always learning more. He seems very proud to be an Arab and signs up to all that involves. Women have a secondary role in his culture and it shows. He is a loving father, but clearly dotes over his son more than his daughter.

We also learn of his business. We find out that the pyramid area is controlled by 13 bosses, one of whom Emad works for. Each kingpin owns a tourist license, camels and horses, and so commands a large proportion of every deal made at the site. Working for each of the bosses are half a dozen guides like Emad, and working for them are helpers - boys as young as eight who will grow up to become guides. With so many people to pay off, Emad only receives 5% of his deals and makes most of his money out of his tips.

This knowledge changes our view of Emad again. Before, we were planning to be stingy with his tip - as payback for being tricked so many times before. But seeing that most of those funds would end up with the kingpin, we felt like we still owed Emad for his hospitality.

Moreover, Emad continued to be extremely helpful throughout the day. Constantly calling the mechanic to check on progress. When it emerged that the mechanic was stalling for time, Emad took one of the burnt clutch plates to another mechanic to get him searching for them as well. But with the searches proving fruitless we decided we needed a contingency plan - to ship a new set of clutch plates directly from Canada. Arranging for the Canadian shipment turned out to be a smart move as it gave us some bargaining clout later on. Over dinner (not camel for a change) when the conversation switched back to business Emad told us that the second mechanic had found the parts but wanted 2400EP for them - a small fortune and four times their true value. We balked at that price and it quickly slipped to 1700EP. But even that seemed very steep. And with the original mechanic still coming up empty, we decided it would be more sensible, cheaper and safer to wait for the parts from Canada. Sure we would miss the ferry, but better that than rushing all the way to Aswan on potentially dodgy and overpriced parts.

When we'd made that decision things changed remarkably fast. We were quickly taken back to the original mechanic to pickup Jerry's bike. Emad was still hopeful that he might have found the parts. And sure enough when we arrived, the grubby mechanic was grinning with eight shiny new clutch plates in his hand. Apparently he had just been 'joking around' when he said he couldn't find any. He also said he would do all the repairs for 1000EP - just 300EP more than he originally quoted. In the car on the way over, we had discussed the absolute maximum we would be willing to pay if such a situation had occurred. 1000EP was the figure we had come up with. No coincidence there.

We agree to the deal, but are convinced that Emad has been doing some double dealing. Another good example of how Egyptians think on their feet to get the most out of every transaction.

With the mechanic installing the parts on Jerry's bike, Emad took us to his friends wedding up the road. This was one of the stranger experiences we've had on our trip. Sitting inside a blue and pink open top tent surrounded by Arab men, we sat and watched the spectacle unfold. On stage was what could be loosely described as a band, who were compensating for their lack of talent with volume and reverb effect. While trying to tune out the deafening din we were surprised to see that there were no women present. A stark contrast to a western wedding. One lady did turn up later in the evening, but she was dressed in provocative clothing (by Arabian standards) and presumably wasn't there for the fun of it. Just before heading off, we witnessed the most bizarre spectacle of all - a startled horse being lead through the tent with a chubby baby on its back dressed as a Sheikh. No explanation was offered, further adding to our sense of amusement.

When we returned to the mechanic we were greeted by a welcome sight - Jerry's bike in full working order. Seeing Jerry test it out made me realise how much I'd been missing riding and how much I was looking forward to getting out of Cairo and getting my freedom back.

We returned to Emad's apartment and Jerry parked his bike next to ours. It was nice to see the three mules back together, appropriately parked in the stable area under Emad's apartment. Before turning in, we finished our business with Emad. Despite all the problems and potential double dealings we decided to hand over a generous 1000EP tip. No doubt too much, but he had bee helpful, and we figure it was better to see his family with a bit more money than to be satisfied that we got a good deal.

Saturday - One setback too many
The burnt clutch fiasco had put us two days behind schedule. In order to make up the ground and catch the Aswan ferry we needed to ride 1000km from Cairo in just one day. A tall order but just about doable.

We got up at 5am after a couple of hours sleep - the third night in a row that we'd had less than 5 hours. I'm exhausted and my allergies are acting up.

