Graham & Graham were the first English overlanders I’d met since meeting Richard Harwood in Chile back in January. Young Graham (22) had flown his bike into Toronto in April and ridden north to the ice roads before turning south to cross the USA. Old(er) Graham had started in Los Angeles and the pair met in Guatemala, joining forces for the ride through Central America. We stood on the roadside for an hour or so having a good chat, swapping stories and info. At 4000m the sun on the road from La Paz to Lake Titicaca was pretty intense and after so long in the shade of the city I’d forgotten just how quickly my head burnt. After six months without seeing another overlander I was clearly back on the ‘Gringo’ trail; not since leaving Brian & Fie in Thailand in March 2007 had I seen three British number plates together.

Meeting Graham & Graham outside La Paz, Bolivia

After 19 days in La Paz I was not only glad to be on the road again but especially glad to be out in the countryside. The fields were bare but the sky was blue and the air was crisp as I cruised gently towards Copacabana on the shore of Lago Titicaca. Not just the largest in South America but at 3812m, possibly the world’s highest navigable lake. Having lost a lot of oil from the rear suspension, riding Lady P was like riding a giant Pogo Stick. Luckily though good road conditions meant it wasn’t too bad but stopping was proving a little tricky as the slightest movement made her bounce up and down, affecting my toehold on the ground.

As the road crossed the final pass to Copacabana so the view over the town and out across the lake was beautiful. A patchwork of bleached fields led to the lakeshore where the dark blue waters stretched to the horizon to meet the brilliant blue sky. I headed down into town and soon caught up with Kiwi Bryn Jones at the hostel he’d arranged. I’d met Bryn in La Paz whilst searching for parts for Lady P. He’d read one of my postings on the Horizons Unlimited website and sent me a message from the UK to say he was flying into La Paz and could bring anything (small) with him if it would help. Unfortunately I very rarely check the Horizons message box and he’d already left the UK when I read his message (DOH!). We did meet up in La Paz though and decided to ride together as far as Nasca in Peru whereupon he would turn south and I north. Bryn had bought his BMW K100 in Los Angeles last year and ridden it down to La Paz where he’d stored it whilst he returned to work for another 10 months. Having rushed through the southern part of Peru last year he was keen to back track a little and see what he’d missed.

Walking track along the narrow Isla del Sol

We left the bikes in the hostel and caught the ferry to Isla del Sol where we spent a night in the perfectly located hostel Inca Kala, waited two hours for pizzas in the adjacent hut/restaurant and shared a table with Jan, a young Danish lad who’d recently qualified with a Physics degree having specialized in Cosmology. It was fascinating conversation in which he talked in numbers most of us cannot comprehend but to him were as normal as reading a bus timetable. The following morning we underestimated the effects of the sun, wind and altitude as we walked 4km along the ridgeline to the Inca ruins and returned to the mainland with split lips and burnt faces.

Peru

Bolivia/Peru border at Kasani

Bryn had been a little on edge as the time to leave Bolivia approached. My temporary import document for Lady P had expired three weeks ago but that was nothing compared to Bryn. He didn’t have one. At the border I’d hoped to get into the Customs office first before Bryn upset them but he was processed through immigration quicker than me and beat me to the office.  The customs officer in charge had started ranting at Bryn and was talking about sending him back to the border he’d entered through 10 months previously. I presented my paperwork and held my breath as I was stamped out, the officer either overlooking or failing to notice the expiry date. Meanwhile, Bryn was telling his story to another officer and showing him around his bike. After much negotiating between the three and checking the registration document etc they let him through.

We’d heard stories of ‘Contributions to the Madonna’ being required by the border guards on the Peruvian side so whilst Bryn completed his paperwork I engaged the chief in conversation. He was soon writing down his favorite national dishes and telling me in which regions to find them and it wasn’t long before we were back outside without the word ‘contribution’ being mentioned.  Outside the shop opposite, two local couples in their 60’s were sat at a table having a few beers and it wasn’t long before they’d insisted we join them. The brother of one of the men lived above the shop and they’d all come to visit. They spoke no English so conversation was slow and every understanding celebrated by more beer and a toast and soon an hour had disappeared. A young Peruvian lad who spoke good English joined us at the table  and filled in all the gaps. It had been a good start to Peru and we rode on full of good feelings.

Cusco

The 'floating' Uros Islands, Lago Titicaca

En-route to Cusco we spent a couple of nights in Puno inorder to visit the ‘floating islands’ on the Uros. In a very basic description, the islands are essentially clumps of floating reeds tied together to make ‘islands’ upon which the people of the Uros live. Tourism now supports (but can’t replace) their economy which comes mainly from hunting and fishing on the lake (Titicaca).

Uros Island Girl, Lago Titicaca

Hostel Estrellita in Cusco had been recommended by Carlos, Monica and Richard and with good reason. They were ready with a sturdy ramp to ride the bikes down the three steps into the huge courtyard, breakfast was great value and we were only a few minutes’ walk from the centre. Bryn said my brakelight wasn’t working but investigation showed the inside of the lens and the bulb to be covered in a thick coating of dust.

We visited a few museums in town including the Museum of pre-Colombian Art. An excellent collection of artifacts but all the descriptions seemed to have been written by a ‘modern’ artist describing their piece for exhibition at the Tate Gallery. I’ve never read such bullshit. Plenty of English words I didn’t understand along with many sentences whose words I did understand but whose meaning I didn’t. The last time I had read English like this was entering Syria from Turkey with Danny where a huge board had instructions written in English words but constructed into sentences that neither of us could fathom. On the corner of the ubiquitous Plaza de Armas we had lunch in the Norton Café, full of motorcycling memorabilia and photographs.

A visit to Machu Picchu is the main reason most people come to Cusco but without spending a ridiculous sum of money on a guided trip involved 120km or so of dirt road, something I wasn’t prepared to do whilst riding Lady P with her temporarily repaired rear suspension. It will have to wait until I return.

Nasca

The 600km ride from Cusco to Nasca has been touted as one of the best routes in South America and we weren’t disappointed. It took us two days to cross four 4000m+ peaks and descend to 1800m in between. (If anyone can explain how I can display the ‘profile’ from my Garmin GPS on this site I’d be grateful)

Along the Cusco to Nasca Road

We rode alongside the Apurimac River, famous the world over for its white water rafting, through terraced valleys and across vast treeless plains to the worlds’ highest sand dune (2070m) on the outskirts of Nasca.

Along the Cusco - Nasca Road

We cruised along taking in the scenery and stopping often for drinks and for Bryn to do some filming and despite taking two days for the ride we still rolled into Nasca late afternoon. As we did, so we were met by a couple of hotel touts, something I don’t recall seeing since Turkey. We followed them to a hotel on the Plaza where we were offered a rather nice room for a third of the published price along with parking for our bikes in the lobby. There was already a BMW 1150 Adventure in the lobby so it was going to be a tight fit.

With Bryn and Mike in Nasca. Peru

As we squeezed the bikes through the doorway so we met Mike, the owner of the BMW. Having sold his Chiropractor business in Washington State, Mike was heading south on the first leg of his world tour. He’d found Robert Wicks’ book Adventure Motorcycling (see sidebar link)quite inspirational during his research and so, he said, it was rather surreal to see me walk through the door. The three of us had a very sociable time over the next two evenings with a few beers and good steak.

'Monkey', Nasca, Peru

My main reason for going to Nasca was to see the famous Nasca Lines. Best viewed from the air I took a short flight to do just that and being a single traveler I got the co-pilots seat. I was OK until I started looking through my cameras viewfinder to take some photos whereupon I felt quite sick. The pilot circles each geoglyph both clockwise and anti-clockwise so that everyone gets a good view and he does so with the aircraft banked over at maximum lean so you’re looking virtually straight down. I was glad I went but also glad to return. It doesn’t bode well for visiting my friend Ian Longstaff who is now competing in aerobatic competitions and is insistent on taking me up the next time I visit. I think I’ll have to strap my sick bag on nosebag style.

From Nasca the three of us went separate directions. Mike headed for Cusco along the route Bryn and I had travelled, Bryn headed south to Arequipa and I headed north to the coastal town of Pisco where I would hang out for a few days before entering Lima.

Pisco

The day after my 40^th birthday, 595 people died and 90% of Pisco was destroyed in an earthquake that measured 8.0 on the Richter scale. At least that’s what the International community said. The Peruvian government, so I was told, had declared it 7.9 ensuring it failed to meet the 8.0 requirement to receive government aid. The townsfolk were left to themselves.

The fault line ran right under the Plaza de Armas, alongside the government building and under the San Clemente Cathedral which was holding mass at the time. Whilst the government building remained intact, the Cathedral collapsed killing everyone bar the priest.

I found a very pleasant hostel a few km’s south of the city in Paracas and spent a couple of days taking it easy before heading into Lima.

The Early Retirement of Lady P

Whilst the engine (with the exception of the waterpump of which I’ve replaced 4) has been extremely reliable (apart from the cold starting) the chassis has been another story. The headlight has been held in with zip ties for 3 years + (all the mountings having vibrated themselves to bits), I’ve replaced 4 sets of steering head bearings, 6 fork seals, 7 engine cradle bolts, 4 sets link arm bearings (and the current set are seized), 1 pair of link arms, 1 set linkage bearings (and the current set are seized), 2 Ohlins suspension complete failures and 5 batteries. All that despite stripping cleaning and greasing with waterproof grease on several occasions. Had I been paying dealers to do my repairs I would have spent more repairing the bike than I did buying it.

I could’ve decided to repair Lady P properly and continue my journey to Alaska on paved highways and gentle gravel roads – but that’s not the kind of journey I want. I like to get off the beaten track, cross the mountains via the less travelled passes, camp in the bush, meet people who vary rarely encounter foreigners. To me that is the whole point of having my own transport.

It took a lot of thinking about but I finally decided to replace Lady P and replace her with a Suzuki DR650 (see Suzuki tab for why). After discussing the idea with my sister and old friend Ian Barr in Massachusetts I came up with the following plan: To ship Lady P back to Europe, fly to the USA, buy a used DR650 and ride it to Ian’s in Massachusetts where I would spend three weeks doing as much preparation work as I could before flying to Europe to collect Lady P. I would return to Ian’s at the end of January, finish preparing the DR and return to SA to pick up where I started missing places due to Lady P’s problems. (See Suzuki tab for DR build)

Lima

I rode into Lima early on a Sunday afternoon (the best time to enter any SA city) and soon found my way to Hostel Espańa as recommended by Maarten Munnik. A beautiful old colonial building that appeared as much stately home as it did hostel and is located just a few blocks away from the Plaza de Armas and many beautiful buildings.  Being September though I’d arrived right in the middle of the Garua, a thick cloud/fog that covers the city from June to November.

Lobby parking in Hostal Espana, Lima, Peru

I was in Lima to find a shipping agent for Lady P and doing so proved somewhat of a mission. In fact in turned out to be the worst shipping experience of the trip to date. Prior to my arrival in the city I’d been in touch with Shenker, a large shipping company recommended by Thierry (Switzerland F650). Despite several emails being exchanged it still took another three days and a visit to their office before they came back to me with a quote. I nearly fell off my chair when they did; at U$4500 it was three times what I’d paid from Singapore – a journey of double the distance.

I posted a request for information on the HUBB and received a reply from a very helpful Peruvian now residing in California. He said his brother still lived in Lima and had a friend who worked in a shipping agent. I contacted the friend and set into motion the process of obtaining a quote. His initial response was U$550 + Crating + Bill of Lading + Customs fees. That all sounded good and I guesstimated  a final bill of U$800-900. WRONG! The stumbling block seemed to be crating and it took two days plus the weekend before I got a final quote – U$2100!! Better than the Shenker quote but still way more than I was prepared to pay. A look at his breakdown of cost showed U$200+ union fees and I began to wonder if Lima was just a particularly expensive port and set about making enquires up and down the coast as far south as Santiago in Chile to Quito in Ecuador.

Whilst awaiting replies I started looking through the phone book in the lobby when a taxi driver asked what I was looking for. Once I’d explained he took me to see a friend of his in the building next door who was a travel agent. I immediately thought the taxi driver hadn’t fully understood what I meant but it turned out the travel agent – Enrique – had contacts in the shipping world and within 24hrs had a quote for U$1215 which I naturally accepted.

Two days later I followed Enrique across the city to the shipping agents premises to deliver Lady P. Unfortunately the agent didn’t speak a word of English and whilst I can get by in Spanish on a daily basis, the technicalities of arranging a shipment were way beyond me and I was reliant on Enrique to translate though he was struggling to translate the technicalities also. It was agreed that Enrique and I would return in the morning to complete the paperwork and for me to disconnect the battery, drain the fuel and supervise the packaging.

When we arrived the following morning I was horrified to discover Lady P already packed and it seemed I threw the whole deal into question when I insisted she was unpacked sufficiently for me to disconnect the battery and pack a few extra things. I’d also given crate dimensions that involved removing the front wheel, mudguard and mirrors which they clearly hadn’t been able to do. I was incredulous when told I wouldn’t be able to pack Lady P like that as the shipment would be classified differently (spare parts) and become much more complicated!!

With the battery disconnected we set about the paperwork. This in itself was like nothing I’d experienced in other countries. All the SA countries I’ve travelled through so far use a ‘Notaria’, similar to a solicitor/lawyer just a little bit down the scale (so it appeared). They are used – amongst other things – to authenticate documents, give certain permissions etc. In my case my temporary import document, vehicle ownership document and written agreement with the shipping agent were checked against me and my passport; photocopied, stamped and signed with copies given to me and the agent.

Later that afternoon the agent appeared in my hostel looking rather stressed and insisting we go to the nearest Notaria. It transpired that the Customs office had refused to allow the agent to deal with my temporary import document on my behalf without having permission in writing and authenticated by a Notaria. As a result we sat in another Notarias office for another hour.

During this frustrating eleven days I was kept sane by a few good people in my hostel. Ian, who Id spent time with in Salta and Sucre arrived as did Christian, an American cycling home from Ushuaia and finally Australian Warren. We soon found a cracking lunchtime restaurant near the hostel that served the national dish Ceviche, raw fish marinated in lime or lemon juice and absolutely delicious. A few blocks from there a local baker served great apple pie and a lemon (meringue) pie to die for (5” thick!). A slice of either along with a coffee was less than a quid. Good for the budget – bad for the waistline.

My other task was to track down a suitable Suzuki DR650 for sale in the USA. I found three potentials online, the first of which sold very quickly. The second was a mere 2hr drive from my friends place near Boston and being already suitably modified was looking good but by the time the owner replied to my email it was sold. That left one in Salt Lake City, Utah. My first contact with the owner didn’t go well as he miss-interpreted my initial email and perceived a scam. Once I’d proved my identity and Ian (yes, another one) became very helpful. Working as an aircraft technician for Delta Airlines, not only was the bike properly looked after but he also got me a ‘Buddy Pass’ for my flight from Lima to Salt Lake City. It was the first time in my life I’d got on a plane and turned left (Business Class) and the first time I’d ever wished the flight longer than it was. “Would you like the wine menu sir?”, “Would you like waking for breakfast sir?” After supper I pushed the ‘sleep’ button on the automated chair and stretched out fully under the down duvet. I could learn to put up with that. J

USA

The joy didn’t last long though. My Buddy Pass meant travelling standby and I was soon moving from gate to gate as I was repeatedly bumped from the list in Atlanta airport. Having arrived at 0800 I eventually left at 1820 on the 5^th of 6^th daily flights and was met by man mountain Ian in SLC. He took me to the cheapest Motel in town ( Motel 8 ) but at U$50 it was way out of my budget but I had to suck it up for the night. I bought an internet card and soon found a hostel in the city for U$15. That would be where I would head if I agreed to buy Ian’s bike. Ian picked me up and took me for breakfast before we headed over to his house. With four children the garage was pretty full of bikes and motorbikes for all ages. Amongst everything was the DR, every bit as tidy as Ian’s photo’s suggested, 2006 model, 2402miles on the clock and still wearing its original tyres. After a successful inspection and test ride we agreed a price and set about the paperwork.

The vendor Ian was a Man Mountain!

I had intended to register the DR using my friends address near Boston but a complication that nobody could explain a way around prevented me from doing so. Utah State requires the vendor to remove the license plate(s) (registration plate) at the time of sale. The buyer then applies for a new one, a process which is completed whilst you wait if you attend a Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) Office. DMV’s only register vehicles in their own state so in order for a resident of another state to buy a vehicle they provide a ‘Temporary Tag’ valid for 96hrs. However, Massachusetts don’t allow a vehicle to enter their state on a Temporary Tag!

Luckily for me Ian came to the rescue and said I could keep the bike registered at his address and also use it for arranging insurance, which I did very quickly online. Ian was good to his word and forwarded the insurance papers to me in Massachusetts.

The only downside to the whole process was that it was Saturday and as an attempt at cost reduction the DMV’s opening hours had been changed to 0700-1800 Mon-Thurs which meant staying in SLC until Monday.

I arrived at the office just after opening on Monday morning and within 20 minutes was bolting a new license plate onto the DR.

Golden Arches Tour

No, not Canyonlands…McDonalds!! I became increasingly colder as climbed I-80 away from Salt Lake City.  The DR had neither a screen for wind protection, heated grips, nor a power socket to plug in my heated vest and despite handlebar muffs and two pairs of gloves I couldn’t feel my fingers. As I crested the pass approaching Park City so the three lane interstate was reduced to one as snow covered the outer two. I was planning on taking US-40 across the mountains to Denver to visit Lora Felger whom I’d met in Chile back in February but the weather had other ideas. With snow settling on the Interstate there was no way I could risk a ride through the mountains – I needed an alternative route.

I pulled into McDonalds at Park City to warm up with a coffee, check my map and add a few layers of clothing. Being unable to turn off the engine brought home just how cold it was (the key was frozen in the ignition switch). I hit the kill switch before realizing the lights were still on and so had to park in the sun for 10 minutes before I could remove the key. I approached the counter bright red from the temperature change and with snot dripping from my nose I asked for a Café Latte only to be asked “Do you want that iced or hot?”!!! I think the position of my eyebrows gave away my answer before I could speak. There was, afterall, 5cm of snow on the ground and I was riding a motorcycle!

With my coffee drunk and a few more layers of clothing added I hit the road once more. To keep out of the mountains I followed I-80 due east through southern Wyoming to Cheyenne and I-25 south to Denver. Again the weather decided it was going to have some fun with me and it wasn’t long before I rode into the first of two snow storms. As the snowfall increased so my speed decreased and the intensity at which I wiped my visor clear increased. Eventually the snow on my visor was freezing on faster than I could wipe it off and I was forced to pull onto the shoulder. I put on my safety glasses that I keep for emergency use in the rain and dark and set off along the shoulder at 50km/h with the gap between glasses and helmet giving me the biggest dose of ‘ice cream head’ I’ve ever had. As I rode along I recalled the weather forecast I’d seen the previous day which said “showers”! I’d had better ideas.

I escaped the blizzard before shapping this..

I'd had better ideas!

I rode like this for some 30km or so before moving into some brighter, though windier weather as I entered Wyoming. A call of nature led to a roadside stop and my first incident on the DR. As you can see in the photo, Ian is a big fellow and whilst the 50mm taller than stock seat and extra stiff suspension suited him perfectly they made my life somewhat awkward. At traffic lights I would try to stop at the roadside and put a foot on the kerb but when that wasn’t possible I had to slide off the edge of the seat whereupon I could just about get a big toe on the ground. As I came to a halt I slid off the seat to the left and just touched the floor as a gust of wind blew from the left, blowing me over and snapping off the r/h rear footrest. Bollocks. I thought I’d wait a few minutes before unloading the bike to pick it up in the hope that someone would stop to offer a hand. Sure enough a monster sized 4×4 pulled over and the driver got out to help. After checking I was OK he quickly helped me with the bike and was on his way. He didn’t ask what had happened but I could see him glance at the road that was dead straight as far as you could see in either direction. I felt a complete knob.

Another snow storm came and went but fortunately wasn’t as bad as the first. It was still cold though. An ambient temperature of 3°C meant the windchill at 100km/h was about -12°C and despite good clothing the cold gradually crept in as I sat in it hour after hour. After one final stop for a warming coffee at Ronnies (McDonalds) where I-80 met I-25 I turned south to Denver and rolled into Lora’s just after dark.

Saying goodbye to Ron Nugent

Lora was flying down to Chile the following day en-route to Antartica for her annual 3 month visit – hence the need to ride to Denver in one day. She and Ron were great company and the evening soon raced by. Lora has become a BIG motorcycle racing fan and attended both US Moto GP’s and the WSB in 2009. I could have stayed at Lora’s place once she’d left but staying with Ron was a far more sociable option and the DR was at home in his garage with his immaculate BMW R80 GS, 2 Cagiva Elephants and a Norton Commando(?).

The big push east

Doing my best to avoid the Interstate I picked up US-36 and rode due east. Kansas was defined by mile after mile of undulating farmland. Farmland meant fences and fences meant limited (ie none) bush camping and so I opted to ride on after dark (to avoid being seen) then pitch my tent in a roadside rest stop somewhere NW of Kansa City. Thanks to Ron who’d leant me his camping stove I was able to brew some coffee and cook supper and being 80m or so from the surprisingly quiet rode I had a good nights sleep. I had my tent paced before sunrise and was riding soon after. Within an hour it had started raining and so it was to be for the next 2.5 days. Yep, you read that right, it rained non-stop for 2.5 days, 2500km across half of Kansas, all of Missouri, Illinois, Indiana and Ohio. In fact it didn’t stop raining until close to the Pennsylvania/New York border. Despite wearing a waterproof over my BMW jacket (which has a Goretex liner) I was still wet in a few places by the days end – the lack of a screen was driving the water through my riding gear and the thought of camping really had no appeal. Motels were expensive but I calculated that by riding for a few hours after dark and leaving again before sunrise I could get to my destination near Boston in three days. For U$60 Motel 8 provided a large room with an air-con/heater unit, a bath and a help yourself breakfast so with the heater set to MAX and the room looking like a Chinese laundry I took a long soak in the tub. Despite being wrapped in bin bags most of my kit was damp and I had to get up really early to re pack it all before hitting the road at dawn.

Once again it was Ronnies that kept me going; space to spread out my wet riding gear, a clear view of my bike and good coffee. At one such stop I peeled off three layers of clothing, two pairs of gloves, balaclava and facemask. It was still pissing down outside and as I approached the counter my boots squelched and oozed water. After placing my order I was asked “Is that to eat in or to go?” and I wondered whether the staff were trained or programmed.

Much of the countryside passed me by in a blur of spray from other vehicles but even that couldn’t hide the beauty that was autumn (Fall) in Pennsylvania, where the sheer variety of colours really did resemble an artist’s palette. Once I’d finally ridden out of the rain I should’ve stopped to take some photos but I was pushing my luck to make it to Milford, MA by dark so kept riding.

Old Friends

Ian Barr and I had been friends since 1993 when we’d met whilst working for Stannah Stairlifts in the UK and this was my third visit since he’d emigrated back in 1996. Ian has led a somewhat colourful life that has brought him a long way from Hull to here in MA where he lives with his wife Joanne, her daughter Nicole and a most beautiful, friendly, intelligent Golden Retriever – Ashley.

Haloween proper in the US of A

“Our home is your home – I’ve even cleared the garage out for you to work in”. I couldn’t have hoped for a warmer welcome and was soon in the thick of the banter the Barr household is built on. Halloween was the big event during my stay and I soon found myself sitting on the kitchen floor carving pumpkins with Nicole and the neighbors kids.

Three weeks flashed by in a blur of tracking down parts for the DR, replacing my worn-out tent and other camping kit etc. Ian knew where to source most raw materials but some things (like thin-walled steel tube) took some finding. Ian had me added to the insurance for the ‘Beast’, his old Ford pick-up which was a huge help and enabled me to go in search of tools/parts/materials etc. I won’t go into details about building the DR here but will change the tab ‘Bikes’ to ‘BMW’ and add another – ‘Suzuki’.

Joanne’s cooking and a regular supply of bagels and muffins along with a huge box of candy left over from Halloween helped me add a few pounds just when I least needed it – the run up to Christmas. I justified (or at least tried to) my over indulgence by reasoning that goodies like this were hard to find in South America and it was ok to fill my boots while they were available.

European Vacation

On November 9^th I flew into Hamburg and two days later collected Lady P from the shipping agents warehouse. Having been told the earliest I could collect Lady P was the following day I visited the warehouse to arrange a customs inspection. I was surprised to be told that it was indeed the last day I could collect her and that if I returned tomorrow it would cost me another 45euros in storage fees. Having already paid 200euroes in port duties/handling fees etc I took delivery of Lady P there and then. The office staff were very helpful but the guys in the warehouse weren’t. In Thailand, Indonesia and Chile the warehouse workers fell over themselves to help uncrate my bike but here they wouldn’t even lend me a crowbar. I raced back to the train station, crossed the city and walked back to my hostel where I collected my tools, riding jacket and helmet before retracing my route back to the warehouse. I’d been told they were open until 1800 but as my German is virtually non-existent I may have got it wrong. I returned to find the warehouse in darkness and the main gates locked but with a few lights still glowing in the offices I walked to another entrance and managed to return to my bike where I’d left her in her crate under a spot light. Using a few pieces of timber from the skip I managed to pries open the crate and get her out by myself. After re-connecting the battery she fired-up first time and I set about re-fitting the seat, rack etc as quickly as possible whilst keeping one eye on the shrinking line of cars in the car park.

On the way back to my hostel I stopped for fuel and got the biggest shock I’d had in a long time. 50 euros for a tank full of petrol!!!!!!

Friends from the road

Copenhagen

Riding from Hamburg to my sister’s in Jersey was something I’d never planned on doing but it was a great opportunity to visit some very special people I’d met along the way. Those of you who have been reading from the beginning will remember Brian & Fie (R1150GS Adventure) that Danny and I met in India, Cambodia and Thailand back in 2006/7 and so I took a detour to visit them and their 15 month old son Vincent in their ‘new ‘ home north of Copenhagen.

Leaving Copenhagen behind me I crossed the second suspension bridge to return to mainland Denmark and began looking for fuel – too late. On my way into the country I ran the main fuel tank dry (as I often do) and turned on the auxiliary tanks whilst still moving, only this time the engine didn’t re start. It took me a few seconds to realize I hadn’t re-connected them at the warehouse (they had to be drained for shipping) and by the time I managed to stop on the hard shoulder (I was of course passing an entry slip road when I ran out) I had lost a fair amount of fuel. During my stay with Brian & Fie I’d forgotten all about this episode and combined with the strong headwind my fuel calculations were way off.

St.David of Denmark!

I was, of course, miles from anywhere when I ran out but hoped the ⅓ltr I’d drained from my stove would get me off the motorway and into a fuel station – it didn’t. I could only push Lady P for 100m or so at a time as the combination of Goretex socks and Cold Killer long johns inside my boots wouldn’t allow my calf muscles to expand as they needed and they just seized up. A minute or so rest and I could push for another 100m or so. After 1.5km I was beginning to wonder if anyone would stop when a purple Golf Cabriolet with English licence plates pulled up behind me. David gave me the contents of his spare can and suggested we pull off the motorway for a chat. At the next exit we did just that and he asked how far I was planning to ride as there had been a severe weather warning on the radio, the road south was already blocked and the bridges I’d just crossed were set to be closed. When I told him I was heading to Holland he offered me a place to stay at his place, ½hr drive away.

I accepted and followed him back to his house where his garden contained three cars, a van and five motorcycles. After changing out of my riding gear and hanging it all up to dry we headed into town for some lunch. It turns out David had lived in Denmark for 23 years and was a University lecturer. I also learnt that he wrote for a Danish 250cc European Championship road racing team. Having myself raced motorcycles in the British Championship from 1988 to 1997 we soon realized we knew many of the same people and so the memories flowed. After lunch we drove to his girlfriends house where I enjoyed more Danish hospitality and a hearty evening meal.

Whilst at Davids I picked up a copy of ‘Bike ‘ magazine and flicked through it to find an article of a competition winner riding Barry Sheene’s 1976 world championship winning Suzuki. The winner had won a competition to find Britain’s Ultimate Biker and included competing in Motocross, Road Racing and on-road navigation amongst other skills and the winner turned out to be none other than Will Sawyer, a friend from home who I’d teamed up for the Dawn 2 Dusk 12hr enduro back in 2004. Nice 1 Will!

David had been a real Samaritan and epitomized the notion of travelers looking after fellow travelers that I’d discovered the world over. Another bad day turned good.

The morning dawned drier and brighter and I hit the road in time to get me to The Nederlands in daylight.

Next stop was close to Assen in the north of The Netherlands where I visited Steven & Marlouse, the cyclists we met in Malaysia and Sydney. Having spent 4 years cycling from Holland to Kathmandu, Shanghai to Sydney, New Zealand and India they returned to Europe and cycled home to announce they are expecting their first child in February.

It was a similar story for Maarten & Ilse (Africa Twin) whom we first met whilst staying in a houseboat on Nigin Lake in Kashmir. We spent plenty more time together in Thailand and Malaysia before going our separate ways – Danny and I to New Zealand and Maarten & Ilse to Italy for a slow ride back to Holland where, after two years, two months, two weeks and two days they announced they were no longer just a ‘twosome’ as Ilse was pregnant with their first child – the delightful Lilou.

Finally, I paid my first visit to Luxembourg to visit René (Africa Twin) who I’d met in Puerto Natales, Chile back in January on the day I also met Darren (Australia) and Thierry (Switzerland) both riding F650’s.

It was great to spend some time with all of them – their company as easy as I’d remembered.

Jersey Bound

Luxembourg to St.Malo was the longest leg of my ride to my sister’s. I wasn’t actually booked on the ferry until the following evening but severe weather had recently caused cancellations and was set to do so again the following day. I kept my head down for the 800km ride and was glad of the first decent weather since arriving in Europe. Having had just a quick snack en-route I rolled into St.Malo with enough time to visit the supermarket and strap as much Hoegarden and Leffe beer to my bike as possible before boarding the ferry for the one hour crossing.

Lady P…a Final Word…

My 2004 BMW F650 had carried me 133725km (83095miles) through 37 countries across four continents over the past 3yrs 9mths. Her Odometer reading is 141581km (87977miles). She’s carried me through deserts, along beaches, across rivers and over mountains in temperatures from -10°C to +48°C. Not once has she left me stranded at the roadside. Only time will tell as to whether I’ve made the right decision to replace her.

I cannot leave my ‘BMW Years’ behind without saying two thank you’s. Firstly to Tony Jakeman at BMW Motorrad UK who supported Danny and I from the beginning and provided our Rallye II riding suits which I will continue to wear. And secondly to Dean Buck of BMW Battersea. Dean started his career in the motorcycle industry by polishing bikes my local dealership whilst still at school. From apprentice mechanic to workshop manager Deans attention to detail has made him my first (and last) point of contact whenever trying to resolve a problem with Lady P. Unluckily for Dean (but luckily for me) he cut his teeth in a multi-franchise dealer and so just because I’m no longer riding a BMW doesn’t mean I won’t be emailing Dean when I’m stuck! – Thanks a lot guys.

Christmas and beyond…

Coming to Jersey wasn’t just about retiring Lady P but about spending Christmas with my sister Michele and her partner Paul. Shell and I have always spent Christmas together and in recent years she has visited me in Thailand and Australia. That’s all about to change as she is currently 6 months pregnant (first time) and therefore can’t fly.

I have a return ticket to Boston at the end of January whereupon I will finish preparing the DR and return to my journey. My heart wants to return to South America asap but early enquiries into the weather/seasons suggests I may be better to ride to Alaska this summer and return to South America afterwards. Another factor in re-commencing my journey will be the weather in the NE USA. When I told Ian and Joanne of my plan to leave them mid-February they just laughed and said I wouldn’t be going anywhere by motorcycle at that time of year. “Why not”? I asked… “…eeerrrr…..snow…. I’d completely overlooked that. So, until the snow melts…

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

Chapter 20 photos in Boliva PtII and Peru

I visited three offices on the Brazilian side before I found a guy prepared to make a few phone calls in an attempt to track down someone to process Lady P (my bike) out of the country. His telephone calls led to nothing and for the next twenty minutes I watched from his office window as he wandered from office to office in his pursuit of a customs officer with the ability to process my temporary import document. Eventually he found someone and it wasn’t long before I was on my way.

Paraguay

I rode across the bridge into Paraguay and could have ridden straight into the country without even having my passport stamped, let alone having a temporary import document issued. Once I’d cleared immigration I had to ask around for the location of the customs office and after several false turns, eventually found the ‘Aduana’ where the process was quick, friendly & painless.

As I rode out into the traffic so the difference between the two countries hit me immediately. Bumper to bumper traffic was overlooked by bill boards advertising ‘Tax free electronics’ and hemmed in by street vendors stalls and when the traffic did move parking touts chased me along the street in an attempt to direct me to ‘their’ parking area.

All of the banks, money changers and jewelry shops had security guards brandishing pump action shotguns and wearing cartridge belts across their shoulders like the Mexican cowboys in Westerns. Not wanting to leave Lady P out of sight, I parked on the pavement outside a bank and tried to enter. The revolving door though was locked and the shotgun wielding security guard was gesticulating at a ‘drop-box’ into which people were depositing their phones. Trying to explain that I didn’t have one, in broken Spanish, through an inch of bulletproof glass, proved rather difficult and when I unzipped my jacket to show the guard I wasn’t carrying anything I thought he was going to pull the shotgun on me! All was well in the end and I left town without further hitch.

The rain drove me out of Paraguay after just three nights which was a bit of a shame. Despite all the ‘warnings’ and comments like “OH!! You’re going (to Uruguay) are you?” I liked it. It had an ‘edge’ to it that was more akin to SE Asia than the other South American countries I’d travelled through but despite that, everyone I met was polite, friendly and helpful.

Back to Argentina

After a fairly painless exit from Paraguay and entry to Argentina (though the Argentine Customs system did say that my temporary import document from Patagonia 3 months earlier was still ‘live’ despite my having departed to Chile, returned to Argentina and departed to Uruguay since then!) I rode out into the rain but not before noticing two Chilean registered Harley Davidsons on a trailer heading back to Chile….poofters!

Motorcycling...for boys AND girls!

At the first police checkpoint, a few hundred kilometers from the border I was stopped. This was quite unusual as I had passed countless numbers of them in other parts of the country and had rarely been stopped. When I had and they realized I was a tourist, I was sent on my way with no further questions. This time however, I was asked for my driving licence and ‘seguros’ (insurance). My heart sank. After spending the past few months in Uruguay, Brazil and Paraguay I’d forgotten all about Argentina’s requirement for seguros and it hadn’t been mentioned at the border. When I couldn’t produce seguros I was escorted to the office where the ticket and receipt books were produced and a fine of 300pesos (GBP 60 quid) demanded. Fortunately for me I’d got into the habit of keeping most of my cash tucked away with just enough left in my wallet to look like a realistic amount. I produced 125pesos and the boss just laughed and walked off. When he returned he started ranting about wanting 300 so I shrugged and pulled 15k Paraguayan pesos (10 Arg pesos) from my wallet then tipped it out to show it was empty. After more ranting he told his junior to write me a ticket and a receipt. What little of the explanation of the ticket I understood suggested I had 30 days in which to buy seguros and produce it, along with the ticket, at any police station. I couldn’t buy it that day as it was Sunday.

I rode into the next town, collected some more cash from the ATM and rolled out of town straight into another police checkpoint where I was once again stopped. “Driving Licence & Seguros” – Bollocks…here we go again! As soon as I entered the office I asked to use the toilet where I quickly redistributed the cash I’d just withdrawn about my person. In the office I produced my previous ticket for no seguros and explained about being stopped at the previous checkpoint. They read the ticket and said it was for a licence infringement and that they were going to fine me for not having seguros!! (it pays to speak/read Spanish here!!) I flatly refused to pay anything and said “You are holding my licence. What is the infringement?” They didn’t have an answer of course because there was nothing wrong with my licence. This seemed to agitate them and it seemed they wanted me to return to the previous checkpoint to get the ticket corrected. I flatly refused and pointed to the telephone on the desk at which point the two  policeman started ranting in Spanish and so I started ranting in English! Suddenly, the one holding my licence handed it back and briskly lifted his chin towards the road in an Italian style ‘Go on…fuck off’ gesture.  So I did.

I couldn’t help but think this was all a deliberate scam to extract cash from non-Argentinians coming across the border. Ultimately though, the incorrectly completed ticket (an therefore it’s carbon copy) was for a licence infringement and negated my need to buy seguros. IF anything was ever said about the ticket I could produce my licence and say “No entiendo”!

For the rest of that day and all of the next I rode across hot, straight, flat boring plains where the only things of any interest were the combine harvester crews towing their accommodation blocks behind them. Finally, 1060km from Paraguay, the foothills of the Andes came into view with just a faint, hazy line above the distant tree line. South West of San Miguel de Tucuman I turned onto Ruta 307 and headed for Tafi del Valle and immediately I felt like I’d been teleported to another country. The damp air was in stark contrast to the heat of the plains, moss covered every tree trunk and the temperature plummeted. The road climbed swiftly through the lush green gorge, up to a plateau at 1900m where I found a great spot to pitch my tent on the shore of Lago Nahuel Huapi at the opposite end to the town of Tafi del Valle.

After a night by the lake I rode on past Tafi del Valle. The road soon turned to ‘ripio’ as I headed on up to the pass at 3000m from where I descended through a treeless rocky pass full of huge cacti. I rejoined Ruta 40 for the first time in several months and set about finding my may to the old Pre-Inca Indian ruins that are Quilmes. I managed to pick the wrong trail and rode along an ever steepening and narrowing track towards the pueblo of Quilmes and not the ruins of Quilmes. By the time I’d realized my mistake, turning round was quite difficult but after much sweating and cursing I managed it and as I did so was afforded a cracking view through giant cacti and across the valley.

I eventually found the ‘correct’ Quilmes which was worth seeing but would have been far more interesting, had there been some sort of literature explaining the site.

Cachi

All but the first 20km of the 160km from Cafayate to Cachi are ripio.  Adobe houses are scattered amongst the immense rock formations where the (mainly indigenous) inhabitants manage to scratch what, for most, looked to be a meager living.  Rounding a corner I was surprised to encounter a lake beyond which lay a good sized farm. The lake marked the beginning of a fertile valley that ran all the way to the pretty town of Cachi at 2400m.

Whilst camping on the surprisingly well kept municipal campsite above the town I met Per and Emma from Sweden. They were nearing the end of their three month trip around Argentina and were on their way back to Buenos Aires where Per worked for the Swedish Embassy.  Over a few bottles of wine I learnt that Per was also a ‘Eurocrat’ in Brussels but I tried not to hold that against him.

I left Cachi via the Parque Nacional los Cardones, a large plateau at 2800m where giant cacti grew (bizarrely) on one side of the road only. Leaving the plateau, the air became rather cold as the road climbed to 3300m and turned once again to ripio. The road headed for what looked like a dead end but turned sharp right to reveal the magnificent Quebrada de Escoipe. I’ll let the pictures do the talking…

At the end of the valley the road intersected with Ruta 68 at El Carril. Once again I’d managed to ride into town in the middle of siesta and spent a while riding around looking for a shop in which to buy supplies for dinner. Eventually I found somewhere and after stocking up I headed south out of town so I could see the ‘Quebrada de Cafayte’ in the late afternoon light. It was a good decision as the low sun cast a gentle light on the multi-coloured rocks, adding extra warmth to the already spectacular landscape.  Spectacular rock formations mostly coloured red like western Australia, but also greens, browns, turquoise, pinks and so on. Once again, having my own transport meant I could easily avoid all the tour buses that drive out from Cafayate late in the afternoon and I was able to snap a few photos…

Salta was my best chance of finding tyres for Lady P and so I spent four nights there taking in the sights, looking for tyres, repairing trousers etc. Amongst the sights was the Museo de Arqueolologia de Alta Montana (MAAM) where the star attraction is one of the three 500yr old child mummies found perfectly preserved in 1999 by an Argentinian/Peruvian expedition (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Llullaillaco).  I met a few good lads in the hostel and courtesy of Thomas (Switzerland), enjoyed a rooftop ‘asado’ (Argentine BBQ where the coals are arranged thinly under thick steaks so they cook very slowly….mmmmmm…..) along with Chris (ex-pat Kiwi) and a few French lads.

I had a few things to post home so headed for the correo (post office) with my parcel addressed and ready to go but left open for inspection. My first trip came to nothing when I learned they only accepted overseas mail between 0900-1100 and even then, in a different building. I returned the following day and when I got to the front of the queue was told they wouldn’t accept it unless it was wrapped in brown paper! What difference does that make I asked, only to be told “Those are the rules”. But this is Argentina… not Germany! I exclaimed before heading off down the street to find brown paper. I eventually found some in a pavement newspaper booth and after making a purchase returned to the correo, and the queue. “FM…How much!!” It was a good job nobody understood English when they told me it would be $233pesos (GBP 45 quid!!!) to sent it to England…but I REALLY like that hammock so I bit the bullet and begrudgingly gave Dick Turpin his money.