On the highway we're all struggling with our new off-road tyres, which wobble at high speed. The effect on my bike is particularly bad, accentuated by the vibration in my frame which developed earlier on in the trip. To ride safely we have to keep our speed under 100kph - further adding to the time pressure.

In my sleep deprived state on wobbly tyres the experience closely resembles driving drunk and I beckon to the others that we should pull over. In Al-Fayuum, 100km south of Cairo, the guys wander off to grab an Arabian coffee and I try to find a quiet corner to catch forty winks. No such luck. The locals prove too curious and I end up having to answer questions about our trip instead.

Back on the road, Jerry is leading and we're struggling to find our way back to the highway. Heading south in an effort to intercept it, we pass through a number of small villages. As in Mexico and Guatemala these were marked by a series of speed bumps (or topes) which force you to slow down as you go through. Fail to spot them and you face a nut-busting incident at the very least. At one of these bumps Team Canuk suffered its most serious setback since we left London - Jerry came off his bike.

Trying to slow down to avoid the speed bump, Jerry slammed on his brakes, sending his bike into a sideways skid. He passed over the bump with his bike at an angle and his slippery back tyre spun out, sending him crashing to the floor. The crash seemed to happen in slow motion right in front of us. As the bike hit the floor it sent a cloud of dust in to the air, and started spinning slowly around. The bike - being much heavier than Jerry - slipped away from him and ground to a halt some 40m down the road, facing back the way it had come. Jerry skidded to a halt a few metres earlier.

As I pulled over, Jerry was already trying to stand up, but after taking two steps his left leg gave way and he collapsed to the floor in a shriek of pain. Tyson was quickly at his side and together they diagnosed what the injury was. A knock to the knee had weakened it and had certainly ended any chance we had of reaching Aswan that day. With Tyson tending to his patient I tended to mine - picking up Buffy (Jerry's bike) and wheeling her to the side of the road. Other than a severely scratched pannier, she was in good shape. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for Jerry who was clearly in agony and irritated with himself at the crash.

I did my best to help out, getting medical supplies and offering the occasional bit of common-sense advice, but the moment was Tyson's. Acting like a fully trained doctor he gave Jerry a very thorough examination, cleaning up the wound and bandaging it. Good work Bone.

Jerry was adamant that he wanted to keep riding, but Tyson prescribed a few days of rest. I concurred with Dr Brust. Riding in these conditions was hard enough with all four limbs - trying to ride with no left leg would only result in more spills and potentially more injuries.

With Jerry reluctantly convinced, we put his bike on the back of a pickup truck (for the second time in three days), and arranged for a local to drive us to the nearby town of Bani Suef. Along the way we were stopped at a police checkpoint and assigned an escort. Driving off behind the cops, I noticed that Tyson wasn't following. I looped back to find that he had an electrical problem, which had disabled Rosa (Tyson's bike). Tyson quickly found the problem (dusty fuses) and was soon back up and running - but for a brief period my bike was the only one still working.

Our police escort was overly cautious - not wanting Jerry's bike to fall off the bumpy truck - so it took us over an hour to drive the 40km to Bani Suef. But it was with a great sense of relief that we arrived outside the Semeramis Hotel. And, after we'd carried Jerry up to our room on the third floor, I took a minute to catch those forty winks. Seven hours later, I woke up to find Tyson had taken Jerry to hospital, got an x-ray and heroically carried him up two flights of stairs by himself. Again, good work Bone.

Before dropping off for another 8 hours of sleep I took a moment to think about the trip. Assuming we catch the next ferry on Monday the 14th we'll have about 51 days to get to Cape Town. That's three days less than the Long Way Down boys and they had two trucks full of spare parts and a mechanic. But hey - if everything went smoothly this wouldn't be an adventure now would it.

Until next time.

Jordanian Delight

2008-07-02T12:49:00.008+01:00

I had high hopes for Jordan when I started this trip. With its spectacular desert scenery that once captivated T.E.Lawrence; ancient ruins worthy of cinematic depiction; and glorious smooth roads stretching from one end of the country to the other - it is a country with much to offer.

Petra - a 2300 year old Nabataean city carved in to a sandstone canyon - is Jordan's most famous historical site. The main reason I'm aware of it is not because of its historical significance, or because it was recently named one of the new Seven Wonders of the World. The reason I know it, is because it featured in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade - a film I first saw in the cinema when I was six. So it was with a sense of childish excitement that I crossed in to Jordan, hoping to follow in the footsteps of one of my boyhood heros.

It was early on Friday evening when we got across the border. The sun was glowing a bright red as it slipped behind the desert mountains and I felt a tinge of excitement as we turned off the main highway and got our first taste of sand riding. After our off-road training trip to the Mojave desert back in March I was keen to find out how difficult riding a heavily loaded bike through soft sand would be. Quite difficult it turns out. But still fun. Unlike the light dirt bikes that we trained on, our heavy mules tend to wallow and sink in the sand. The secret is probably just to gun the engine and try to skim over the surface. But there will be plenty of time to practice that in Sudan. For now, I'm content just skidding to a halt in a big cloud of dust and trying not to fall over.

Winding our way south through the canyonlands, we descended to the salty shores of the Dead Sea - the lowest place on Earth. The baron coastline was a bit of a surprise. I had expected tourist resorts to stretch all along the shore, but as it turns out there are just a few resorts and they're all concentrated in the north. Most of the coast is occupied by army watchtowers which gaze out over the turquoise water toward the rocky cliffs of Israel. But there are a few sections where it's possible to ride your bike down some gravel roads and through the sand to get close to the water. It was in one of these spots that we decided to go for a paddle.

Ditching our bikes a couple of hundred metres from the water, we made the remainder of the journey on foot. Walking over the dried mudbanks, we met up with some locals who were also heading for a dip, and one of them told us he'd show us how best to enter the water. He kicked off his shoes and then dashed madly in to the sea, hopping from one foot to the other in a funny looking dance. We thought he was just playing the fool, but as we kicked off our shoes we too were soon hopping about. The muddy shore was boiling hot, sticky and covered in salt crystals so that when your foot sank in to it, you were cut and scolded at the same time. The only way to avoid the searing pain was to dance like a hopping mad fool. So that's exactly what we did. First on the way in, then after a quick float around, again on the way out.

Jordan was proving fun, and with an Indiana Jones site just a few hundred kilometres away, there was still much more to see.

Biblical scenery flashed by as we followed the King's Highway as it cut its majestic course through the sandstone mountains. As we approached Petra the sun was beginning to set, creating ideal conditions to recreate the famous cinematic shot. But my dreams of riding my bike through the Canyon of the Crescent Moon were soon quoshed when it became apparent that Petra has become something of a tourist trap. Heavily coloured by the film, I had expected the site to be in a secluded canyon, far away from the hustle and bustle of modern life. But the realty was much less appealing. A tourist town - Wadi Musa - has grown up around the area and with it have come bus loads of sightseers, tacky souvenir stores, donkey rides and litter. It was all a far cry from the Holy Grail image I'd had in my head.

I still enjoyed Petra. The historic ruins are truly a wonder to behold and the canyons are an inspiring place to spend a few hours hiking around and jumping from rock to rock. But let's just say Spielberg and Lucas added a bit of sparkle to the place, which I felt was missing.

With one childhood dream quoshed, you might think I'd leave Jordan on a sour note, but the opposite is actually true. In the far south of the country, riding in the Arabian desert, I was taken aback by where we were and what we were doing. The vast baron scenery was truly spectacular and I felt priviledged to be riding my motorcycle in such an awe inspiring place. With a broad grin on my face, there was only one thing left to do - pop a wheelie and ride in to the sunset.

Cue Indiana Jones theme.

A Middle Eastern tour

2008-06-27T08:41:00.007+01:00

We are currently in Damascus and are about a quarter of the way to Cape Town. Since reuniting in Antalya on Sunday - Jerry, Tyson and I have taken a scenic tour though Southern Turkey and have since crossed in to the scorching heat of Syria.

Turkey is a motorcyclist's dream. Excellent climate, few cars on the roads, and glorious coastal roads that wind their way along the mountains. Often the road is just a few feet from the Mediterranean providing ample opportunity to cool off in the middle of the day.