North of Salta, the old Ruta 9 was a smooth, narrow (single lane) road that wound its way along a valley of trees draped in vines almost all the way to Jujuy. From there on it was much bigger but climbed 1300m as it headed north through the picturesque valley of the Quebrada de Humahuaca. I spent a few days in Tilcara visiting the Jardin Botanico (full of Cacti) and the Indian ruins of Pucara. Similar but smaller than the runs at Quilmes they had much better signage and were therefore far more interesting.

Before leaving Tilcara I fitted the new front tyre I’d bought in Salta and adjusted the steering head bearings. My next destination was the small village of Iruja, accessed via a 49km ripio from Ruta 9. The ride was stunning. I rode through a few tiny hamlets and forded a few shallow rivers before climbing to 3954m for a view across a mountain with a coloured peak of sand(?) unlike anything I’d seen before.

The road then descended via a series of switchbacks onto a plateau in the valley below. Across the almost dry riverbed, the cliff face rose up 200m to a patchwork of fields seemingly precariously perched above. Descending again through another series of hairpins, the road met the river and followed it past some spectacularly eroded rock formations to Iruja. The streets of Iruja were so steep and narrow that I found somewhere safe to park Lady P and set about wandering around to find accommodation. There was plenty to choose from but seemingly none with parking. When I did find somewhere with a courtyard there was nobody home. The sun was setting when I finally found a place on the plaza (which itself was hidden behind a maze of small streets). There was no ‘secure’ parking for Lady P so I unloaded everything and chained her up outside the front door. A lovely old lady fed me well in her ‘restaurant’ close to the plaza and it was a good job she did because breakfast the following morning was shite! Once again I enjoyed the ride back out of the valley and once back on the main Ruta 9 I headed south again and stopped off in Urquia to visit the little cactus roofed church built in 1591. Its most unusual feature though, was a series of poster sized paintings depicting angels wearing 17^th century battle dress and sporting shotguns!

By now my regular lunch stop whilst on the road had become the YPF petrol stations.  I’d camped in several and knew they generally served croissants and toasted sandwiches but most importantly, the best Café con Leche I found in Argentina – and all at the right price. So, after a YPF lunch back at Tilcara, I rode a little further south and turned west onto Ruta 52 and the rather nice little village of Purmamarca, famous for its mountain of seven colours.

Two blocks from the central plaza and immediately behind the church I found a campsite, pitched my tent and sat in the afternoon sun sewing up all the holes in the fingers of my now rather tatty riding gloves. An early night was followed by an early morning to try to catch the low sun on the mountain of seven colours and so after a few attempts to do the scene justice, I packed up and continued west. Once again the scenery didn’t disappoint  and the road hugged the left side of the valley as it passed by multi-coloured rock formations eroded into shapes even my camera struggles to portray. Across the river, tiny small holdings with goat and llama pens were dotted along the bank and up the valley sides. Further along the road began a long series of switchbacks as it climbed steadily to 4200m.

There’s something about being in the mountains that raises my spirit, invigorates me, makes me feel alive. When I look at the rock I think about time, inconceivable lengths of time, Mother Nature. I feel humbled surrounded by this greater force; perhaps this is how religion affects believers? I once heard the timeline of Planet Earth described thus: ‘If the planet were 24hrs old, the human race would be but the blink of an eye’. Hard to comprehend until you come here and stand amongst these giants.

Ruta 52 is the main route to Chile via Paso de Jama but I wasn’t headed that way this time. Instead, as the road dropped down to the salt plateau of Salinas Grandes I turned onto a ripio track and headed south west to San Antonio de los Cobres. Along the way the track not only got rather sandy but the sand was a brilliant white and despite my black visor I was blinded several times and had several near crashes after getting cross-rutted and riding into pot-holes when I couldn’t see. I ended up wearing my sunglasses under my black visor which worked well against the blinding sand but had the visual effect of looking at an underexposed photograph.

I found the only hostel in San Antonio and was in the middle of making some lunch when the manager told me the Tren a las Nubes (Train to the clouds – http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tren_a_las_Nubes) would be crossing La Polvorilla viaduct in 20mins time. “So what?” you all say. Well the Tren a las Nubes remains one of the world’s most spectacular railway journeys, La Polvorilla viaduct is its most photographed feature and this was the first train to run in six months. I skipped lunch, jumped on Lady P and rode the 16km to the viaduct just in time to watch the last carriage clear the structure – bollocks! What a difference 5mins would have made to the photos.

Walking around town that evening I felt I was truly in the Andes for the first time. Not only was I at 3200m but there were very few Latino Argentineans; this was home to the Quechua Indians. Old American pick-up trucks with families of seven wedged across the front seats cruised into town, mothers carried babies in multi-coloured blankets strapped to their backs and older women wore bowler hats. The town’s dirt roads had many shops but as none had signs to indicate what they sold I took a stroll around, peeking through doorways until I managed to find enough ingredients to cook dinner.

Back at the hostel Marcos, the owner, invited me to park Lady P inside. I was grateful for this as the old ‘failure to start from cold at altitude’ had raised its ugly head again and it would be -5°C overnight.

Paso Sico

Despite being parked inside overnight, Lady P once again failed to start despite parking her in the sun whilst I loaded up. Fortunately, around the corner there was a hill to bump start her down. Unfortunately, she still didn’t want to start! Once again I parked her in the sun, sat around for an hour and finally she fired up.

San Antonio de los Cobres (Argentina) to San Pedro de Atacama (Chile) is 350km, the first 250km of which is ripio. The route has been superseded by Paso de Jama and as a result sees little traffic. When I arrived at the Argentine border I was not only the only one there but I was the only person they’d seen that day. The younger employees were very friendly and efficient but there boss was a miserable bastard. It was a pretty remote posting so I forgave him! I climbed away from the border post past rock formations reminiscent of Arizona’s Monument Valley and headed up to Paso Sico itself. The approach to the crest was spectacular as the distant multi-coloured peaks slowly came into view. A truck rolled by in the opposite direction and was only the third vehicle I’d seen that day and it was 3pm.

As the road descended so it turned a corner into a most amazing valley(?) where the grass tufts were a golden yellow and seemed to carpet all but the ripio that cut a line through the bottom and out of sight over the horizon. As the road began its climb out of the valley so I had t stopat the Chilean customs post. Despite being as desolate as the Argentine border post this was a truly breathtaking location and looked across to a salt lake invisible from my initial descent. I went into the office and removed my crash helmet to complete the necessary paperwork. This was the first time I’d realized how sore my ears had become from taking my helmey on and off all day taking photos (If anyone fancies donating a Nikon dSLR with live preview I’d appreciate it!!!)

Chatting with the border guards I learn that the overnight temperature here (4200m) was currently -10°C but would drop to -30°C come August! By the time I left the Customs post it was 1530 and there was no way I would make it to San Pedro before dark. I had to start looking for a suitable place to camp but given my problems getting Lady P started in the morning I needed to find some high ground so I could bump start her in the morning. Luck came my way a little further on when I came across the turn off for Lago Miscanti. The road headed up over a ridge and from where I was it looked as though there was some sort of shelter at the top. Sure enough, at the top of the track I found the entry kiosk for the National Reserve with a curved wall built next to it. Not only was the space behind the wall just big enough for my tent but it was located perfectly to shelter me from the wind. I soon had my tent pitched and dinner cooking; watching the sun go down, coffee in hand. All being well I would have eaten and been in my tent within half an hour of sunset as the temperature was sure to plummet. All was not well though as three female park rangers arrived to tell me I couldn’t camp there. Pissed off? You bet! Communication was entirely in Spanish and therefore limited but I managed to explain my problem with Lady P and my need to be on top of a hill. They wanted me to leave but as the sun would set in another 30mins I flatly refused stating that I didn’t ride in the dark, especially on ripio. Eventually we struck a compromise that involved me re-pitching my tent next to the rangers house inside the reserve which meant missing the sunset, pitching my tent in the dark and eating cold rice for dinner.

I set up my laptop on my camp stool and snuggled into my sleeping bag to watch Gandhi but the battery didn’t like the cold and expired halfway through the film. I awoke to a glorious morning and had to stand my 5ltr water container in the sun to thaw enough water for a cup of tea. It had frozen solid inside my inner tent thanks to the overnight -10°C.

With the best of the scenery behind me I rolled into San Pedro de Atacama but not before noting it was the first time I’d ridden with five volcanoes within my peripheral vision. Made up largely of single story adobe dwellings San Pedro was a tourist trap. Every third shop was a tour agency and the two in between either a restaurant or artisanas. I hung around for a few days and visited the spectacular and unusual ‘Valle de la Luna’ (Valley of the Moon) before moving on to Calama where I camped on a site owned by a retired detective. I was the only one there and in place of a camp toilet block/kitchen he gave me the keys to one of the cabins and so I slept in my tent but had the use of the cabin the rest of the time. On my first morning there I awoke to fog! Unheard of in this, the Atacama desert. Luckily for me it cleased by late morning and I rode 16km north to the mining town of Chuquicamata in the hope of getting on a tour of the worlds largest open cast coppermine. Thanks to fellow overland traveler Goh (from Singapore), I had the GPS coordinates to the car park the tours left from and sure enough I arrived to find several other gringos waiting for the coach.

Chuquicamata is now a ghost town, the last resident having left in February this year. It was quite eerie to visit somewhere so new and yet deserted. The mine had expanded so close to the town that it was deemed unsafe for residents to remain. Our guide had been born in the local hospital, said to be the most technologically advanced in Latin America when it was opened in the early eighties but it is now buried under millions of tons of spoil.

Despite having previously visited Western Australia’s ‘Superpit’ the hole in the ground here was incomprehensible. Already 10km long, 3km wide and 1km deep, it will be 15km long by 2015 when the current three sites are linked. The mine produces 2000 tonnes of copper per day but in order to do so 600,000 tonnes of material are excavated! To help move this, the mine has a fleet of 100 giant tippers including 30 Liebherr T 282B’s – the world’s largest tipper truck with a capacity of 400 tonnes – about the same as a fully loaded jumbo jet!!

Back to San Pedro

From Calama I made an aborted attempt to visit the Geiser del Taito after getting caught in a sandstorm. Instead I headed back to San Pedro then south to Toconao where I picked up the ripio to Peine. En-route I detoured to Laguna Chaxa, a favoured spot for pink Flamingoes.

The route from Peine across the Salar de Atacama and the Cordillera de Domeyko was recommended by Axel (from Santiago) and gave me a real surprise. My maps of the region have no contours and without then this route looked nothing special but after passing several salt mines as I crossed the Salar so the road climbed 500m as it crossed the Cordillera from where it was downhill all the way to the ocean.

After losing one pair of pannier padlocks on the Carretera Austral, I managed to lose the other pair on Paso Sico. The few days I spent in Antofagasta were spent searching the Ferreteria’s (hardware shops) for a set of four padlocks all using the same key. Try explaining that in Spanish! Eventually I found a guy who knew what I was talking about and he showed me a picture of exactly what I wanted on the back of the packaging of one of the manufactures. He didn’t have any locks though. He did however phone the local distributer and after waiting half an hour for a return call was told they didn’t have any either. So four separate padlocks with four separate keys it was and what a pain in the arse that is!

South of Antofgasta I made a quick photo stop at the ‘Hand in the Desert’ before riding on to the coastal town of Chańaral. I was riding around looking for a place to stay when I was flagged down by a guy in a pick-up truck. I told him I was looking for a place to stay and he said I could stay at his mum’s hotel. I was a little suspicious but decided it was worth a look. When we pulled up I immediately spotted the big poster of Chilean Dakar competitor Carlo de Gavardo who, coincidentally is a friend of Axel in Santiago. Eduardo’s mum offered to move her car so I could park my bike inside and that was it, deal done. I ended up with my own room, an evening meal and breakfast all for the same price as a cheap hostel dormitory. A chat with Eduardo revealed the connection with Carlo de Gavardo. Eduardo was his mechanic! – Small world.

Paso San Francisco

It had been my intention to cross the Andes three times before winter set in and the snow came. Paso San Francisco was my second of these crossings and once again provided breathtaking scenery.

The valley road through Diego de Almagro followed the old mining railway until becoming ripio near Potrerillos and climbing steeply through a series of switchbacks onto a plateau at 3500m. It was bloody cold in the wind and so when I got to the Chilean border I fitted my handlebar muffs and got a mug of boiling water from one of the officers so I could make coffee.

20km or so further on the road turned east and it was this east-west section that provided the most amazing scenery. Away to my right were three peaks over 6600m whilst to my left was the turquoise Laguna Verde.

Once again I was virtually alone. Just one truck had passed through the order whilst I was there and it remained the only vehicle I saw since Potrerillos.  I had hoped to camp at the Argentine border but it was at the bottom of a ‘bowl’ and so there would be no chance of bump starting Lady P the following morning. Instead I rode on and turned south into a wide valley where the late afternoon sun repeated the ‘golden carpet’ effect I’d seen on Paso Sico. Refugio’s started appearing at regular intervals and I was lucky to come across one on a bit of a hill with 40minutes or so of daylight remaining. I had hoped to ride all the way to Fiamballa but once again all the photo stops had eaten into the available daylight.

Sunsets in the mountains don’t normally amount to much but I was privy to a beautiful post sunset sky before setting up camp in the refugio and cooking dinner.

Sure enough, the following morning, Lady P didn’t want to start. I was at 3600m and it had been just below 0°C overnight. I tried bump starting but the incline of the road wasn’t steep enough and the knobbly front tyre (Pirelli MT21) created too much drag for me to get any speed up. Once again I resigned myself to waiting for the sun to rise and warm her up so I got my book out (Khaled Hosseini’s: A Thousand Splendid Suns. V.good) and sat by the roadside. After a few hours it became apparent that as the sun rose so the cloud increased and the expected increase in temperature didn’t occur. I unloaded everything and tried bump starting again but this time instead of jumping on before ‘popping’ the clutch I just stamped her into gear and kept running alongside to keep the speed up. On my third attempt the engine started just before my heart stopped. Bump starting alone at 3600m is not recommended!

The palaver of the morning was soon forgotten once I’d pitched my tent at the thermal springs above Fiambala where I spent the evening in the splendid complex of naturally heated outdoor pools that ranged from 35-43°C – marvelous!

Cafayate – again!

For the third time I found myself back at the campsite in Cafayate. I had wanted to stay high in the Altiplano and ride through the remote Antofagasta de la Sierra to Susques and my final Argentina/Chile Andes crossing at Paso de Jama but I needed to return to Salta to buy a new rear tyre and to do some research into my cold starting problem. I got up before sunrise with the intention of making an early start but once again Lady P didn’t want to play ball. I left her in the sun and walked into town for breakfast but when I returned an hour later she still didn’t want to start. I took her to bits, checked the battery voltage and connections but everything seemed normal. Once again I unloaded everything and this time pushed her out of the campsite and along the road out of town to the bridge over the river where I hoped to bump start her down the incline of the bridge. Three times I pushed her up the bridge until eventually she started. Up at 0730, engine started at 1315. I wasn’t very happy.

Salta II

Second time around I stayed at the Correcaminos Hostel where I was able to park Lady P in the courtyard and which I liked so much more than where I’d stayed previously. Free Wi-Fi enabled me to do plenty of research into the starting problem but rather than be a fault with my bike in particular it seemed to be a generic BMW F650 problem. Suggested solutions included; pull the clutch in when starting, change oil to 10w40, change to synthetic oil, update the BMS (Fuel Injection Software) and most commonly, ensure the battery is in tip-top condition. When I’d replaced the battery in Chile in January I’d been unable to buy my battery of choice (Yuasa) and therefore had my suspicions about the one that was fitted. The BMS had been updated in Singapore in October. I also learnt from a friend in England who is the workshop manager for a BMW dealer, that BMW had released a modified decompressor lever to aid cold starting.

Along with a new rear tyre I managed to find a new Yuasa battery but I couldn’t find 10w40 oil anywhere. Walking back from the tyre shop I saw a BMW GS1150 parked outside a hostel near the plaza. I was sure I recognized it and returned to my hostel to check my photos. Sure enough, it was Nicos, the dreadlocked Ecuadorian American I’d met in Ushuaia, ridden to and camped with in Rio Gallegos back in February. The following morning I knocked on his door to be met by one very surprised Nico. He and his girlfriend were on their way back to Ecuador and so I’ll catch up with them again in a couple of months.

Hostel Correcaminos was full of good people including (amongst others) Ian from Florida, Dave & Ali from Bournemouth (UK), Rich from Yeovil (UK). All were staying for several days and a good time was had by all including another splendid asado and a few rather messy late nights.

Paso de Jama…or not…

I left Salta, passed through Purmamarca and continued up to Susques where there was a nice looking place to stay on the main road just out of town but where the price was so ludicrous I didn’t even bother to start haggling. Instead I rode into town where the advertised hostel was still double what I wanted to pay and eventually found myself in a bit of a dive but it did the job for one night and I was able to cook in my room. Guess what happened…or rather didn’t happen the following morning? Yep, Lady P failed to start – so much for my new 50 quid Yuasa battery. Even bumping her down the hill into the town centre didn’t work and once again I sat around like a right lemon, waiting for the sun to do its job.

I was more than pissed off. My planned route into Bolivia was across Paso de Jama to San Pedro de Atacama (again) then into Bolivia’s south-west corner at the remote Hito Cajon and past Laguna’s Colorado and Verde and onto the Salar de Uyuni. The route is ripio and sand and almost entirely above 4000m with night time temperatures of around -10°C, and with the exception of some mining traffic is only visited by 4×4 tours. There was no way Lady P would start in that climate and the effect of the sun at that altitude would be limited. If she wouldn’t start until lunchtime the route would take twice as long and I would have to carry double the food and water. Just like Lady P, the idea was a non-starter.

So back to Ruta 9 it was, and the ‘conventional’ route from Salta to Bolivia. I had hoped to camp in the little pueblo of Yavi, east of the border town of Quiaca but the riverside campsite was inaccessible by bike and so I returned to Quiaca where I found a room at the friendly ‘Cristal’.

By now you all know the drill that ensued the following morning and so whilst Lady P was sunbathing I sat in the bar drinking coffee. Finally, at 1145 she fired up and after using up all my existing Argentinean pesos in the petrol station I rode to the border.

Bolivia

Exit Argentine Aduana, exit Argentine immigration, ride across bridge, enter Bolivian immigration. So far so good…but where’s Bolivian Aduana? Back across the bridge in Argentina I found the Bolivian Aduana.

“Seguros!” (insurance) was the first word out of the officers mouth. Of course, I didn’t have any. All of my research had suggested the only place I required it was Argentina but this guy was having none of it. Being a Sunday I couldn’t even by any. I tried my luck with my travel insurance policy and nearly got away with it but because it only had my name and no vehicle registration number he eventually declined it. Once I realized it wasn’t a definite ‘you can’t come in’ I started negotiating and after a while he suggested he would let Lady P in for 60 days. I had a 90 day visa and eventually bartered him up to 70 days but I couldn’t get him to give me the full 90 – whatever, I was in Bolivia!

Outside town I had a good chuckle at a toll booth for the gravel road that led north. I spent my first night in Tupiza where the following morning Lady P once again refused to start but a group of friendly locals offered to bump-start me down the road. It took a while to find the right route out of town but once I did I had a great days riding. The track was being improved in many places and there were many detours. It ran along a dry riverbed for many kilometers crossing lots of streams and a few rivers along the way.

Just south of Potosi I had my first encounter with a ‘Chollita’ (country woman). I stopped at the roadside for a coke and had quite a chat with her – all very friendly. When I came to pay the price was 5 Bolivianos (Bs). I offered her a 10Bs note but she shook her head. “No tengo cambiar” (I don’t have any change). I pointed at some of the other establishments nearby but she shook her head “No hay” (there is none). I pulled out 4Bs in coins from my pocket but she just looked at me in disgust so I shrugged my shoulders and put all my money back in my pockets. Then, with a face like thunder she rummaged in her apron pockets and produced 5Bs change! So began my education of the distrust/dislike between Campasinos and Latinos.

Sucre

I met up with Aussie Adam Mulvanny in Sucre and spent a few nights at his place before moving into the homestay he had recommended where I spent a month with the family of Julio, wife Lilian, sister Roxanna and son Sergio. I spent 4hrs a day in Spanish school but to be honest I struggled. Despite a fantastic teacher my reading and writing improved enormously, my speaking improved some but my understanding remained/remains very poor. When someone is speaking to me, I’m still translating word no3 when there on word no10! I guess I’m just not cut out for languages but I’m still trying.