The Turkish people have made our stay particularly enjoyable with their gracious welcoming attitude. Never is there too insignificant an occasion to invite us in for a cup of chai (tea). Even when filling up with petrol we've ended up sitting with the attendant on the forecourt sipping a glass of piping hot tea. In short, Turkey has been as close to the comfort zone as we're likely to get.

On Tuesday we crossed in to Syria and were hit with a sharp contrast. At the border, things moved slowly, and we had to give a few backhanders to several officials to speed up the process. When we did eventually get across we were greeted by a 38 degree wave of heat, which for a pasty Englishman like myself is really quite warm.

Keen to get out of the sun we made our way to Aleppo in northern Syria. We parked our bikes in the centre of town and within a minute were surrounded by locals. They were all keen to shake our hand, find out where we were going, and help us on our way. This was to be a feature of all our time in Syria and a very effective way of getting directions. The locals pointed us down a small side street, which wouldn't have looked out of place in an Indiana Jones movie, and in the centre of the labyrinth of alleyways we found ourselves outside a very swanky hotel. Stone columns, a marble floored lobby and an ornate bedroom were just too much. And, without Ted around to keep us honest, we plumped for the ritzy venue, rode our bikes in to the lobby and found ourselves right back in the comfort zone.

That evening we wandered around the ancient city visiting the bazaars and souqs. In one we were invited in to a secluded alcove to listen to some locals play an Oud (a pear shaped guitar with a bent neck), share a drink, and watch them puff away on their hooka pipe.

The following day we made the most of our hotel and ended up leaving in the afternoon. It was warm again but more like 35 degrees and we seemed to be acclimatising. Making the most of it, we spent the day visiting ancient ruins. Our first stop was a 4000 year old archaeological dig, which required quite a bit of imagination to work out where the buildings were and what they would have looked like. Our second stop was the Byzantine ruins of Serjilla. These were much more intact, and provided ample opportunity for exploring and to ride the bikes around.

But the jewel in the crown was the ruins at Apamea. Situated majestically on top of a hill, we arrived just as the sun was setting. Riding my bike along the 2000 year old street surrounded by crumbling pillars was an experience I'll never forget. A fantastic day.

Yesterday we took in another famous historical site - the Crusader's Castle in Crac des Chevaliers. Not as impressive as Apamea but it was still fun, partly because there was an amusing camel sitting outside.

Last night we descended in to the scorching heat of Damascus. Using our trick of pulling over and waiting to be surrounded by locals, we soon had a couple of them on the back of our bikes directing us to a hotel. It being Thursday, things were winding down ahead of the weekend (which starts on Friday here), but we did our best to explore our surroundings and wandered around the old town until the early hours.

Syria has been one of the most interesting countries of the trip so far. As in Turkey, we've been warmly welcomed by the Syrian people - who are a little more boystrous than their Turkish counterparts. The scorching heat of the Syrian countryside has also given us a taste of what life outside the comfort zone will be like. I'm enjoying the transition.

This afternoon we'll cross in to Jordan - the fourteenth country on our trip and the final one on our Middle Eastern tour. After that's it's Africa and non-stop adventure.

A few pictures from the Middle Eastern leg are available here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/tdsmith/sets/72157605843004857/

One continent down...

2008-06-17T23:26:00.010+01:00

The last few days have been eventful. We`ve ticked off another six countries on our list; taken on the full force of Mother Nature; left the European Union; reached the Meditteranean; İ`ve crashed; and the team has temporarily disbanded.

İn the first few days since leaving Prague we embarked on a whistlestop tour of European Capitals. We past through Vienna, Bratislava and Budapest - taking in the sites, eating well, and enjoying the odd drink while watching the football. But we`ve come to realise that cities are best seen on foot and not by sitting on an overheating bike in traffic. So we`ve been avoiding them since leaving Budapest.

Touring through the rural east of Hungary, Mother Nature gave us our first taste of adventure. Having treated us to a few days of glorious sunshine, she decided we were having it too easy and spruced things up with a spectacular thunderstorm. Quick riding and favourable winds kept us dry for a few hours but before long we were surrounded by lightning storms. A deluge of rain followed and the road quickly turned to a river. Seeking shelter in a local bar we made the best of it - enjoying the Portugal-Czech game with the locals. But with the weather showing little sign of letting up, we treated ourselves to another hotel.