Whilst at the school I met Tom. English by birth but Aussie by residency, he was travelling with his girlfriend Juliette and daughters Luca 10 and Isla 7. A lovely family who’s company I enjoyed immensely. They had rented a house with a great view across the city and we spent several evenings eating, drinking and sharing a few yarns.

The Che Trail

Back in 2006 Maarten, Ilse, Danny and I all stayed with Dutchman Maarten Munnik and his Thai wife Tip (Tippawan) when they lived in Kanchanaburi, Thailand. Since then however, Maarten and Tip had moved to Samaipata, approx 160km west of Santa Cruz, Bolivia.

The ride there took me through ravines and river valleys and reminded me very much of northern Pakistan but without the really jagged peaks.

Maarten and been sick for a few days prior to my arrival (the thought of sharing his house with an Englishman I suspect) which was a real shame as it was Tip’s birthday on the Sunday and she had a picnic planned. All was not lost though as Maarten had arranged a surprise party for her and around 20 ex-pats and locals turned up. There are somewhere in the region of 12 different nationalities living in the small town of Samaipata.

Maarten added a few ‘roads’ to my map that weren’t marked and when the time came to say goodbye I followed ‘Ruta del Che’ to La Higuera where Che Guevara was executed by the Bolivian Military on 8^th October 1967. Along the way I stopped at the Che museum in Valle Grande and visited the hospital where Che’s body was presented to the press the following day. It was a good history lesson as I hadn’t realized he had been involved in so much fighting in Bolivia.

La Higuera itself is reached by a dead-end track, 300m and several kilometers below the ‘main’ track from Valle Grande. 50m from the memorial is the beautiful guesthouse ‘Telegrafista’ where I spent 1½hrs reading and watching the sunset from a hammock. I was the only guest.

I awoke to low cloud, mist and drizzle. I hoped it would clear – it didn’t. As I climbed away from La Higuera and into the cloud I stopped to don my waterproof jacket. It was the best decision I made that day. It was a real shame about the weather. Every once in a while I got a glimpse through the clouds to the stunning valleys beneath. In places my speed was reduced to 20km/h because of the visibility in the mist, in others it was reduced to 20km/h because the dirt road was like ice and I could touch neither the clutch nor the brakes. I descended out of the clouds through a leafless winter forest to cross Valle Grande where once again my thoughts turned to NW Pakistan. It rained harder but now I was below the clouds at least I could see. Despite the weather it was a fantastic ride on which I met only two other people during the first 250km or so. Just how good would it have been with good visibility? I guess I’ll just have add it to my ‘must return to’ list.

I rejoined the tarmac near Tarabuco and stopped in a lay-by to clean my chain. When I went to rock Lady P off her sidestand, one side sank into the ground and it was all I could do to stop her falling over. I was stuck. I couldn’t let go and eventually managed to flag down a passing mini-bus by shouting and shaking my head. I must have looked a right lemon.

Potosi bound

I spent the night in Sucre with Tom and the girls where I was glad to get out of my wet boots and have a hot shower. In 8hrs of riding I’d stopped only to clean my chain. The following morning I picked up a new front tyre (Metzeler Karoo 345Bs – 30 quid!!!) before leaving town. Tom and Aussie Don had taken a taxi to Potosi (160km) and I met them there. We checked into the Carlos V Hostel where Lady P had top billing parked in the lobby and booked ourselves on a mine tour that afternoon.

The state mine, which dominates the landscape around the world’s highest city, was closed by the government in the ‘80s and is now operated by cooperatives formed by small groups of miners. Small quantities of silver are still mined but these are substituted by lead and other minerals. Working conditions are 18^th century and the whole experience reminded me of an Indiana Jones film. Dressed in waterproofs, rubber boots and hard hats with lamps we entered the mine above 4000m and waded through 20cm of water as we crouched and walked through the maze of tunnels. Wooden trapdoors alongside the tunnels covered ladders that led to smaller tunnels we scrabbled through on our hands and knees. Some weren’t even tall enough to get through on all fours and it was more akin to pot-holing than mining. At the workface miners hammered chisels into the rock to make holes for dynamite and chewed coca leaves for energy and to help with the effect of altitude. We all carried gifts of more coca leaves and bottles of drinks to share with the miners. 4hrs was a long time to spend in the mine but it went surprisingly quickly. On the walk out I noticed the (frighteningly few) wooden roof supports covered in ice.

If the day-to-day working conditions were tough, the long term conditions were deadly. The majority of miners live a relatively short life due to the exposure to noxious gasses. The next time you hurl your alarm clock across the bedroom on a Monday morning, just think about where you could be going to spend your day…

I spent a few more days in Potosi, visiting a few museums and wandering through the streets and among the markets with my camera.

Uyuni

Thinking the road I’d entered Potosi on was a ring-road I zig-zagged my way through the maze of one-way streets to the outskirts of town where I’d entered only to find it wasn’t. Back through the city, past the central market and on out of town to the first toll booth where I checked I was on the right road – I wasn’t. 1km back towards Potosi I turned onto a dirt track that led me to a road of pristine tarmac – well, for a few km’s anyway.

The days ride was 225km of ripio that started at 4000m, climbed to 4300m, descended to 3400m and ended in Uyuni at 3700m. The riding in Bolivia (if you like ripio) is awesome. I stopped off at the mining village of Pulacayo, SE of Uyuni and hope to the Train Cemetery which contains the first locomotive in Bolivia and the train robbed by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And I got to play Casey Jones for half an hour…whooo whooo!!

In Sucre I’d managed to change my engine oil from 20w50 mineral to 10w40 synthetic. This was one of the suggestions that had come up when I was researching Lady P’s starting problems back in Argentina. It hadn’t cured the problem but it had certainly seemed to make a difference. As a result I was going to make a second attempt to visit the remote SW area of the country around Lagunas Verde and Colorada. Both my maps of the area were different and other than a few waypoints I picked up on the internet I had very little in the way of GPS information. I spent a morning wandering around Uyuni’s many tour operators, looking at their maps, writing down villages and routes, talking to a few guides and gathering the information I needed to alter my maps and plan a route. The best piece of information though, was that there were sufficient 4×4 tour operator running trips into the region that if (or rather when) the track split into many options, I could stop and wait for a passing 4×4 and ask directions.

Maintenance…then more maintenance…

Whilst fitting my new front tyre in my hostel (Tati Laura) I gave Lady P a check over and found a missing subframe bolt, a broken cradle bolt (again)  and leaking waterpump. I had a parcel of spares being delivered to La Paz from the UK and decided I could get away with topping up the radiator until I got to La Paz where I could carry-out all my maintenance in one go.

The following morning I loaded up, checked out then checked the water level only to find oil in the radiator – I wasn’t going anywhere. I checked back in, unloaded, replaced the waterpump and flushed out the radiator as best I could. Italian Paulo and his Japanese wife staying in a room a few doors away invited me to share their pasta lunch they’d just cooked with Paulo’s brother, his wife and a few more friends. It was the perfect invitation – cheers Paulo!

Whilst cleaning the clutch cover gasket it split but I took a chance and re-assembled it anyway – bad decision! When I fired up the motor it wasn’t long before she was pissing oil out. I went out to buy instant gasket before the shop closed but it was too late in the day to start the job again. The next morning I found the courtyard full of tour operators 4×4’s and it was some time before there was enough space to work on Lady P. I took the clutch cover off and replaced the proper gasket with instant and booked another night as it would take 24hrs to cure properly.

It was roughly -10 °C overnight, enough to freeze the water in the toilet bowl, all the water pipes and put an inch of ice on the 50 gallon drum outside the toilet block. I hadn’t experienced water that cold since trekking in Pakistan’s Hindu Cush.

I didn’t get the early start I wanted as once again Lady P refused to start despite a few hour sunbathing. When she did finally start I was delighted to find no leaks – apart from a tiny drip from the waterpump drain screw (I didn’t have a new copper washer).

I queued for fuel for 45mins then finally rode SW out of town and after 90km came to San Cristobal where I saw a sign for fuel. Filling up there would give me added security for crossing the Salar de Uyuni at the end of my planned loop. In the petrol station I got chatting with 3 Landcruisers full of Italian tourists. Many questions followed leading eventually to “How old are you?”… “41 errr…well 42 tomorrow” and with that I was sung an impromptu ‘Happy Birthday’ – good job I still had my lid on as I was glowing like a baboon’s arse.

I checked the route with one of the guides and continued on past Alota before turning south past a lake where a herd of llama’s were drinking and on towards Culpina K. A little further on I came to a split in the road; straight on alongside the river or across the river and onto a sandy track. A sat there for a while scanning the horizon when I spotted three dust clouds heading my way. Once they were close enough to ensure they were 4×4’s and not local trucks (which could have been coming from any of the remote settlements) I crossed the river and picked up the sandy track. After a second river crossing the track climbed again passing some spectacularly eroded rock formations away to the west. The track became little more than a single vehicle wide and I rode in one deep sandy wheel rut around blind bend after blind bend praying nothing would come the opposite way – it didn’t. As I entered the the Valle de Rocas a smaller track led into the vast expanse of peculiar rock formations I’d once read described as ‘Mars on Acid’.

It was a beautiful location and so after finding as sheltered a spot as I could I built a small wall out of rocks and had a great place to pitch my tent. Like all good bush camps I had the place to myself and after an early supper sat on top of a rock watching the sun change the colours of my surrounding as it slid rapidly behind the distant mountains.

I had a fairly leisurely breakfast and let Lady P bask in the sun until 10am when she started fairy easily. I had a slow puncture in the front tyre for a long time but it was so slow I couldn’t find the hole. Checking the tyre pressures the front was indeed low so I pumped it up before leaving camp. At the first bend in the track I narrowly avoided crashing as the front wheel tucked under on me and so I stopped to alter the tyre pressure. Again I stopped to adjust the pressure but again I nearly fell at the next corner. Back on the main track I was struggling to maintain control. The surface was rutted and in places soft. It wasn’t that bad, but whatever I did the front end just wanted to ‘plough’ in the ruts. I stopped again and this time noticed the left fork seal had blown. I couldn’t (and still don’t) believe this was the sole reason for my bike’s poor handling but the track would get much worse further on and I decided against continuing on. It was my second attempt to get to the SW corner and it was the second time Lady P had decided she didn’t want to.

Salar de Uyuni

Instead, I returned to Uyuni, filled up with fuel and headed out onto the Salar de Uyuni – the world’s highest and largest salt lake. Although cold, it was the idea time of year to cross it by bike (ie dry). Ever since I began researching this trip back in 2004 I had wanted to camp on the Salar and doing so on my birthday was a bonus. A few people had relayed the story of a couple of German cyclists who’d been run over in their tent in the middle of the night by a couple of locals racing around in 4×4’s with no lights on. I figured you’d have to be pretty damn unlucky to get run over in the middle of 12,000km² of salt lake but nevertheless I chose my campsite carefully. Any vehicles crush the salt ridges that form the patterns on the lakes surface and so it was easy to pick a spot where nobody had been. Far away from the edges of the lake I parked up and spent several hours taking photos and observing the routes taken by the 4×4’s. Once confident I was as safe as I could be I  ran Lady P’s motor until the fan came on then wrapped the engine/tank/radiator in my insulated groundsheet to keep the wind out. I was expecting -10 to -15°C overnight + windchill so I figured limiting how cold she got would help when it came to starting in the morning. I pitched my tent, cooked supper and absorbed all the beauty of the ever changing light as the sun set – a truly memorable campsite.

I awoke just before sunrise and got up to watch the sunrise. At -6°C it was much warmer than I’d expected and again I had a leisurely breakfast and took many photos. At 10am Lady P started up fairly easily. Wrapping her up had obviously worked and I was soon on my way to Isla Incahuasi (also known as Isla del Pescado), a coral island raised up from the sea bed and covered in tall cacti. After walking the trail to the top and back I rode north towards Tunapa Volcano (easy navigation!) where I exited the Salar at the ancient pueblo of Tahua. Riding past the stone walls and dwellings I continued north, skirting the volcano along the roughest track I’d encountered in a long, long time.

My leaking fork seal was soon pissing out oil and I ended up with a piece of rag tied around the fork leg to soak it up before it got into the front brake. A few more pueblos passed by and I entered another dry salt lake as I rode in a big anti-clockwise loop to the pueblo of Salinas de Garcia-Mendoza where I expected to meet the ‘main’ track that runs NW and on to Huari where I’d hoped to spend the night.

A new ripio was being built alongside the old one and I was constantly diverted on and off it. The new sections were like a billiard table but the detours were a different matter. Ruts, potholes, bulldust, sand and dried mud were the order of the day. Not to mention the multitude of tracks that spread out across the plain as traffic had obviously tried to avoid the worst parts during the wet season.

To the south, a vast plain stretched out into the distant mountains and it was as though I’d been transported to the Kazakh steppe – only the llamas gave away my true location. Stopping at the Miguel y Alex Tejada Meteorite crater I climbed the cactus wood observation tower but as it swayed in the wind I opted not to stay long and rode on.

It was late afternoon, the road was running in the same direction as the one on the ‘World Map’ on my GPS (no detailed map for Bolivia) but not ‘on’ it. It could be a mapping error, it could be the same road, I would never be certain. What I did know was that it was late afternoon, there was no sign of Huari and there was nowhere out of sight to camp. I rode on.

The sun was getting low in the sky and the diversions off the new ripio all ran on the opposite side of the road several metres below and hence were in the shade. Every time I was diverted I had to lift my visor to see and after doing this several times I ploughed into a huge pothole and got a face full of bulldust. It was a while before I could see again and continue riding; all the while the sun was setting.

Off the track I rode through a small pueblo I hoped was Huari – it wasn’t. Behind the pueblo I was delighted to find a way onto an un-opened section of new ripio but my delight was short lived s I soon found my way blocked by piles of earth. The sun had virtually set and so I had no choice to ride into what looked like some abandoned adobe buildings nearby. Scouting around, some of them were indeed abandoned but others were obviously used by passing shepherds. I made myself as discreet as I could (but not as discreet as I’d have liked) and waited until after dark to pitch my tent. Having not been able to scout around properly in daylight I was uneasy with my choice of site which was compounded by my proximity to the pueblo and combined with an overnight temperature of -10°C it was a restless night. I need not have been concerned. Up early to thaw out my frozen water bottle in the rising sun before I could make breakfast, every local who cycled past gave me a friendly wave.

14km (20 mins) up the road I rode into Huari and onto tarmac for the first time since leaving Potosi eight days and 900km earlier. I rode straight through Oruro and onto the pueblo of Tolar where I turned right onto a 29km ripio and the natural thermal springs of ‘Thermas de Urmiri’. The track climbed to 4100m, turned a corner and presented a magnificent view of Illimani (6439m) before descending to the termas at 3600m.

After three night bush camping at temperatures from -1 to -10°C and lots of sweating in between, I arrived stinking like a pole cat and spent the following day in and out of the thermal pools, sauna and swimming pool. Watching the Milky Way appear in the night sky from the warmth of a hot spring was pretty special. Stepping out of the pool into the night air was not.

Blown head gasket?…least of my problems…

My plan for the day was to ride to the border with Peru to try to get permission for Lady P to stay in the country for another 20 days as her papers were due to expire in four days. I hadn’t topped up the radiator for a few days so before setting off I did just that. I continued the descent to Sapahaqui and followed the valley out to the main Oruro – La Paz road. Whenever I stopped to take photos so Lady P would drip coolant…sometimes leaving a sizeable puddle. Several times I stopped on my way into town, let her cool down and topped up the radiator. Twice she blew out a large volume of coolant from the header tank overflow and once again I was concerned to find the radiator cap covered in oil.

Founded by the Spaniards in 1548, La Paz is said to be the world’s highest capital city though it seems many think of Sucre as Bolivia’s capital. Whether it is or isn’t, it is surely one of the world’s most spectacularly located cities. From its airport at 4058m the city sprawls into the canyon some 500m below where building cling to the steep sides, affording views across snow capped peaks.

Concerned about finding somewhere to stay before Lady P came to a complete standstill I was overjoyed to see a hostel pop up on my GPS. Maarten Munnik had given me all his waypoints of the Americas from his RTW trip and if he had stayed there, there must be parking – there was.

The staff at El Carretero were friendly and helpful and between us we bumped Lady P up the few steps from the cobbled street and into the courtyard. Knowing I had some maintenance ahead of me I took a single room with bathroom for 40Bs and unpacked.

I had a spare fork seal but needed a few special tools to fit it and so took it to the local Honda dealer who replaced it for 50Bs. With Lady P re-assembled I checked the water level properly and took her outside where I ran the motor until the fan came on – no leaks. I ran it for 5 mins more – no leaks. Once cool I checked the water level – normal. I waited until the following day (Sunday) when the traffic would be quieter before going for a ride. 35km – no leaks. Again I let her cool down and checked the water level – normal. Conclusion – pilot (ie. Fuckwit) error. I think that when I set out for La Paz I’d inadvertently overfilled the cooling system causing it to expand beyond the volume of the header tank. The oil in the radiator I concluded to be residue from the waterpump failure back in Uyuni.

I hope it is/was a false alarm as there is no BMW dealer in Bolivia and I would need to have the parts flown in from Chile (v.expensive).

Time out in La Paz

On the Monday I collected my parcel of spares from the UK, had Lady P washed and set about servicing the brake calipers, replacing seals and pads. When I removed the rear wheel I made my customary check for vertical play in the swingarm as the link arm bearings have a tendency to fail. On a good day there would be no play, on a bad day there would be perhaps ½”, today there was 2”. FM!! 2”!! The whole shock unit was moving up and down.

It’s a long job to remove the shock as the whole pannier frame assemblies, rack, seat and tanks and exhaust have to be removed before the subframe and underseat fuel tank can be unbolted and tipped up to reveal the top mounting bolt for the shock. At least it would have revealed itself had it been there. It had in fact sheared off allowing the shock body to impact the frame damaging the top of the unit (cylinder head), the shock of which had snapped the U-bracket on the opposite end – OH FUCK!!!

I emailed the Manufacturer – Ohlins – in Sweden to get the part numbers I needed, then emailed all the South American distributors – Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Colombia and Peru. It took a few days but they all replied – nobody had the parts. I emailed Ohlins USA who had most of, but not all, the parts but even if they did they wouldn’t sell them to me. I would have to ‘find’ a dealer prepared to post to Bolivia and have them order the parts from Ohlins USA who would, in-turn, order them from Sweden! I did find a dealer in California who’s website claims to be the ‘World’s largest Ohlins dealer’. I figured there had to be a chance they’d have the parts in stock so I emailed them only to have them contact Ohlins USA. I received a reply saying “It seems you already know what’s going on” ! I emailed the UK distributor who also had most of, but not all of the parts I required. Again I emailed Ohlins in Sweden, told them who I had contacted and asked if they could supply to me directly. I received a reply saying they had spoken to the UK distributor who had told them they had all the parts! I promptly forwarded them the message saying theUK didn’t have the parts and received a reply saying “Please order your parts through the UK distributor”.

Even if I did manage to get the parts I would still have to fly to Santiago, Chile, to have the distributor make the repair. At GBP156 a plane ticket was the cheapest way to get my shock to an Ohlins agent. The Chilean dealer quoted U$250 labour only and the bill for the parts was running at U$350 + shipping…not good for the piggy bank.

Whilst all these emails were flying around I walked miles up and down the hills around La Paz seeking a solution. It’s tarmac all the way to the Ohlins agent in Lima, Peru, approximately 1600km away and if I could make a temporary repair to get me there I could avoid paying for a plane ticket to Chile, have the parts delivered regular mail instead of paying for a courier and leave Bolivia before my visa expires (Lady P’s papers expired a few weeks ago so I’ll have to wing it at the border).

Worth hanging around in La Paz for was an AC/DC cover band playing in a local club. They were awesome. How a Bolivian managed to sing in a high pitched Geordie accent I’ll never know.

Three German overlanders rolled into the hostel on their way south from Alaska. Husband & wife Carlos & Monica, and Richard were the first overlanders I’d met since Patagonia back in March and it was good to be able to share some info. When I watched Carlos and Monica leave I couldn’t help but wonder why it was my suspension that had broken!

Eventually I was given directions to another Honda dealer on the other side of town. The guy I spoke to indicated that the ‘experienced’ mechanic would return soon and that I should wait. Two hours later I was freezing my ass off. Wearing just a T-shirt as the sun set I said I’d return the following day. I did exactly that and met José. I had hoped we could remove the broken U-bracket and have a new one CNC’d but we couldn’t. Instead we made a shield to protect the rebound adjuster knob from the heat of welding after which I jumped on the back of José’s ’83 Kawasaki Z650 and we rode across town to find a welder. I’d never seen aluminium ‘stick’ welded before but by now I had nothing to lose so shrugged my shoulders and let them get on with it. The finished article wasn’t/isn’t pretty (I know…neither’s the rider) but one can’t complain for 15Bs.

Back at the workshop, Josés’ assistant had finished turning up a new spacer for the top of the shock. Final bill – 50Bs. I couldn’t thank José enough and hurried back to the hostel where I spent the afternoon re-building Lady P. All the needle rollers in the linkage to shock bearing fell out and had to be cleaned and re-assembled, the link arm bearings are again worn out and the linkage to frame bearings are seized. Given that I replaced the link arm bearings and seals and cleaned and greased all the other linkage bearings when I arrived in Chile I’m not very impressed.

So, after two weeks of emailing, waiting and walking, Lady P is finally back in one piece; but will she get me to Lima? Tune in to Chapter 20 to find out…

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

Seven Planes to Santiago

From Singapore my route took me via Bangkok and Bahrain to Paris then Jersey; back to Paris, Sao Paulo and finally Santiago, Chile. I was staying in a backpackers hostel for the first time since May 2007 (when I arrived in NZ) and it took a while to adjust to dormitory life. On each of my first three days in the country I met somebody just after they’d been robbed and a week later one of the staff had her bag snatched walking home from work – and I thought Chile was the safe country in South America! Fortunately I met good people in the hostel. Two sisters from the Wirral travelling with an Aussie nurse, an American cyclist and a lad from Manchester who was living the whole sex ‘n’ drugs ‘n’ partying lifestyle to the full. One evening we all went to see a Nirvana tribute band who didn’t start playing until 0100 and played for 2 hours before the rock disco fired up and several more hours disappeared in a blur of rum ‘n’ coke (all they served), all shaken up with a session in the moshpit.

Where’s my bike?

According to my shipping companys website, Lady P was due to arrive on December 8^th so I went to their office in Santiago to complete the paperwork and pay the local charges. Once there they told me the ship was now due on the 11^th. I stored most of my luggage at the hostel and took a bus to the port city of Valparaiso (120km from Santiago) where I spent the afternoon flitting between the Customs and Post Authority offices. Initially nobody could find any record of the vessel carrying my bike but this eventually turned out to because it wasn’t booked in for unloading until the 18^th! Back to Santiago and the Bellavista hostel I went. Everyone except Casey the American cyclist had moved on. He’d been waiting for two parcels sent by his mum in Oregon on the same day. They eventually arrived 11 days apart and when he called his mum to ask why there was no GPS unit in the parcel she said there was. Closer inspection revealed that one parcel had been opened and resealed and the GPS unit blatantly crossed off the shipping/customs list! Whilst waiting for my bike to arrive I had a rude awakening to the harshness of the sun in Santiago. I spent an afternoon sitting in the shade under an umbrella reading a book but still managed to burn my head to the point of it peeling! I wonder if the region is affected by a hole in the ozone (a la NZ) ?

Prior to arriving in South America I had been trying to find information regarding the route of the Dakar Rally (being held in SA for the first time following the 2007 cancellation) and came into contact with Axel Heilenkotter (Austrian by name, Chilean by birth). We had lunch a few times and when the time finally came to collect Lady P he said he’d take me to Valparaiso. He picked me up outside the hostel on the 19^th and at 200km/h in his new Porsche Cayman S it didn’t take long to get there! To cut a long story short we started at the port office then went to the storage area, then to the customs office at the other end of town and finally back to the storage area. Each entry/exit to the storage area involved signing in and wearing a hard hat and hi-vis vest. They wouldn’t even let me open the crate myself incase I had an accident with the crowbar! Unbelievably she started first push of the button and we drove/rode to a restaurant along the coast for a celebratory lunch after which Axel left me in the carpark wondering how I was going to repack all my kit onto Lady P.

Valparaiso

Another guy I’d come across whilst researching SA was Adam Mulvanny, a  25yr old Australian lad who’d bought a bike in Chile for his journey around SA. It was now so close to Christmas that I decided to stay in Valparaiso and met (other) Adam in Hostel Caracol where they had a lovely courtyard garden where we could park the bikes.  Built on a hillside overlooking a bay the UNESCO World Heritage listed Valparaiso is surely unique. From the flat city centre, ascensores (funicular elevators) help you on your way to the labyrinth of streets and alleyways above. Famed Chilean poet and politician Pablo Neruda had a home here (now a museum) carefully chosen for its uninterrupted views. Brightly coloured murals adorn the alleyways amongst the ceros (hills) that weave their way amongst the crumbling mansions making it easy to lose hours exploring on foot.

Christmas

Hostel Caracol would have been a great place to spend Christmas but they closed for the holiday and so ‘other’ Adam and I had to find an alternative. That came in the form of Hostel Patiperro that lived up to its claim of serving the best hostel breakfast in SA; Freshly squeezed OJ, freshly brewed coffee, hot rolls, cheese toasties and scrambled eggs. The largely German and Swiss clientele said that at home they had their big meal on Christmas Eve and suggested a buffet to which we all contributed. All agreed and as a result the kitchen was flat out that afternoon with all the preparation and what a feast it turned out to be. An Italian lad made Brushetta starters, an American ex-pastry chef baked cakes, Adam and I made Shish kebabs and so the list went on. Everybody provided two bottles of wine and a grand night was had by all. The owners joined in and made a Chilean specialty drink of chilled red wine with strawberries and sugar which I managed to drink at an alarming rate. Very little happened the following day; I called my sister to say Happy Christmas and chatted with Danny (remember him!?) for the first time since leaving Queenstown back in October 2007. Dinner was a burger in one of the few cheap joints open in town.

Boxing Day

I’d arranged to meet Axel in Mendoza, Argentina on the 27^th for the ride to Buenos Aires (to see the start of the Dakar Rally) and so I left Valparaiso on Boxing Day. I say ‘I’ but actually it was ‘we’ as other Adam had decided his route north would be nicer on the Argentine side of the Andes. Paying his parking ticket and looking for third party insurance for Argentina delayed our progress and we found ourselves riding up the switchbacks to the border crossing on the road to Mendoza late in the evening. I exited Chile and was in the process of entering Argentina when it became apparent there was a problem with Adams paperwork. After a lot of discussion, telephone calls and a chat with the boss, Adam was politely refused exit from Chile. The new registration papers for his motorcycle (purchased in Chile) hadn’t yet arrived and the paperwork regarding the change of ownership he did have – and had been assured would be sufficient – weren’t. We were only riding as far as Mendoza together, I’d already exited Chile and was due to meet Axel the following day but that didn’t stop me felling shit about leaving Adam to return to Chile and the ensuing paper chase alone. We said our goodbyes and by the time I finished clearing Argentine Customs it was pitch dark.

Refuge

The hostel 1km from the border was full and the hotel down the road wanted AR$340 (GBP68) and so I rode on. After 20mins or so I reached the final checkpoint and asked the guard where I could camp. He said to ride on for 300m then turn left to a mountain refuge. I followed his instructions and as I rode onto the dirt track so my headlight picked out a triangular shaped, tin roofed building. I pushed the door open expecting it to be empty but was met by the voice of Frenchman Pierre-Emeric. I layed out my bed and got chatting to Pierre. He was there to climb South America’s highest peak (Aconcagua – 6962m) and the reason the first hostel I’d stopped at was full was that it was full of climbers taking the ‘regular’ route. Pierre was taking the ‘back’ route; solo across the glacier. As we chatted I told him I was on my way to Buenos Aires for the start of the Dakar Rally. This led to a long chat regarding motorsport engineering as it transpired that Pierre had worked for Jean-Louis_Schlesser and now worked for Renault F1 and was on secondment to Red Bull Racing, working for Mark Webber.

Update May 16th 2009…

In Memorandum…

Pierre-Emeric Benteyn

I was shocked and saddened today to receive a the news that Pierre-Emeric went misssing on Aconcagua just a few days after I met him. Below is an extract from the message posted on this site by his uncle Bernard…

“He was seen, for the last time, in campo 2, altitude 5500m, on 02 january 2009. Since that, no news. He disappeared… According to the guards of the Park, who thoroughly searched during several days, walking and with helicopter, and questionned dozens of “andinists”, he probably felt from a height of about 1000m on a glacier (Glacier of the Englishmen) situated under the Glacier of Polishes on which he was probably following a direct route, along the edge, toward the summit.”

Bernard’s message can be read in full at the foot of the ‘PROFILES’ page.

I offer my sincere condolences to Pierre-Emeric’s family and friends.

He was 31 years old.

Argentina

Whilst waiting for Axel in Mendoza I met Orkatz, a Spaniard from the Basque country. He arrived at the hostel on his Harley Davidson 883 Sportster complete with extended forks, high handlebars and 50mm of suspension travel. He’d ridden it from Buenos Aires to Ushuaia and up to here with the only mechanical failure being a broken drive belt caused by a stone on Ruta 40. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t his spine that had failed! By 1030 the following morning there was still no sign of Axel but after consulting the map I realized there was only one road to BA. I set off on the straight, flat 1100km journey and sure enough, half way through the day met up with Axel and his friend Eduardo when they passed me sitting at the roadside eating lunch. It turns out they’d arrived very late last night and I’d already left when they called at my hostel that morning.

Buenos Aires, New Year and the Dakar Rally

The sole reason for spending New Year in Buenos Aires was for the start of the Dakar Rally. Axels girlfriend Sandra flew in from Santiago and together we visited the Parc Ferme and Teams Presentation before the start day (Jan 3^rd) finally arrived.  Sandra had flown home the previous evening and I met Axel and Eduardo in the carpark at 0430.

We watch riders leaving for the start until the sun came up and then followed some of the support vehicles as they headed south west out of the city. Over the ensuing 4 days we rode 1800km following the race. On the first day we stopped in a petrol station for a drink after watching the race pass through. There we met some Czech journalists who had the media roadbook which showed the route overlayed on a roadmap for journalists to follow. They laughed when we photographed every page and called us James Bond. The first two days provided some good spectator spots and the third the opportunity to see the bivouac (service area) up close. I thought I’d encountered dust in Australia but I hadn’t! The dust here was incredible; it was like riding in fog. The sheer volume of traffic ground the grit of the ripio (dirt roads) as fine as talcum powder which was bad enough to ride through with a crosswind but with a head, tail or no wind it was like riding blindfolded. Leaving the start on the fourth day we encountered lots of traffic as fellow spectators and service crews did the same thing. The deep sand patches were the worst as we couldn’t see properly to follow the ruts, neither could we see far enough ahead to ride through them with sufficient speed. As I approached one such patch the car ahead of me threw up a cloud of dust that reduced my visibility to zero. I got cross-rutted and fell down only to have the car I’d just passed miss me by 30cm. They quickly stopped to help me up and prevent others running into me – I was most grateful as several more passed close by before I got going again. At the end of the fourth day I said goodbye to Axel and Eduardo. They headed north to continue following the rally whilst I rode west to Bariloche, a pretty but overpriced ski town. I didn’t hang around long and so after some routine maintenance on the campsite I followed the picturesque Ruta de los Siete Lagos (Seven Lakes Drive) through Parque Nacional Nahuel Huapi and onto Junin de los Andes where I picked up the ripio to Parque Nacional Lanín. I spent a few nights camping by Lago Huechulafquen overlooked by the perfectly conical and permanently snow capped Lanin Volcano.

Parcel saga

I returned to Chile via Paso Carirrine accessed by a ripio south of Lunin los Andes. The single lane track wove its way through forest and hugged the lakeside in places before the rough climb to the pass. The decent was about as rough as I like it to get and my arrival surprised the border guards to the extent they took my photo. Back in Malaysia I’d ordered new waterproof jacket and trousers from the USA but when I arrived in Jersey the package still hadn’t arrived. The supplier was happy to send another but was concerned I’d leave before it arrived and instead asked for an address in Chile. After meeting Axel I called the company and had the package sent to him in Santiago. Unfortunately it didn’t arrive before we left for Buenos Aires but when Sandra arrived in BA she brought with her a letter from the Correos (Post Office) requesting copies of the invoice and credit card statement.  I sent electronic copies of the requested documents along with a request for the parcel to be collected by Axel and attached copies of his ID. Axel was due to return to Santiago when the Dakar Rally passed through and so the idea was for him to collect the parcel and post it on for me to collect in Puerto Montt. The Correos failed to answer any of our emails though and so another plan was needed. It would be at least another ten days before Axel (still following the Dakar) would be back in Santiago and so I decided to collect it myself. In Temuco, 700km south of Santiago, I chose a Hospedaje (guesthouse) and did my best to explain  (in my very limited Spanish) to the owner (who spoke NO English) that I wanted to leave my bike there, take the overnight bus to Santiago, collect my parcel, return the following evening and spend the night. It took a while but eventually she understood. I arrived in Santiago at 0800 the following morning after a surprisingly good 8.5hr bus ride on which the conductor handed out pillows and blankets. I took the Metro to the central Correo but after an hour discovered that my parcel wasn’t there; it was in the customs warehouse at the airport. Back to the bus station I went and took another bus to the airport where I spotted a guy with Aduana (Customs) embroidered on his shirt and asked for directions to the warehouse. After explaining what I wanted to an office junior I waited…and waited…until eventualluy he returned with another customer (who we’ll call Mr X), who spoke English.  After another explanation and subsequent translation the junior disappeared again. Chatting with Mr X I learnt that he’d lived and worked in the USA for 12 years (illegally) but had had to leave when his fake driving license came up for renewal(?) Bizarrely his three kids –all born there – were still there and going to school. He was planning an illegal return trough Tijuana (Mexico) later in the year. Eventually we were called to the bosses office where we found him consulting a large book and scribbling down figures. After several attempts at making a calculation he eventually arrived at a figure of U$65 for the duty payable on my parcel. I said he must be joking as I’d only paid U$137 for the contents but he insisted that was the correct figure. I told him to return the parcel to the USA as I wasn’t prepared to pay what he was asking. As he sat back rather shocked at my response and so I repeated my story about the first parcel going missing. Mr X translated and it transpired that the office junior hadn’t passed on this part of the story. Once the boss heard the full story he referred to another volume of the Customs books and said I had nothing to pay. He stamped my paperwork and sent someone to collect my parcel from the warehouse; it had taken 2½hrs to collect it. I arrived back at the central bus station at 1400 only to find there were no buses back to Temuco until 1700 and as it wouldn’t arrive until 0200, it wasn’t acceptable. I couldn’t knock on the Hospedaje door at that time so I bought a ticket for the 2300 bus which would arrive at 0700. Whilst I was waiting I set off around Santiago on what turned out to be a wild goose chase for a new battery for Lady P. What started as a search for a battery ended in a search for a Metro station to get me back to the central bus station and in the process I walked miles blistering my feet thanks to my new pair of fake Crocs. Back in Temuco I showered, packed loaded and left; the lady of the house giving me a bag of boiled sweets for the ride. I followed a combination of minor roads and dirt tracks as I zig-zagged my way to Puerto Octay where I found a nice campsite on the edge of Lago Llanquihue. It was great to be back in the countryside again.

Carretera Austral

One of Pinochet’s more acceptable legacies is the Carretera Austral; a 1500km ripio road from Puerto Montt to Villa O’Higgins. Prior to this road the only access to this region was was by boat, helicopter or across the Andes from Argentina. The road starts for real at Chaiten which is normally reached by a combination of road and two ferries from Puerto Montt but since the 2008 volcano eruption this section has remained closed. Indeed the town of Chaiten itself  has only recently re-opened after being evacuated. Instead, I reached Chaiten via an 11hr overnight ferry from Puerto Montt. Disembarking the ferry and riding into town the recent destruction was obvious. Ash from the eruption had filled the river causing it to flood the town and many streets still hadn’t been bulldozed clear of the silt that had filled the houses. I was riding with American born, Panama resident Steve that I’d met in Puerto Varas two days previously. He was headed for Ushuaia as was I and after collecting supplies in the towns small store we rode slowly south and pitched camp at Termas El Amarillo, a natural hot springs in the woods. The setting was lovely but the horse flies ferocious; their bite was like being stabbed with a pin and they could bite through your clothes! The Carretera was being repaired in places and upgraded in others and the grading machines were out in force. Over time the ripio develops wheel tracks as the stones are pushed aside to reveal the base. These are easy to follow but when the road has been recently graded it is covered in loose stones and the only way to approach it is with speed and confidence. The bike ‘floats’ beneath you and gives the sensation of ‘dancing’ on the road rather than being adhered to it. This was all the more difficult for the many cyclist we passed heading south, many towing single wheeled trailers. One such guy riding at the back of a line of several others decided to pull out and overtake his mates on a downhill section without bothering to look behind him. As he pulled out so his trailer whipped around on the ripio and was about to jackknife and throw him off when it corrected itself. It was a good thing it did as he’d pulled out right in front of me and barely managed to miss him. Had he fallen I’d have run him over for sure. Having stopped in Puyuhuapi to find somewhere to stay, we walked out of the local shop to be greeted by an English/Australian guy asking about the bikes. We didn’t recognize each other at first but after a while we realized that we’d met in a shop in Sydney back in November 2007. He was travelling through South America in his Landrover and was currently driving with another Australian couple in their Toyota Landcruiser. When I started chatting with them they turned out to be Geoff & Kenny, friends of Stephen Ashley (who’d put me up in the scout hut back in Alice Springs) and whom I’d exchanged emails with regarding the possibility of sharing a container to South America with. Once again the world seemed to shrink. The following evening in Coihaique the differences in travelling budget between Steve and I had us riding around town for two hours looking for a guesthouse for him and a campsite for me. Eventually I said I was returning to the campsite I’d seen on the way into town and would phone him tomorrow.

The campsite proved to be a good choice as I met Heinz & Marck, the Chilean father & son travelling by motorcycle we’d met on the ferry from Puerto Montt and Hartmut, a 61yr old German riding a Yamaha XT600. Hartmut was a real character and I spent a lot of time with him over the next few days. He’d been a sailor all his life, both merchant and skipper but two years ago had decided to see South America by motorcycle. During that time he’d had two accidents in which he’d broken first his leg and then his wrist. Now he was shaking off an ear infection and waiting for the weather to improve before moving on. Having already spent a few weeks at the campsite he’d customized the wooden hut that came with each pitch by lining the inside with a tarp to keep the wind out and rigging another up as a curtain across the doorway.  Each evening started with a ‘sundowner’ which was a Pisco Sower – a clear liquor (made from grapes) mixed with water, sugar and freshly squeezed lemon. The weather deteriorated over the next few days and we spent more time on the campsite. ‘Sundowners’ went from sunset to when the sun began to drop from its highest point in the sky, and when cloud filled the sky to when Hartmut decided the sun “must be dropping by now”. Hartmut could talk, boy could he talk. He’d step out of his tent in the morning already talking flat out but without putting his teeth in. Amongst his many tails were one of his 5 month trip paddling a 5m canoe – complete with homemade sail and outriggers, north from Inuvik, following the fur trade route. Camping on the shore under a shelter copied from those used by the early pioneers, his stories of bears, fishing and Indians were unlike all the other travelers stories I’d ever heard. Riding out of the campsite two days later I bumped into Sunny & Cecilia (He – Californian Turk. She Austrian) who were looking for an Englishman by the name of Richard who was riding a BMW with a big tank. It turns out they’d met Hartmut the previous day and he’d said he was camping with an Englishman riding a BMW with a big fuel tank. After explaining it wasn’t me I rode into town only to see a BMW with a large fuel tank and a British number plate. “You must be Richard” I said before explain what had just happened. After a while Richard asked if I’d left home with another guy also riding a F650. It turned out he’d met Danny back in Manali (India) whilst I was in Shimla preparing my bike for the Raid-de-Himalaya. Richard was 60yrs old and we met again after lunch and spent the afternoon in a café telling stories and listening to his interesting and still changing life story. We were joined by Christian, a French Canadian helicopter pilot who Richard had been riding with and between them they passed on many good tips for my journey south. Finally, after four nights in town, the weather cleared enough for me to ride on. Having not left the campsite the day after arriving in town (due to the torrential rain) I hadn’t phoned Steve and when I finally picked up my email the day after that, I discovered he’d already left town. Despite cloud blocking the view of the mountain peaks the countryside was beautiful but I was puzzled by the dead trees. The fields were full of dead trees both standing and fallen, that had been left to rot where they lay, filling the fields like graveyards of timber tombs. I later learned this was a deliberate move in the 1950’s to make way for cattle grazing but I didn’t see evidence of sufficient cattle to justify destruction like this. Onward, to the shores of  Lago General Carrera – South Americas 2^nd largest lake - and the small village of Rio Tranquillo. I didn’t know how far I was going to ride that day but bumped in to Heinz & Marck and followed them to their campsite with the intention of eating lunch and moving on. The site though was so beautiful I decided to stay and spent two nights there. Sheltered on three sides by the hills, the open end looked straight up the lake. The pitches were arranged along either side of the site and each had its own wooden windbreaker, table and chairs. On the site I met German couple Thomas and Andrea. He was riding a Honda Africa Twin; she a Kawasaki KLR650. Andrea had originally left home on a BMW F650 like mine but they’d had so much trouble with it they sold it in the USA and bought the Kawasaki. Whilst researching their trip Thomas had come across my blogsite and had followed mine and Danny’s story until they left home on their own journey. We spent a very pleasant evening around the campfire chatting about Thomas’s unusual job as a ‘Controller’ on Swiss railways and riding the sand dunes in Tunisia.