The following morning the weather had cleared and we were feeling refreshed. A few miles later we reached the Romanian border and for the first time on our trip had to show our passports. To mark the occasion, Tyson and İ attempted to pull a few wheelies. (Suffice to say we need a bit more practice - the tiddlers we can currently do are more like bunny hops than proper wheelies. But give us a few months and we should have some good pictures.)

Across the border we rolled our watches forward another hour but by the looks of our surroundings it seemed like we`d rolled them back several years. Most of the cars on the road looked like they`d come straight out of the 1970s. About a third of them were the same model - the Dacia 1310 - Romania`s equivalent of the Lada. Another fair chunk of road traffic was taken up by an older method of transport still - the horse and cart.

İn fact, riding through the countryside was like going through a time warp - seeing farmers working the land by hand and carrying bushels of straw on their back. But despite the hardship, people seemed happy. Parents visibly doted over their children who waved delightedly as we rode by. Others gathered on the side of the road discussing the days events and waiting for something interesting to happen. İt was quaint and a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Western Europe.

Although living standards had dropped sharply, road quality remained high and the windy mountain stretches through Transylvania provided no end of cornering fun.

Passing in to Bulgaria İ had expected living standards to take another tumble, but the opposite turned out to be true. Riding along the Black Sea Coast İ kept an eye out for rogue wombles (Uncle Bulgaria) but got distracted by the pleasant smells wafting through my helmet from the beautiful coastal fields.

As we neared the Turkish border İ rode on ahead so as to get to İstanbul early and make the most of the short time İ`d have there. As İ left the others, the sky darkened and soon İ was riding alone on twisty rural roads in another downpour. Remaining stubbornly on the bike, İ soon found myself at the frontier of the European Union and was quickly across the border into Turkey. The same twisty wet roads greeted me on the other side of the border, but now they had a thick layer of mud courteous of some construction workers. İ picked my way carefully through the slippery terrain and eventually got clear of it. After a few more miles İ glanced down at my front tyre, saw that it was clean and decided it was alright to start learning in to the corners again. That turned out to be a mistake.

Although my front tyre was clean the same couldn`t be said of the rear and on a slow left hander the muddy edge of the tyre lost grip and the bike started to slide out. İ did my best to correct the skid but only succeeded in flipping the bike on to the other side of the slippery tyre. The bike fell on to its right hand side and went careering in to the crash barrier on the other side of the road.

Fortunately İ was only going about 20mph and the impact was cushioned by the tyres. As İ clambered off the bike İ took a quick look at myself. No scuffs, no bumps, just a thick covering of mud - İ`d been lucky. But now İ was in a bit of a predicament. My bike was jammed under the crash barrier and was proving stubbornly difficult to shift. Some friendly Turks soon came to the rescue. Barely batting an eyelid at my mud covered appearance they helped me haul the bike out from under the barrier and wheel it back onto the right side of the road. The crash had bent the steering, ripped off one of my tank bags and left a scar-like gouge alongside one of the panniers. The steering was easy to fix and the rest was cosmetic - again İ`d been lucky.

Slightly bewildered by the whole episode İ hopped back on the bike and rode on to İstanbul. With my mind distracted by the crash İ pulled over to fill up with petrol and barely noticed that the price had jumped to over £1.50 a litre - apparently Turkey has the fifth highest petrol prices in the world. A few hours of speedy motoring later İ reached the city İ had been so eager to see.

Despite the crash, İ was glad İ`d gone on ahead. The vibrant streets of old İstanbul were more than enough compensation, and İ spent the next few hours walking among the tourists, gazing over the Bosphoros, and generally enjoying myself. The lads turned up a few hour later and that evening we sat down together for a delicious meal in Sultanahmet. The atmosphere was electric - Turkey were playing the Czech Republic and were down 2-0. But, in what was one of the most exciting games İ`ve seen, Turkey scored a hattrick in the last fifteen minutes and won. The whole town went beserk at that point. Drums and whistles appeared out of nowhere and people broke into song and dance in the street. Every car that drove by (especially the police) were merrily tooting their horns. İt was a marvellous spontaneous carnival and the celebrations went on long in to the night.

The following morning the team temporarily split up. İ left for a butt-numbing 800 kilometre ride to Antalya to catch a flight back to the heart of the comfort zone (London) for a few days of thrilling work. Ted turned around in search of ice cream and started the return leg of his European tour. And Jerry and Tyson set out for a scenic tour of the Turkish coast.

Quite an eventful few days. More adventures to come from Asia and Africa.

Photos of the European leg of the journey are now available here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/tdsmith/sets/72157605721950542/

It begins...

2008-06-08T08:30:00.002+01:00

After two years of planning, countless hours of preparation, and training trips to the Mojave Desert and South Wales - we are finally on the road.

We left London at a respectable hour on Tuesday morning and after six days have now reached Prague. In that time we've covered about 1000 miles (or one fifteenth of the total distance between London and Cape Town) and we've passed through six countries - the UK, France, Belgium, the Netherlands (for about 6km) Germany and the Czech Republic. The last two have been the best so far, with spectacular roads cutting a glorious line through the rolling green hills. To anyone who has seen The Great Escape - the scenery is similar to the area where Steve McQueen filmed his famous motorbike chase. Needless to say we were all thinking that as we sped through it.

Other than the McQueen roads, highlights have been: a visit to the St. Sixtus Abbey in Westvleterin (where we tasted some of the finest beer in the world brewed by the local Trappist Monks); the scenic roads through the Rhine Valley; and the lively city of Prague. Other entertaining moments have been a few low speed bike drops while maneuvering around boggy campsites, one incident involving a truck and Tyson's pannier where the truck came off worse, and speed tests on the German Autobahns. Ted's current fireblade record is just over 160mph, I'm at a paltry 140.

Last night was the first time since leaving that we've paid for our accommodation. Every other night we've pitched our tents in opportune places, ranging from the St. Sixtus Abbey car park to a hilltop overlooking the Rhine. Camping has been great fun, if a little damp, but last night's luxury appartment was in a league of its own. Clearly we're still well inside the comfort zone. But with road signs becoming increasingly unrecognisable and local currency beginning to baffle, it wont be long before we're outside of it.

More adventures to come.

The squadron is complete

2008-05-14T22:06:00.013+01:00

Team CanUK made a significant step forward in terms of trip preparation over the weekend – we now have all four bikes that will be going on the adventure. The final addition to the 2008 line-up was Ted’s new bike – a 1998 Honda Fireblade - which I picked up from North London over the weekend.

Looking at the pictures, you might think that a Fireblade seems an odd choice for a cross-continent adventure, particularly when the rest of us are riding heavily modified dirtbikes. But Ted’s trip is only going as far as Turkey, so there’s little need for him to get anything so durable. Instead, he’s decided to lap up Europe’s smooth roads and liberal speed limits on something a bit quicker. And who can blame him.

The pictures tell their own story in terms of the Fireblade’s pace, but all too often we see nice looking bikes that turn out to be tortoises with go faster stripes painted on them. Fortunately the Fireblade isn’t one of those. Obviously she looks great, particularly with that sleek bronze and graphite finish. But there’s more to her than that - the 918cc engine for one. With an engine that size you get a lot of power and a lot of speed. According to the owner’s manual, the 130 horsepower engine will take the Fireblade up to 170.9 mph. The fastest I’ve ever been on a bike was just over a hundred miles an hour. And that seemed buttock-clenchingly fast to me. Presumably at 170mph you’re clenching so much that the bike actually becomes part of you. I guess we’ll have to ask Ted about that.

With all that power and a fair bit of weight too (she’s a big bike), I was somewhat apprehensive when I first clambered on to ride her home. Nobody wants to drop a bike, particularly their mate’s shiny new one. And with the bike sitting on the pavement (sidewalk to all you North Americans) my first task was to roll it down the curb and get on the road. That doesn’t sound like a tricky manoeuvre but when you’ve got 180kgs of bike to balance, and fairly short legs, it is. Fortunately though, despite the Fireblade’s size and weight, it turned out to be quite easy. The bike is actually very manoeuvrable and is surprisingly similar to my own CB 400 (aka the Nimbus) at slow speeds. They both have good brakes as well, which I found out after just a few seconds on the Fireblade (shortly after testing the throttle). But that’s really where the similarities end. The Nimbus is a very conventional bike – it gets you from A to B in good time and in a fun way - the Fireblade does that but seems to have the curious effect of distorting space and time as well.