‘Gringo Highway’

With so many foreign motorcycle travelers on the road I nicknamed it the ‘Gringo Highway’. I’d already met more overlanders during my 7 weeks in SA than I had in 13 months from England to Malaysia.  Back in Asia if you saw another overlander you’d stop for a chat. Here thought there were just too many and so a wave would suffice. It’s partly due to SA being a relatively straightforward country to ride/drive around (No Carnet reqd. Visas at borders) and partly due to the narrowing of the continent the further south you travel. From Puerto Montt there are only three roads going south; from Perito Moreno two and from San Sebastián one. The majority of travellers visit the south between December and February and as you have to turn around and ride north again it’s inevitable that you meet a high percentage of all those currently on the continent. By the time I’d been down to Ushuaia and back to Baja Caracoles I’d met/chatted to/camped with or ridden with 24 others and had seen or waved to 100+

Carretera cont…

I spent another day following Lago General Carrera to the border with Argentina at Chile Chico. After getting stamped out of Chile I rode the 7km or so to the Argentine border only to be asked for my seguros (insurance) for the first time. When I produced it I realized it had expired whist I’d been sitting around on the campsite at Rio Tranquillo and as a result they sent me back to Chile. At the border I explained what had happened and was told I could buy seguros in Chile Chico. With no sign advertising seguros I asked a policeman who directed me to a supermarket. I could indeed buy seguros there but the woman who ran that office wouldn’t return until 1830 and it was only 1700. At 1830 I returned, bought seguros and finally crossed the border into Argentina and the small town of Los Antiguos where I spent a very noisey and overpriced night on the municipal campsite. I awoke to classical music blaring from the German Landrover I was parked next to and had a good chuckle. “Thats very un-German” I told them witha grin when I got up. I knew it was there only way of retaliating to the partygoers that had ignored the ‘Quiet after 2200′ sign and partied very loudly until 0300. Richard and Christian had recommended a minor ripio road that followed the border south from Los Antiguos to intersect with the road that led from the next border crossing south at Paso Roballo. This 100km track turned out to be one of my favorite stretches of road in SA and reminded me very much of how much I’d enjoyed ‘Walkers Crossing’ back in Australia. Starting out as a corrugated sandy track it gradually turned to grit, dirt then rock as it followed the ridgeline that defines the border between the two countries. Twisting, turning, descending and climbing I came to a windswept rock plateau but with a storm brewing on the ridge I didn’t hang around for long. All too soon I picked up the main ripio road from Paso Roballo and followed it SE for 20km or so before turning south again.  Another small track led me across several dried-up lake beds on the way to Lago Posades where I picked up a very good condition ripio all the way to Baja Caracoles where I filled up with fuel and met the infamous Ruta 40 for the first time.

Ruta 40

Ruta 40 is a monster. Starting just 80km south of the Bolivian border it follows the Andes, and therefore the Chilean border all the way south to Rio Gallegos where it intersects with its east coast equivalent – Ruta 3 (which continues all the way to Parque National Tierra del Fuego, SW of Ushuaia). What makes ‘the Cuarenta’ different however is that for 1500km from Rio Gallegos the road has less than 350km of  tarmac, the rest is ripio. This in itself isn’t a bad thing but combined with a wind that blows off the Andes it has the potential to not only be hard going but dangerous. Its hard to comprehend the vastness of this region and I can only place I personally can relate it to is Western Australia – only colder, bleaker and more foreboding. Standing in the sun it felt warm but the wind that blows down from the Andes eventually worked its way to my core and I found myself wearing more clothing than I had since riding around south island New Zealand in mid-winter. Richard and Christian had warned me that the most notorious section was north of Tres Lagos with the ripio at its deepest for 30km or so immediately north of the town. Indeed this section had already claimed several victims this year. One guy broke his leg and another a collarbone after being literally being blown off their bikes. Another story involved a group of Americans who found a German guy unconscious at the side of the road and had him airlifted to hospital in El Calafate where he was miraculously released uninjured three days later! The best time to ride here is in the early morning before the sun has had a chance to heat the land. As it does, so the hot air rises and the cold air rushes in from the mountains to fill the space, thus creating the wind. Camping south of Baja Caracoles isn’t really an option as there is no shelter. Pitching a tent in the afternoon would be virtually impossible as would keeping it pitched. Instead I stayed in a hostel Baja Caracoles and got up ½hr before sunrise. I left before 0700 when my temperature gauge read just 6ºC and was glad to find the ripio in good condition, allowing me to cruise at 100-110km/h. It was 342km to Tres Lagos and in order to arrive before 1030 when the wind really started to pick up I had no choice but to ride as fast as I dare. 85km into the ride I saw in the distance a couple standing at the roadside with what looked like a pile of luggage. There had been no sign of life since leaving town and I wondered where they had come from. It was only as I got closer that I noticed the overturned car off the road behind them. I stopped to check they were ok and had sufficient water as there was no telling how long they would have to wait to be recovered. They said they were ok but asked me to inform the police. Luckily for them I passed a van driving north a few kilometers further on. With only 100km to drive to Baja Caracoles they were sure to reach help/police long before I did. I didn’t see a sole until I got to Tres Lagos. Further on as the road turned from heading SW to SE I encountered 50km of new tarmac which gave my brain a rest from the concentration required on the ripio and helped my average speed. The tarmac finished as the road turned SW again through what looked like a wide shallow valley. I thought of Moses and the parting of the Red sea and as I did so clouds accumulated and covered the sun, reducing the heating effect on the land. Somehow I knew my passage was safe and I continued on, cruising as fast as I dare. As I approached Lago Cardiel so the road condition began to deteriorate and continued to do so all the way to Tres Lagos. The final 30km were indeed the worst and ruts up to 30cm deep formed in the ripio. The wind was starting to build and it was easy to imagine being blown into the side of a rut, the result of which would be crashing heavily. I rolled into the fuel station in Tres Lagos at 1020 and had averaged 99km/h from Baja Caracoles. Relieved to have covered this notorious section without any dramas I ate breakfast in the fuel station, cleaned my chain and cruised on to El Calafate at a much reduced speed and on mostly smooth tarmac.

Gringos

I met Jeff, a 26yr old American on the campsite in El Calafate. He’d spent 9 months riding down from Connecticut on his Suzuki DR650 and together we visited the stunning sight that is the Perito Moreno Glacier. I was (almost) prepared for the sight having seen it in pictures but what I wasn’t prepared for was the constant activity. Perito Moreno is one of the worlds few remaining advancing glaciers and sounds like that from distant artillery emanate from deep within, signaling the forces that sheer huge chunks of ice off the face and send them crashing into the water far below. Its only the time it takes for these chunks to hit the water and the time it takes for the sound to reach those watching that give an indication of the height of the Glacier. I had expected to arrive, look, take a few photos and leave but found myself drawn in by the activity and the hope of the sun breaking through and eventually spent 5hrs there.  My next stop was Puerto Natales (Back in Chile), gateway to Torres del Paine NP. I stopped in the town square to get my bearings and was approached by Darren, an Australian who said he was also riding around SA on a BMW F650, and we arranged to meet for a beer later. I rode away from the square and within a few hundred metres, bumped into René from Luxembourg and riding a Honda Africa Twin. He had just returned from the NP and was heading back to the hostel he’d stayed in when he’d been in town previously. I followed him there and soon we’d showered and were sitting in the common room overlooking the street when Darren walked by looking for a bar. We beckoned him in and shortly after a guy walked past with a motorcycle tyre over his shoulder and headed straight for my bike. Thierry, from Switzerland was also riding a BMW F650 around SA. Food was on everyone’s mind and René directed us all to a pizzeria called ‘La Mesita Grande’ (the big table). One long table stretched the length of the restaurant, pizzas were baked in a wood oven and they even had their own microbrewery. The beer flowed as well as the tales from the road and a fine evening was had by all. After several weeks of camping and cooking it was especially nice to share the good food and beer with good company.

The following morning we all went our separate ways and after loading up Lady P with as much food as she could carry, I headed off to the Torres del Paine NP. 80km of ripio took me in a picturesque loop through open farmland to the park entrance after which it took on a very different nature as it followed the contours of the hills and skirted the many lakes. I rode on to the campsite at Lago Pehoe which had fantastic views of the mountains and pitched my tent under the wooden shelter assigned to every pitch.  Darren arrived the following afternoon and was assigned the pitch next to mine.  The next morning  we rode 35km through the NP to the start of the trek up to ‘Mirrador Torres del Paine’. It took us 3hrs to reach the viewpoint, the final hour being a steep ascent across a boulder field to reach the viewpoint. Unfortunately, the tips of the famous three spires remained hidden in the clouds but it didn’t prevent us and many others hanging around for several hours in anticipation of the cloud clearing. Close by us on the campsite was an overland tour company truck operated by British company Oasis Overland. It had a very mixed bag of clientele and the friction between some of them was obvious.  Dennis, an American in his late 50’s and on his 4^th trip with the company invited Darren and I to join them around the campfire. Most of the group were away on an overnight hike in the park and only those who didn’t want to go remained. That included the older travelers and those who’d found the hike up to the Mirrador exhausting.  I immediately upset the girl I sat next to. Her accent was obviously north of England, probably Manchester, so when she said “Salford” I told her to keep her hands in her own pockets. She wasn’t impressed and immediately went on the defensive but having had my van broken into, my mountain bike, cycling clothing and all my tools stolen whilst working there back in 1997 it cut no ice with me.

Tyre

Punta Arenas, 350km south of Torres del Paine is the largest town in the region and was therefore my best hope of finding a new rear tyre. The one I had still had plenty of life left in it but was wearing fast on the ripio and I didn’t expect it to get me down to Ushuaia and back up to where I would be able to buy another. I pitched my tent in the garden of Hostel Indepencia and along with many others doing the same managed to make the place look like a refugee camp. Eduardo, the owner, marked all the bike shops on a map and I set off to find a tyre only to find there weren’t any 17” tyres in town. Instead, one had to be ordered from Conception (2700km away) and air freighted into town. Had I arrived on a Monday this would have been a fairly quick process but I’d arrived on Friday which meant talking to the bike shops on Saturday but the order not being able to be placed until Monday because the banks were closed and so money couldn’t be transferred. The tyre eventually arrived the following Wednesday but the wait was made all the more pleasant by my meeting Lora, an American on her way home after spending a month working in Antartica. Over lunch, dinner and a bar we swapped stories of her 19yrs working in Antartica and my journey to SA. Having recently started motorcycling, and owning a F650, Lora was as fascinated by my story as I was by hers.

The stray dog curiosity

The stray dogs in Chile and Argentina (of which there are many) behave in a way I’ve never seen before. By day they sleep individually or in pairs all over town but by early evening they get together in packs to wander the town like gangs of teenagers. Some chase cars and others motorbikes. They stand on the pavement tails wagging, watching stationery traffic at traffic lights. As soon as the traffic moves one or two will chase their chosen vehicle down the road, barking and coming ridiculously close to being run over. When the traffic stops at the next lights they return to the pavement and wait to do it all over again! The dogs  all seem to be very friendly and I never saw one try to bite anyone. This behavior was repeated in almost every town I visited in Chile and Argentina.

Tierra del Fuego

I left hostel Indepencia early and it was a good job I did as I rode to the wrong ferry terminal! I made it to the right one with 10 minutes to spare and bought my ticket to Porvenir on Tierra del Fuego. From Porvenir it was ripio all the way to the Argentine border at San Sebastián 143km away. The tarmac started at the border but so did the wind and a bus shelter was the only respite I could find in which to eat some lunch.  As the road reached the Atlantic coast for the first time so the wind tried desperately to turn my crash helmet through 90° on my head and the bland landscape did nothing to detract from the pain in my neck. Finally, about 80km south of the oil town of Rio Grande, the road turned inland towards hills, forests and rivers. After 6 nights in Punta Arenas I was ready for the peace and tranquility of a bush camp. I started looking for a spot as I rode alongside Lago Fagnano and after a while spotted a mobile phone mast down by the lake. There is always an access road to these towers and I quickly found a dirt track leading down to the lakeside. I waited until dusk to pitch my tent and slept soundly until being rudely awoken (unintentionally) by the fishermen at 0600.

The most southerly city in the world

I pitched my tent at the foot of the ski slope at Club Andeano with a splendid view across the town city of Ushuaia – the most southerly city in the world. I spent less time than I’d planned in and around Ushuaia thanks to the weather but I did fit in some walking in the Tierra del Fuego NP and got a photo at the ‘End of Ruta 3’ sign in the NP. I met a German cyclist who’d cycled from Caracus in Venezuela in 5 months! Israeli Omar and his girlfriend who had travelled with the American  Jeff Roy back in Central America; Nico, a dreadlocked, BMW riding Canadian/Ecuadorian and the night before I left so René showed up prior to his trip to Antartica. It seemed the weather was the only anti-social player in town.

Legend of Difunta Correa

Alongside many roads in Argentina I noticed shrines surrounded by plastic bottles filled with water. I eventually found one with the sign Difunta Correa, asked a few questions and discovered the following. According to popular legend, Deolinda Correa was a woman whose husband was forcibly recruited around t 1840, during the Argentine civil wars. Becoming sick, he was then abandoned by the Montoneras . In an attempt to reach her sick husband, Deolinda took their baby and followed the tracks of the Montoneras through the desert until her supplies ran out and she died. Her body was found days later by gauchos that were driving cattle, and to their astonishment found the baby still alive, feeding from the dead woman’s “miraculously” ever-full breast.  The Difunta Correa has become a popular saint, not really recognised by the Catholic Church but her devout followers believe her to perform miracles. Cattlemen and truck drivers  leave bottles of water as offerings, “to calm her eternal thirst”. A tradition continued by passing travellers and tourists.

Riding north

Having seen the majority of what I wanted to on my way south I had only one planned detour heading north and that was to the Fitzroy Massif at El Chalten.  After returning from a walk to the glacier late afternoon I managed to pack up camp just in time to get chased out of town by another storm. My reasoning for setting off so late in the day was to spend a night at the petrol station in Tres Lagos and make an early start for my return ride up the Cuarenta’s worst stretch to Baja Caracoles. I pitched my tent in the most sheltered spot and got up before sunrise the following morning. The road seemed in worse condition than when I’d ridden south and the wind got up earlier in the day. Towards the end of the worst ripio I had a few ‘How the hell did I save that!’ feet off the footrest moments but I arrived safe and early at the fuel station in Baja Caracoles. After lunch I continued north but as the wind increased so the quality of the ripio decreased. My speed was often reduced to 40km/h as I battled to stay on the road. The wind was constantly trying to tuck my front wheel under and on the loose ripio and corrugations I couldn’t lean into it to counter its effect without the front tyre loosing grip altogether. In Rio Mayo I found tarmac as well as a ‘sugar fix’ of coke and biscuits but soon after leaving town so Ruta 40 returned to ripio and I commenced my battle with the wind once more. My reasons for pushing on like I was were two-fold. I had planned to meet Axel and Eduardo in Mendoza over a weekend to exchange Dakar photos and stories of our journeys since we’d parted companybut I also wanted to spend some time in El Bolson en-route. After 843km and with an hour or so of daylight left, I rolled into Gobenador Costa and pitched my tent in the YPF fuel station. I had only recently learnt about using these but they were great for one night when passing through somewhere. They were free, had toilets and water and some a café.

El Bolson

Two well stocked (for Argentine standards) supermarkets 5mins walk from my campsite meant steak for dinner every night and pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. I got my leaking fork seal replaced and took a long walk into the hills above Rio Azul. I was back in T-shirt and shorts for the first time in 5 weeks and as all four zips on my inner tent had now failed I was glad of the warmer nights; I wasn’t glad of the mosquitoes though and could do nothing to keep them out of my tent. Walking back from town one day a car carrying a family pulled up at the roadside pointing at me excitedly and waving. Confused, I pointed at myself to confirm it was me they were signaling to – it was. I didn’t recognize them but they recognized me. They spoke no English but through my broken Spanish and the use of a map discovered that we’d met in a petrol station when I was following the Dakar Rally.  Zipping up my riding jacket to leave El Bolson it too failed and together with my tent made up a list that also included my tank bag, one of my pannier top bags and my casual trousers. I could only think that the volcanic dust here is particularly abrasive as I hadn’t had problems like this in the Outback.

El Bolson – Chos Malal – Valle Grande

Riding was a joy again today as the road twisted and climbed its way out of El Bolson, through forests and past lakes to Bariloche, Zapala and eventually Chos Malal.

Late morning I suddenly felt my right food get wet and I looked down to see what looked like water spraying from the engine. When I stopped it became obvious that it wasn’t water but petrol that had soaked my foot. The quick release coupling for the additional fuel tank had broken on the main fuel tank side so I drained my 5l water container and allowed the fuel to run into it. By the time I’d made a temporary repair it felt like my foot was on fire but I’d poured my water away so I could save my petrol.  Luckily I wasn’t far from a river and spent as long as I could stand in the midday sun washing and soaking my foot before wrapping it in two carrier bags to prevent my petrol soaked boot from aggravating it further.

Meanwhile…back in Chile…

When I emailed Axel to double check on meeting up in Mendoza I found an email from him saying he’d been called into hospital for an operation on his foot he’d been waiting for and therefore wouldn’t be able to walk for four days afterwards. Instead he would be convalescing at Sandra’s (his girlfriend) beach house in Algarrobo, south of Valparaiso and asked me to join them for a weekend of wine, seafood and Dakar stories – how could I refuse?

Border delay and a night in the police station

It was to be a long ride from Valle Grande, SW of San Rafael to Algarrobo – 753km in fact – so I could well have done without the delay I encountered entering Chile from Mendoza. It was quite busy and so the Argentines had opened three booths outside the main building to process cars and bikes. When I was told to go to Chile I did, only to find 20 or so cars ahead of me but only two booths open. Not only that but the Customs officers were in the mood for checking everything, and I mean everything. Luggage roped onto roof racks was untied and each bag inspected, womens handbags were searched along with every other piece of hand luggage. I turned my engine off and watch the sun slip towards the horizon for an hour before I got my turn. The Customs officer immediately returned my paperwork saying that something hadn’t been stamped by the Argentinean’s and sent me back. By this time all the additional booths were closed and I entered the main building where I was asked for my temporary import paper. “I gave it to the officer in the booth over an hour ago” I said. “Which booth, show me” and we walked outside. To my disbelief he started rifling through a rubbish bin next to the booth I’d pointed at and it dawned on me they’d lost my paperwork. Back in the main building another officer appeared and I repeated the story before he too searched the bin. A Chilean Customs officer who spoke English came to my rescue and said he would start processing me whilst the Argentine’s found my paperwork. They eventually found my missing paperwork in their system but not before tipping out and inspecting my paperwork folder. Eventually my paperwork was completed and I was ready for Customs inspection. I stepped outside to find it pitch dark and was thoroughly pissed off but bit my tongue and politely opened my boxes for inspection. When I’d arrived at the border my GPS had given an ETA in Algarrobo of 2120, it now said 2355. The descent from the border at over 3000m was no fun in the dark but once on the main road at Los Andes it wasn’t too bad. Axels directions gave me a street name and said the house was opposite the ‘Caleta des Pescadores’. I figured this was a local landmark and that the house would be obvious – wrong. I found the street easy enough but the ‘Caleta’ was set back from the road and not obvious in the dark; in fact I only found it thanks to directions from a taxi driver. Once I’d confirmed I was at the Caleta I was dismayed to find a row of beachfront houses all tucked away behind security gates and all sporting entry systems. I rode back into the town centre to find a public phone to call Axel only for his phone to go unanswered. When I returned to Lady P she’d attracted her usual crowd and I explained my predicament to them. Just as I did so the taxi driver who’d given me directions earlier in the evening arrived and called Axel from his mobile but again there was no reply. A patrolling police car stopped to see what the commotion was and said that if I couldn’t contact Axel I could sleep in the police station. After one last look for the house with the taxi driver I did exactly that. I parked Lady P right outside the glass doors so the duty officer could keep an eye on her and was offered a room next to the duty office. Containing just two, low, armless chairs and a filthy pillow I accepted their offer, pushed the chairs together, made a pillow with my jacket, removed my boots and settled down for some sleep. I awoke a few hours later freezing cold so put on a hat, jacket liner and boots and went back to sleep. At 0700 they woke me up with a ham roll and a glass of coke and at 0800, after lots of hugging and back slapping, I left. Axel answered his phone as soon as I called. He’d awoken to find several missed calls on his phone and realized they must have been from me.. When he called the last missed number he got the taxi driver who told him the story of the previous evening. The house turned out to be just 20m from where I was looking but was accessed by a narrow drive I’d not seen in the dark. In daylight it was easy to spot Axels Porsche.