In first gear you can lazily accelerate up to 30mph and it feels like you’re barely moving. In second you comfortably get up to 50 or 60 without taxing the engine – and even at those speeds it feels like you’re just pootling along. At 80mph in third nothing’s changed, except the grin on your face has gotten wider and you’re definitely breaking the speed limit. And in 4th, 5th and 6th you errr… well I would tell you about those gears but I didn’t get a chance to use them – the bike has that much power. I’m not sure whether it’s the fairing on the bike that makes it so stable at high speeds, or whether it has a flux capacitor fitted to slow time down while you’re on it, either way– this is a very fast, and very fun bike.

But nothing’s perfect, and the Fireblade, like all machines has a few faults. Like me, the bike is fairly impatient and so the ride through central London didn’t do either of us any favours. The bike got hot under the collar causing the engine temperature to tick up, and I got frustrated about travelling at 10mph on a 170mph sports bike. It does make me wonder why anyone would buy a sports car in central London. Not only do you get stuck in hours of traffic, but you also have the infuriating knowledge that without all the other cars you could do your trip in a matter of seconds. Bah.

In terms of other faults, the ride was a little firmer than I’m use to, no doubt reflecting the bike’s sportier suspension. The riding position is also a bit awkward at slower speeds. Unless you lie flat on the tank, the low slung handlebars put quite a bit of pressure on your wrists (I got pins and needles a few times). And if you do lie on the tank you cant really see where you’re going because the windscreen is so darkly tinted that it might as well be painted black. The bike is also quite dangerous as it encourages you to take your eye off the road and look at its reflection in shop windows. But despite those minor problems it really is an excellent bike.

Lets hope she stands up to the Ted test.

The weather

2008-05-06T23:04:00.000+01:00

It seems fitting to begin this blog in much the same way that most British people start a conversation – with a few remarks on the weather.

The weather is a favourite topic of discussion in Britain, even if we’re normally just complaining about it. Obviously the rain is our most common gripe but we’re grumpy about other stuff too. At the moment the hot topic is the temperature. Summer is fast approaching and talk on my train to work has already turned to the searing heat and how it will make the daily commute unbearable. Just a few weeks earlier, those same commuters were complaining about ‘how bloody cold it is’ and ‘why it shouldn’t be snowing in April’. Based on this sort of talk you’d be forgiven for thinking Britain has one of the harshest climates in the world, but in actual fact we’ve got one of the mildest. God forbid then if any of us should leave Britain’s mild shores and venture abroad.

But over the next few weeks I’ll be making the final preparations to do exactly that. Come the 3^rd of June, I along with three of my friends from Canada – Ted, Tyson and Jerry – will depart from London and head off on a three month adventure across Europe, the Middle East and Africa all the way to Cape Town. During the 15,000 mile trip the weather is likely to play a key role, not least because we’re travelling by motorbike. Without comforts like climate control, windscreen wipers or a roof, we’re at the mercy of the elements. The wind will try to batter us off course; a quick shower will drench us from head to toe; and a sunny day with a light breeze will lift our spirits like nothing else. Travelling by motorbike may not be the most comfortable way to get from A to B, but it certainly is invigorating.

But all the excitement will have to wait a few more weeks. In the meantime there is still a lot to organise. Visas and other paperwork need to be sorted, the bikes need to be modified and tested, and survival and photography equipment has to be bought and prepped. It’s going to be a busy few weeks and that’s despite two years of planning. But to help relieve stress I’ve discovered an interesting new technique – curiously enough related to the weather. The trick is to spend a few minutes just staring up at the sky and marvelling at the clouds. It sounds like a childish pursuit and it is, but it’s surprisingly effective in turning the dull commute in to something more majestic – it’s thought provoking too. This book - ‘The Cloudspotters Guide’ by Gavin Pretor-Pinney – sparked my interest. It’s well written, funny and filled with interesting trivia – well worth a read if only to help you turn skyward.

So enjoy that, and until the next trip update, enjoy the weather.