It was worth the hassle though as we had a great weekend that started by BBQing a 5 kilo (11lb) sea bass on Saturday afternoon and finished at Monday lunchtime with the most amazing seafood soup I’ve ever eaten. All the ingredients for which had been bought fresh from the fishmongers 20m away that morning.  Eduardo joined us and I learnt that he’d crashed after getting a puncture in his front tyre the day after I’d left them and his injuries had led to him returning home. Axel had continued following the Dakar Rally alone and had his own adventure which included giving an inner tube to, and fixing a puncture for, Australian competitor and British BMW off-road school instructor Si Pavey when he appeared with a shredded moose in his rear tyre and no tube to replace it. When Axel finally arrived home having followed the rally all the way back to the finish in Buenos Aires he’d ridden 14,000km in 16 days!

Uruguay bound

I left Axel and Sandra late afternoon, crossed the border to Argentina and spent the night alone in the refuge that I’d met Pierre-Emeric in back on Boxing Day. At least I thought I was alone. It turns out I was sharing with a mouse intent on raiding my Milo. I spent some time in the hills and valleys SW of Cordoba before visiting the Jesuit Missions of Alta Gracia (where I camped next to local guy Leandro who lived in a trailer and rode a Kawasaki Z650) and then to Cordoba itself. There was plenty to see amongst the colonial heart of the city and I had a great base in the shape of hostel ‘Que Onda’. The further east I rode from Cordoba the more apparent the scale of the farming industry became as every small town had dealers for John Deere, Massey Ferguson and so on. Further east still I visited another old colonial town Paraná before finally crossing the long bridge over the Rio Uruguay and entering Uruguay itself. Photo Cordoba or surround

Uruguay

Were it not for the road markings or a close look at the trees it would have been easy to think I was back home in Hampshire. I rode past rolling hills, green fields, Friesian cows and a handful of thatched cottages as well as a few MkI & MkII Ford Escorts. A few hours south of the border I pitched my tent in a truckstop close to the village of Dolores and tucked into the Spaghetti Bolognaise I’d cooked and frozen in the hostel in Paraná.

Coast Road

The following day was another in Hampshire as I rode a few hours further south to the beautiful and aptly named colonial town of Colonia. On the way I came across the unusual sight of a guy using a chainsaw to cut a 10m tall Christ from a tree trunk.  Hostel Espańol, a rambling old rabbit’s warren of a place arranged around both indoor and outdoor courtyards proved a great place to stay and was well located for walking to the ‘Old Town’ where cobbled streets lined with painted houses were adorned with gas lamps.  I moved along the coast to the capital, Montevideo in the hope of finding a pint of Guinness on St.Patricks Day. It remained a hope though as ‘Shannon’s’ turned out to be a Guinness free Irish pub – the irony wasn’t lost on me! Wandering around the huge number of beautiful buildings all squeezed into a small city, I was constantly aware of the potential ‘threat’ to tourists by the number of ‘Tourist Police’ on patrol. Even the burger van was fitted with four CCTV cameras. The road east from Montevideo followed a wide promenade with walkers, joggers and cyclists; past empty beach after empty beach with ‘Baywatch’ style Lifeguard towers – I could have been in California or Australia. After passing so many stunning houses I didn’t think there could be anymore, I rode through Punta del Este – the resort town of South America. I can only describe it as riding through a lifestyle magazine, turning the pages of stunning houses that wouldn’t look out of place on Grand Designs. Closer to the centre I passed apartment block after apartment block, many with large billboards displaying the luxurious interiors and ‘infinity’ pools. Moving away from the centre so the apartments gave way to more splendid houses, many seemingly made entirely of glass. As I finally returned to the countryside so my view to the left returned to that of Hampshire whilst my view to the right was sand dunes and the ocean. I passed a snake crossing the road and turned around in the hope of getting a photo. Just as I got my camera out so a passing van ran it over – bastards! The snake wriggled frantically to move off the road but with its guts split it couldn’t fulfill the motion it needed to move. Not knowing what type of snake it was I opted not to push it off the road with my foot (as I had done previously in Australia) but found a stick with which to push it. This was a good decision for as soon as I touched it so it turned and went for me. Fortunately the combination of its injuries and the length of the stick meant it was far from biting me but it also sealed its fate. Death on the road it would be. I found a campsite set amongst the trees with beautiful views over the ocean in the NP at Santa Teresa, 30km or so south of the Brazilian border. A mere 5 minute walk to the beach, the location seemed idyllic. It was just out of season so it was quiet but the wood fired boilers were still alight meaning hot showers but there were no staff meaning everything was free. I soon found the flipside though as I got attacked by mosquitoes the instant I got off my bike. Fortunately though, in a forest of Pine and Eucalyptus, a roaring campfire was little more than seconds away and with plenty of firewood I had it burning from 1600 ‘til midnight, thus keeping the mozzies at bay. The hamlet of Punta del Diablo was only a couple of km’s as the crow flies but a 20 min ride by bike. I stocked up in the supermarket there and spent several days in the NP, visiting the colonial fort and walking amongst the empty sandunes.

Brazil

A first there was nothing unusual about the boulevard along the main street in the border town of Chuy but a closer look revealed that two-way traffic ran on either side. Not unique, but unusual. A closer look still revealed that one side is in Uruguay, and the other in Brazil; that I have never encountered. It would have made life easy for me if I could have got some Brazilian currency (Rials) before I crossed the border.  No such luck. The only bank – Banco Brazil – didn’t accept VISA. The border itself was also unusual and after waiting around for an hour because there internet connection was down and they couldn’t process the temporary importation papers for Lady P. When I did finally clear customs I was given a map to the immigration office which was in the Federal Police building in a town 20km away. Imagine a customs officer at Dover saying to a foreigner “Here’s a map of Maidstone, go and get your passport stamped’! With my passport duly stamped I went to the Banco Santander (which I’d used in Chile & Argentina) but still couldn’t get any cash. The next town was 250km away and with no cash it was a hungry ride. I tried another Banco Santander without success but just as I rode away I spotted a HSBC and finally got some cash. I quickly returned to a supermarket I’d seen on my way into town, bought some supplies and finally rode out of town with just 40mins of daylight remaining. I rode as far away from the town as I could reasonably do in daylight and picked a truckstop in which to pitch my tent.

Robbing Bastards!

I continued north into the hills and the town of Canela in a very Germanic region. I booked into the campsite complete with electric security gates, chatted with a few locals and headed off to the steam museum. I’d noticed it was very busy when I’d passed by on my way into town and having been warned about theft in Brazil I opted to leave my panniers etc in my tent. When I returned I found my tent and one of my panniers open and some food missing. At first I thought it must have been animals but there were no teeth marks or ripped packaging. It wasn’t until later that I noticed my guidebook was missing that I realized I’d been robbed. Luckily for me I think they must have been disturbed as they were the only missing items.

Reginaldo

Curitiba is the starting point for one of Brazil’s most spectacular railway journeys and was my reason for going. I’d noticed a contributor on the Horizons Unlimited website forum lived in Curitiba and so sent him a message asking if he knew a hostel that had parking for Lady P. He replied saying there was no need for a hostel as I could stay with him and so the following day I met Reginaldo in a petrol station south of the city. He worked for the fire service and had recently been promoted to station officer, a post he would take up after returning from a forthcoming trip to Chile on his Suzuki DR650. As well as putting me up for the weekend he took me around the town as I gathered the parts I would need for servicing Lady P when I got to Avaré. We spent the evenings swapping information as I had travelled the route he was planning through Argentina and Chile and he furnished me with GPS maps for Brazil, Peru and Venezuela.  The railway journey was spectacular. Plodding along at a mere 28km/h it climbs through a series of tunnels before emerging on the side of a huge forested valley where it descends via a combination of high bridges and yet more tunnels in a giant ‘horseshoe’ around the valley and back to sea level at Morretes before continuing on to the port town of Paranagua.

Avaré

‘How the hell does the postman deliver anything here’ I thought as I rode around looking for Bob’s house. Most of the streets didn’t’ have names and on those that did the nameplate was often fixed high up on a lamp post halfway along. I eventually found an orange house with the number 143 and just as I did so a car horn sounded and ‘Jaws’ (James Bond – not the shark!) emerged. I’d forgotten how tall Bob was and some recent dentistry had left him sporting a brace. It was great to see him again after 15 years and share stories of where/when/why/what/who/how etc,etc and to share some English humour. It was also good to have a break from my trip and catch up on various things – like this website. I’d ridden 19,000km since arriving in SA, crossed the Chile Argentina border 9 times and spent 53 nights camping. All that changed though as I was welcomed into both Bob’s immediate and extended families firstly by his partner Cecila, then by her parents Carlinos and Isabella and finally by Cecilia’s siblings and their friends! During my stay I was taken on boat trips and family friend Robinio even borrowed a Honda CRF230 for me to use so he could take me trail riding (bloody great day that was – thanks again Robinio). We spent a long weekend at the beach west of Santos on the road to Rio de Janeiro and thanks to the loan of a mountain bike from Cecilia’s nephew Cardu, rode 52km over some steep hills and along miles of beach. Whilst at the beach a friend of Dudu’s (Cardu’s father) took us out on his boat. I’d never been on a boat that felt like a Jet Ski until then and we bounced over the waves as we toured around the many bays and islands. Someone had the bright idea of us swimming back to the beachouse and so we all dived in 500m offshore; I didn’t tell anyone that the furthest I’d ever swam was 50m. Back at the beachouse the BBQ was almost ready and in true Brazilian style plenty of salt was being rubbed into the meat. Everyone had a good chuckle when I said I’d swallowed enough salt for one day! I gave a talk to the kids at Bob’s son’s school and was overwhelmed when the younger kids brought me drawings they’d made of me and my trip. It was this talk that led to the request for the high school visit that then became two visits as the school day is split into two with half attending in the morning and the other half in the afternoon. After giving a slideshow and talk one morning I returned for a matinee two days later. Avaré was also a chance to give Lady P some much needed TLC. As well as the usual service she also got new fork oil (I’d been riding with different weight oil in each leg since El Bolson), chain & sprockets and steering head bearings to go with the 2nd hand front tyre Reginaldo had aquired for me in Curitiba. Evening after evening of watching DVD’s, sharing a beer and chewing the fat passed by and before I knew it I’d been with Bob for a month – it was time to hit the road again.

Moving on

After another weekend of hospitality at the families farm I rode away under blue skies, across rolling hills, past fields of sugarcane. The romantic description lasted all of 300km when I encountered a good size thunderstorm and was reminded of what it takes to keep Brazil as green as it is. I finally rode out of the rain after 65km but come 4pm, when I wanted to find somewhere to pitch my tent, so it started raining again. I reckoned ½hr riding in the dark would see me into town and a dry hostel so I pushed on. At 1900, after 725km, I rolled into Hostel Paudimar Campestre. I was back on the road.

Foz do Iguazu

Iguazu Falls need no introduction from me and despite only flowing at a fraction of the rate they would in the dry season, they were still worth visiting. Less well know, but only 12km north of town is Itaipu Dam and the worlds largest powerplant. Owned equally by Brazil and Paraguay it produces 90% of Paraguay’s electricity and 20% of Brazils. Each of its 20 hydroelectric turbines generates enough electricty to supply a city of 2.5million people. The list of statistics is endless but very briefly an agreement was signed between the two countries inn 1973 and work began in 1975. At the peak of construction it employed 42,000. It first generated electricity in 1984 and was completed in 2007. Truly one of the seven wonders of the modern world. Itaipu Dam

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

East Timor – Indonesia – Malaysia – Singapore

After the third bounce I opened my eyes and looked out of the aeroplane window. “I’m in the wrong country!” was my first thought as I looked out upon four military helicopters adjacent to a temporary army camp surrounded by a tall wall topped with razor wire and machine gun towers – one of which was flying a skull & crossbones flag. The camp itself was set against a backdrop of large leafed jungle foliage and I thought I’d landed in Vietnam in the mid 60’s. I hadn’t of course, I was in Dili, East Timor or Timor Leste to give it its correct title.

I took a taxi (complete with smashed windscreen) to a huge house near the Dili beach hotel where my hostess was Tracy Morgan – A Welsh (don’t hold it against her) solicitor (or that!). With seven years in Timor Leste under her belt she knew the place well and, since the closure of the British Embassy had become warden to the islands British contingent.  Short on stature but huge in character, one of Tracy’s pastimes was organizing the local pub quiz. I joined them one evening but with questions that would have made many a Mastermind contestant scratch their heads I kept quiet and supped my beer. Her talents were many but all were superseded by her sticky date & walnut pudding – unbelievable.

I walked into town past the docks and the ship carrying my bike, my nostrils filled with the unforgettable odor of festering rubbish, rotting veg and stagnant water. Pavements were, at best, sketchy in daylight hours but strictly off limits after dark as gaping holes left by missing storm drain covers promised to swallow men whole in the dimly lit streets. Welcome back to Asia!

Dili was full of UN and NGO 4×4’s – and I mean full.  The car park outside the government building had a row of government registered 4×4’s any Toyota dealer would have been proud of. There were UN police, Portuguese police, Aussie and Kiwi soldiers along with the local police and army – all well armed.

I found the SDV office (my shipping contact) easily, and having had my Carnet stamped at the dockside  Customs office on the way into town all I had to do was pay the U$76 local charges and wait for someone to take me to the storage yard. After an initial “Ooooo”, when they opened the container to find my bike right at the front, the guys there were very helpful and quickly unloaded the full container. They made light work of breaking the crate open and helping me to reassemble ‘Lady P’. Back at the house I fitted the new oxygen sensor (AU$350 – Ouch!) which I’d collected from Performance Motorcycles PO box en-route to Darwin airport. Lady P sounded much crisper when I fired her up and I was soon to learn that her stunning mpg was back to normal. Phew!

Into the country

After three nights in Dili I headed south and into the hills.  As I climbed out of town, past the ‘Displaced Peoples camps’ I rapidly gained altitude and was afforded great views back across Dili and out to sea.. In town I’d found the drivers chilled, polite and safe, indeed the worst driving (and only speeding) was that of the UN and other NGO’s. The further I rode inland the quieter the roads became.

In the small village of Maubisse at an altitude of 1550m, I took a room in Sara’s guesthouse.  I spent the evening outdoors playing table tennis and drinking tea with my neighbors (UN policemen from the Philippines) and their colleagues from Nepal and Sri Lanka. We were joined by five young lads belonging to the owner and his extended family. They were very funny, with one in particular being particularly cheeky. The policemen told me that the majority of their work was seminars to train the recently formed local police service, particularly in investigation techniques. There was very little crime in Timor Leste so they said.

The following morning I continued south crossing a pass at 1869m. I remembered one of the guys last night saying to take the left fork after the pass but it didn’t look right, A road gang confirmed I was on the right road and so I continued. After what appeared to be years of neglect, the road was in desperate need of the attention it was slowly receiving and I followed it as it descended into a valley of traditionally built houses with views to the mountains beyond. I stopped to take some photos but no sooner had I done so my bike belched out a pool of steaming coolant; something she’d never done before. I could see no sign of where the leak had come from so after letting her cool down I topped up the radiator from my Camelback and altered my plans. There was precious little traffic on this road and what there was would only decrease as I headed further south. Not knowing whether the coolant incident would turn out to be an isolated one or turn into something more sinister I decided to retrace my route towards Dili. At least if the fault escalated I would be able to flag down a truck and get a lift back to civilization. As it was the fault never occurred again but it was the start of a still unresolved problem of overheating at altitude. I can sit in traffic at sea level in 35ºC temperatures  without a problem, but climb above 1500m and despite a 10ºC drop in ambient temperature the temp warning light will illuminate and the fan will run. It’s even happened when descending from altitude!

The road was lined with people selling firewood as I followed it along the coast east from Dili. Trees were sparse as I looked towards the backdrop of mountains and I wondered how long the cutting/selling/burning of the trees could be sustained. The green lushness of this morning had given way to bleached grass and dry rice fields then unusual rock formations that reminded me of Montenegro.  I eventually spent the night on the coast in the little village of Com. I was looking forward to my dinner of chicken curry but whilst the flavor was good I failed to find a single piece of edible chicken in it.

Off the beaten track

The following mornings climb out of Com was steep and narrow but led me through a few settlements littered with traditional houses. Once again I was a spaceman, an alien, and people stopped dead in their tracks, jaws agape as I rode by. Waving was my polite way of greeting all who stood to watch and it was almost always met with a smile and a wave in return. Children came racing out from everywhere waving as though their lives depended on it; women chewing beetlenut would break out in broad grins that made them look like Batman’s Joker; only the chickens ran for their lives!

I was on the back road to Lospalos and soon the tarmac came to an abrupt halt though the track continued in a series of dirt and stony trails. Up here on the high ground I passed many tombs who’s crosses were adorned with bulls skulls; testament to the country’s animistic past. The view towards Lospalos was that of the English Lake District. Green fields and forests rose and fell sharply, overshadowed by tall ridgelines in turn overshadowed by dark rain clouds. I had intended on visiting Tutuala and Jacko Island away to the east but knowing the roads there would have been adversely affected by the rain I could have easily got stuck out there. I decided instead to give them a miss and head on through Illomar and on to Viqueque.

The tarmac became more and more broken as I left Lospalos, until eventually it vanished. The track continued on through many hamlets where the isolation along with the houses reminded me of northern Cambodia and Laos. Most houses were built with a bamboo frame in-filled with woven reed panels and stood on short stilts; the wealthier ones sported four courses of concrete block below the paneling. There was no grass and the hard packed dirt surface raised whirlwind like dust clouds whenever the wind picked up. The people were proud though and the hamlets were well kept and showed no sign of litter; perhaps because there was no sign either of any shops. I guess that with no visitors there was no need for signs or shop fronts as everyone who lived there knew who sold what and from where.

I didn’t realize I’d passed Illomar until I came to a dead end at a river. The guys there indicated I needed to ride around to another crossing point and following their gesticulations I took the next track to another dead end. I remembered passing a compound of some sort (probably linked to the construction of the many new bridges I’d encountered) and here they pointed me to the correct road, 100m back along the track I’d ridden in on. This ‘road’ weaved its way up and down through the jungle until it brought me to by far the longest of the new bridges; so long in fact, it was still under construction!

A track to my left led me through the trees to the water’s edge and I rode out onto the exposed stony bank in the middle of the river. The exit to the far bank wasn’t clear until I spotted two construction workers waving to me. It was then that I spotted short lengths of red tape flying from steel stakes hammered into the riverbed, marking the route across. Although stony, there didn’t appear to be anything to catch me out but after my last encounter with a water crossing (in the Bungle Bungles) I wasn’t best pleased with the situation. Fortunately though I rode across without incident and followed the track back into the jungle. Shortly afterwards I found myself following the track along the beach for several hundred metres before returning to the jungle. Now I’ve seen a few roads during this trip but that was a new one on me.

Not long after, I turned inland and uphill, quickly gaining 300m in altitude. It had been raining and the ground was slick. I was struggling for traction on the steep hillside and eventually I fell in a particularly rutted section right in the middle of a small village. Help was soon at hand though as what seemed like the whole village turned out to see what was going on. Picking up Lady P was easy thanks to all the help but turning her round was a different story that involved much slipping and sweating. I took the opportunity to ask if I was on the right road – I wasn’t. The right road was back at the bottom of the hill which given the conditions I wasn’t keen on descending. Riding 10m was enough realize I had no control over either steering or braking thanks to my tyres being clogged with mud. I lowered the pressures and tried again, thankfully with a little more control. I had a few sketchy moments and was worried about falling off and wiping out a group of locals but as I approached the steepest section I was relieved to see the track covered with some sort of all-weather surface. Soon enough I was safely at the bottom and from this direction the track I should have taken became obvious.

The only map of Timor Leste I could find was a free one from a travel agent in Dili but it had no scale and the ‘roads’ in the south had no signs. I was navigating by comparing the shape of my GPS track to the shape of the road on the map. Unfortunately for me there were two section of road on the south coast that were the same shape but without a scale I had thought I was in one place but was in fact at the other.

Eventually I made it to Viqueque where I spent the night. Leaving the following morning though proved difficult. Despite asking for directions several times,  I must have ridden through town half a dozen times before eventually being shown the right way by a Portuguese NGO. The Philippino policeman I’d played table tennis with had said the road from Viqueque to Suai was good – my arse! Ok, it did have its good bits but it also had potholes, no surface at all, dried rutted tracks from the wet sand, stones, rocks, river crossings and at one point cut logs filled a void in a bridge.

I wasn’t sure whether or not there was an international border at Suai or not but I decided to have a look anyway. Some maps showed roads leading to the border but others didn’t. I rode out of Suai following my nose and was just contemplating turning around when I came across the border. All was looking good until I discovered there were no Customs officers there to stamp my Carnet and that their office in Suai would be closed by the time I returned. The Immigration officer gave me directions to a cheap ‘Losman’ in town as the only other place to stay had become way overpriced thanks to its regular UN patronage.

At the Customs office in town the following morning I had to wait as the officer in charge had overslept but was the only one who had the keys for the cabinet containing the rubber stamps. After that I left Timor Leste easy enough but on the Indonesian side neither the Immigration nor Customs officers had arrived so I sat around for another hour.

I had thoroughly enjoyed Timor Leste. The people were smiling, friendly and helpful and the landscape a total contrast to Australia. The ridgeline running through the centre of the country seeming to divide it into two different climates and certainly when I was there the north had a Mediterranean climate whereas the south was far damper and more tropical. I had been lucky to encounter only a little light rain in the south as I think the ‘roads’ would be impassable after heavy rain. The altitude too had surprised me, having crossed a pass at 1869m but it will be the friendliness of the people and the remoteness of the south east that will stick in my memory the most. Such were the roads here that my moving average speed was a mere 33km/h.

INDONESIA

Prior to my arrival I would never have considered Indonesia prosperous, but after Timor Leste that’s exactly how it looked. Not only were there shops but the shelves were stocked and people had money in their pockets. There were cars to and many motorcycles.

In Betun I spotted an ATM but it wasn’t linked to the VISA system and I was told to go to the post office but when I got there was told they didn’t exchange money. In the post office I met a retired schoolteacher who told me where I could exchange money and he pointed the way to a building across some wasteland. Once outside I was none the wiser until another guy who’d been in the Post Office appeared and led me into a hardware cum food store run by a Chinese family. I’d never have guessed that where I was meant to go. With cash in my pocket I could now buy fuel and so rode to the fuel station where it seemed I required ‘Premium’, though nobody was quite sure. I was quickly surrounded by smiling helpful faces and soon a 25ltr drum appeared and 10ltrs were measured out and poured into my tank. I rode out of town heading for the port town of Kupang and on the way passed a protest rally that appeared to be something to do with the ‘Lopo’ (traditional houses). The Government consider them unhygienic and are trying to outlaw them, much to the disgust of many who still live in them. All the protestors wore traditional dress and carried an effigy of a Lopo but it was all peaceful. It was a colourful ride as the road was lined with multi-coloured flags to celebrate the forthcoming Independence Day celebrations.

At Halliulik I stopped to photograph a monument in the middle of the road and was immediately mobbed by kids, most of them hawkers. I bought some deep fried banana for 1k Rupiah (5 English pence) from the first one to reach me which seemed to keep them all happy. As soon as I pulled my camera out they clambered all over the monument smiling and waving.

I eventually made it to Kupang, home of the ‘bling’ Bemos. Whilst looking for somewhere to stay, a local pulled up on his motorbike and led me to where I was looking for. I spent the evening with Penny, an English girl who’d travelled from home in Devon to here in West Timor by train, bus and boat – no aeroplanes.  We ate on the night market where her experience in Indonesia showed as she described every dish on offer. I settled for Gado-Gado: steamed vegetables in a peanut sauce served with rice.

The following morning I went in search of sea sickness pills. The ferry I took that afternoon was the first of seven needed to get me through Indonesia to Malaysia and at 13hours it was also the longest. I got lucky at the second chemist where the Chinese owner spoke good English and produced exactly what I wanted and I returned to the hotel well before lunch. The ferry wasn’t due to leave until 1600 but I’d been advised to arrive before 1200 which I did, only to learn I couldn’t buy a ticket until 1400. After wandering around taking photos and eating lunch I was waved to the ticket counter at 1330 and with very little hassle, purchased a ticket and boarded the ferry with none of the anticipated hassle. I changed out of my riding gear, covered Lady P with my tarp to protect her from the salt spray on the open sided ferry and climbed the stairs to the passenger deck. I’d been told that it got quite cold on deck overnight so made my way inside to the equivalent of ‘economy plus’ where I took a seat by an open window (knowing people would smoke). With the ferry not due to sail for another few hours it soon filled up with hawkers selling sunglasses, mats, food, drink etc. Little by little passengers replaced hawkers and we eventually set sail at 1630. No sooner had we left port than the steward appeared to check tickets. I stared out of the window avoiding eye contact. Not only was I the only westerner on the boat, I was also the hardest one to get to given the seating arrangement. Once I’d thought enough time had passed I looked round to find he had indeed left and I could settle into the ‘entertainment’. For the first hour or so this was Indonesian pop videos. Melancholic sounds I can only describe as ‘music to slit your wrists to’. Then the films started with that great family favourite ‘Rambo 4’. I eventually dozed off, awoke during ‘The Incredible Hulk’, dozed off again and finally awoke during some cheesy martial arts film. We eventually docked at 0700 and by the time I’d put on my riding gear the ferry had not only emptied but was already filling with vans and I had to battle my way off to avoid returning to Kupang!

Flores

I left the ferry a Larantuka and followed the road west towards Maumere and took a dirt track down to the beach where I spent a few days in a bamboo beach hut at Sunset Cottages. It was meant to be a lazy few days but I met two Australian women, Michelle and Carol and ended up joining them on an ascent of the active volcano Gunning Egon. Not only did it dominate the area but it had blown out a huge cloud of ash just three months previously. The lower slope was easy walking but as we approached what looked like a wide couloir we saw it had in fact been blown out in a previous eruption. Here the trail had all but vanished under the recent layer of ash making it not only hard to follow but loose and hard to walk on. It was worth the effort though and after passing a descending group of Spaniards we arrived at the top from where a short traverse led to the volcano rim. Off to one side two small but roaring craters billowed sulphurous smoke into the sky whilst the centre was a sea of ‘crazy paving’ in dried mud. It was to be the first of several Volcanoes I climbed in Indonesia.

I rode on through Flores, the road twisting and climbing through jungle and around the volcanoes that dominate the landscape. I spent a few nights in Moni from where I visited the coloured volcanic lakes of Kelimutu. I left my guesthouse long before dawn in order to watch the sunrise over the crater only to have the main beam of my headlight blow as I rode down the track (dip beam had blown in Timor Leste). Having got up at 0300 I wasn’t turning round and so made the most of the almost full moon to illuminate my way to the summit. I was first to arrive but just as I did so a local guy arrived on foot, bearing a rucksack of flasks full of hot tea to sell to tourists. What time had he left home I wondered?

Dungeons and Dragons

Again I rode on through Flores, past rice fields and volcanoes to the coastal town of Labuanbajo. With the guesthouses on the sea side of the road being built on stilts and those on the opposite side being built up the hillside it wasn’t easy to find somewhere with safe parking. Eventually I settled on the Bajo Beach Hotel which sounds rather posh but my room was in fact a narrow dungeon with one small window up against the high ceiling. I could however park Lady P inside and that was what swung the deal.

Being a solo traveler there was a pain in the arse. My reason for going was to see the legendary Komodo Dragons in their natural habitat. They’re only found on the islands of Komodo and Rinca but neither are served by passenger ferry – only charter boats.  Although negotiable to a certain degree these are set up for groups of up to 8 sharing the price. My best hope seemed to be to find a group I could join but as most people travelled here specifically to dive and/or visit the islands their groups were either full or they were a couple. I thought I’d found the ultimate solution when I met a guy who said I could load my bike onto the boat that visited  Rinca, Komodo and the top snorkeling spots before sailing around Sumbawa (where I’d been told there was little of interest) and on to Lombok over 4 days and 3 nights. I visited the boat in question and met the captain. He showed me where we could lash my bike down but said we would have to await high tide at around midnight to get her on board. I paid a deposit and agreed to meet the crew at midnight. Some hours later, returning from the internet café, I bumped into the guy to whom I’d paid my deposit. He was most apologetic but said the captain had visited my hotel to see my bike for himself and upon doing so had thrown his hands in the air in disbelief exclaiming it was not possible. Bugger! I eventually got to Rinca on a day trip and saw several Komodo Dragon’s lumbering around near the visitors centre and several more during a 2hr trek. Having wanted to see them since childhood it had been worth the effort.

Lombok

Two more ferries and a day’s ride across Sumbawa took me to Lombok. The first thing to hit me as I rolled off the ferry was the increase population. The islands so far had been quiet by comparison and I could see I’d have to up my awareness on the busy roads. I rode south to Kuta where I took the last of three bungalows at Lamancha Homestay (as recommended by Tim Walker in Darwin). It was a great spot 5mins from the beach and where I could park Lady P right in front of my room. I spent a few days relaxing, chatting with the owner Jum and his wife and fitted a new set of steering head bearings in their son’s bicycle. All too soon it was time to move on. Indonesia is a big place but travel was slow and I still had many things I wanted to see. My 60 day visa was ticking…

I took the most potholed road I’d ever ridden to the fishing village of Awang before working my way north to the beautiful Sembalun Valley, accessed by a high pass on the flanks of Gunnung Rinjani. Visibility on the southern approach was limited by low cloud but as I reached the summit so I broke through the cloud to blue sky and a terrific view down the valley to Sembalun itself. The clouds covering Rinjani though didn’t budge and I never did get to see the peak. I descended to the coast and followed the road west spending a few days at the lovely Sonya Homestay in Senggigi before catching the ferry to Bali (4½hrs) from Mataran. Once again I was surprised at the choice of film for a daytime crossing. A Jean Claude van Damme film that included a long scene of a guy being tortured and eventually mutilated with a battery drill!

Bali

I had planned to spend the night in the port town of Padangbai but the turning into the town centre was blocked by trucks queuing for the ferry and I missed it. Soon I was on the road to Candidassa and as I entered town I spotted a sign for Ari Homestay. Overlooking the sea it had a garage underneath and sported a sign saying ‘Includes free BIG breakfast’. Tio, the lady of the house looked over the balcony and gave me a big smile and a ‘thumbs up’ – this was the place for me. Tio said I was the third overlander to stay in as many years, the most recent being Peter, the Englishman who’s bike I’d seen in Alice Springs. As promised, Garry (Tio’s Australian husband) served up a cracking breakfast of mixed omelette, fried potatoes, toast & honey, melon and tea – bloody great. It was the best breakfast I’d eaten since leaving Darwin. I had intended on staying only one night but Garry said he had cable TV and that I could watch the Moto GP from Misano that evening. With an invitation like that and another of his breakfasts to look forward to, I was going nowhere! Bali was vibrant. With the majority of the population being Hindu, the island is full of temples and shrines and when I visited the streets were adorned with huge decorations to celebrate New Year. Bamboo poles decorated with flowers reached 10m into the air from either side of the roads and were joined in the middle to form arches. The local temple in Candidasa saw a regular flow of locals in traditional Balinese dress bearing gifts and food for the many hours they spent there. I spent the day wandering around soaking up the atmosphere before indulging in a pizza with a German couple also staying at Ari Homestay.

The following day after another of Garry’s cracking breakfasts I moved on to Amed on the east coast where I spent a few days snorkeling in Jemeluk Bay. From there I followed the coast west, quickly climbing away from the tourist area to where the poverty became apparent. Tiny houses sat amongst ploughed fields where every inch of land was farmed, ploughs were pulled by bullocks and young boys raced along the streets pulling toy trucks cleverly made from discarded oil bottles.

In Amalpura I inadvertently found myself riding the wrong way down a one way street. As I got to the end I very nearly had a head on with a policeman on a motorcycle coming the other way. His mouth was agape in his open faced helmet and he had both feet on the floor as he braked and tried to avoid me. Avoid him I did and raced off along an adjacent street in the hope he didn’t chase me. In the time it would have taken for him to regain his composure I’d made my escape. The signposting though was often so bad that this wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last, time I rode the wrong way along a one way street.

Java

A 1½hr ferry ride took me from Gilimanuk (Bali) to Banyuwangi (Java). I was heading for the volcano that is Gunning Igen but it took some finding. Despite being told the names of the villages to ride through, many road junctions had signs missing and the roads themselves were too small to appear on my map. My GPS showed me riding around in several circles and I was on the verge of giving up for the day when I came across a checkpoint where it was confirmed I was on the right road. At Pos Paltuding I was shocked to learn that not only did they want 100k Rupiah (U$11) for a room, but that it was a shithole worth 20k at a push. Not only that, but there were no facilities and no breakfast. I asked about camping and was told I could pitch my tent behind the ‘visitors centre’ which they opened up for me to park Lady P inside. I then went to pay the National Park entry fee and out came the calculator – 15k park entry, 25k camping, 5k parking, the cheeky f…..! I had no choice but to pay. The next nearest accommodation was 13km away and I would be getting up at 0400 to climb the volcano. I ate alone in the café where the only food available was Pot Noodle and biscuits and after eating my gormét dinner I retired to my tent. It was only 8pm but the temperature had already dropped to 12ºC though it felt much colder, having not experienced temperatures below 26ºC for the past few weeks.

Backbreaking work

By 0440 the following morning I was walking up the volcano. Along the way I ‘chatted’ with several locals carrying their reed baskets the 3km to the rim from where they would descend to the lakeside a further 1km inside. There they load 70-80kg of sulphur into their baskets for the return journey. The initial 3km was wide but steep and loose in places. The 1km to the lake though was a different story.

A steep, narrow, loose rocky trail wove its way down to the lake and was not an easy walk unladen. These guys made the journey twice daily, switching their loads from shoulder to shoulder as they went. Sound hard? I haven’t mentioned the sulphur clouds billowing from the blowholes at the lakeside yet. If the breeze is taking the clouds out over the lake the effect isn’t too bad but if it blows towards shore then breathing becomes impossible and visibility is reduced to zero. Your throat and lungs burn and your eyes water until the breeze takes the cloud back across the lake. I walked down to the lakeside to meet the guys working there and was invited to pick up a basket load. Two baskets are joined by a flat bamboo handle and placed on two oil drums. Squatting underneath it as though doing ‘squats’ in the gym I stood up lifting the 70-80kg load. I tried walking forwards but had little control over where I stepped. Their task seemed hard enough as an onlooker but after lifting a load, having a sulphur cloud blown in my face and walking the trail I wondered by just how many years this occupation reduced their lives.

My next destination was another volcano: Gunnung Bromo in the NP of the same name. As Java’s (if not Indonesia’s) biggest natural attraction it did not disappoint. I arose at 0500 to the most vibrant red sunrise I’ve ever witnessed and rode along the volcanoes rim to find a good viewpoint across its interior.  The outer rim spans 12km and stands 100m or so above the floor of sand from which rise the jellymould  like Gunning Batok and the still smoking Gunnung Bromo itself. On the morning I was there the sand floor was covered in mist giving the impression that Batok and Bromo were protruding from the sea. It was a stunning site made more so by the fact the previous afternoon’s low cloud had completely enveloped the view and I’d had no preview. It was like seeing the curtain raised at a premiere.

Temples

I finally left the volcanoes of the east behind me and rode on towards Yogyakarta experiencing the true Java as I did. Java is the heart of Indonesia and is not only home to the capital Jakarta but also to 145million Indonesians – all on an island half the size of the UK (pop approx 56million). It was madness, the nearest I’ve been to India without being in India.

Dusk came as I rode into Yogyakarta and concerned that I still had no headlight was pleased to find my way easily to the Sosrowijayan area of town. The homestay I’d been recommended was full and so made do with another around a series of alleyways behind. With Lady P safely locked away behind big steel gates next to my hotel I wandered out into the street to find some dinner. I ate in the ‘Superman’ restaurant where there was nothing ‘super’ about the food but the beer was cold and the F1 from Spa Francochamps was about to start on their TV. For once a F1 race worth watching, with rain affecting the final laps and Hamilton doing what he does best – race; not pussying around for a finish.  I spent a few days in Yogya, marveling at the phenomenal number of motorbikes (Thailand & Malaysia don’t come close!), avoiding the many hawkers and using it as a base to visit the beautiful Hindu temple complex of Brambahan. Unfortunately though, several of the main temples were closed for renovation work following the 2006 earthquake. I was disappointed, but after meeting an Indian from Varanasi (India) who’d travelled here especially to visit one particular temple that was twinned with one in his home town, my disappointment paled into insignificance.

My next stop was another temple; Indonesia’s finest – Borobudur. Built in the 8^th & 9^th centuries, the monument was conceived as a Buddhist vision of the cosmos in stone, starting in the everyday world and spiralling up to nirvana – the Buddhist heaven. At the base of the monument is a series of reliefs representing a world dominated by passion and desire, where the good are rewarded by reincarnation as a higher form of life, while the evil are punished by a lowlier reincarnation.

Into the hills

Every inch of land on the climb up to the Dieng Plateau at 2000m had been cultivated. Even the most impossible shapes and angles had been made use of and the number of people working in the fields was immense. I had planned on staying in Dieng Village overnight but the weather put me off and I rode on. Shortly after 1600 I found a hotel with a courtyard and therefore safe parking. It was only after I’d seen a few other guests depart that I realized it was used as a knocking shop. It was also be the first of several nights I was to be visited by the police. Curious as to a single male travelling alone, every visit started and finished the same way. Show my Passport, explain where I’d come from and where I was going. Then explain the big picture of my journey. The list of countries I’ve visited on Lady P’s screen worked particularly well in breaking the ice in those situations and soon there were smiles of amazement and I was wished a safe onward journey.

At Bandung, Java’s second city, I headed for the ring road only to stop at the toll booth and be told “Sorry, no motorcycles!” Instead I battled my way through the cities one way systems for 2hrs; my brain feeling like a ‘boil-in-the-bag’ meal as I sat overheating in the copious traffic. Eventually I emerged from the sprawling mass and rode on via the tea plantations of Puncak Pass to the city of Bogor and Firman Pension, where I found Tim Hobins bike parked in the courtyard. After a shower I walked to the ‘world class’ botanical gardens where, a whistle caught my attention and I turned to find Tim sitting in the pavilion restaurant. He’d already seen much of the park so after a chat we went our separate ways, arranging to meet later for dinner. The park had many spectacular trees but for me the highlight was watching monitor lizards swim across the lake to an island where they fed on the eggs of unlucky nesting birds.

Sumatra

The following morning was my last on Java and I rode out through the suburbs and headed for Merek where I took my last ferry (2hrs) between Indonesian islands as I crossed to Sumatra. In the small town of Kalianda I struggled to find a cheap room and after visiting all three hotels I ended up back where I started and had an early night in preparation for what I knew would be a long day ahead. And Bloody Hell!! What a day it was! Up at 0530 and riding by 0600 my first thought was ‘Where is everybody?’ After the madness that was Java it seemed there was nobody here and by comparison there wasn’t. Sumatra is the worlds 6^th largest island; 4 times the size of Java and home to just a quarter of the population.

The first 120km was newly laid tarmac as was much of the day – albeit with some pretty poor sections in between. Jesus did it rain though – 4 times, and each time soaking me to the skin. The first time was just as I was leaving Bandar Lampung. I didn’t even have a chance to stop and don my Goretex liner before it pissed down. And I mean pissed down. Traffic slowed to a crawl and wipers were set to warp factor 7. I’d just started dry out when it rained again. I’d all but dried out after my second soaking when it rained for a third time. Getting a soaking wasn’t so bad, it was the missed opportunity to take photos along the way that I was most disappointed about. I passed through many immaculate villages of old Malay style houses  – wooden structures on stilts with storage below. I hadn’t even begun to dry out when it rained for a fourth time and was still raining when I reached a hotel in Lubuk Linggau. It was Sunday 14^th September and I decided to splash out on a room with a TV in order to watch the MotoGP from Indianapolis. After ensuring the hotel had the Metro TV channel I paid double the most I’d previously paid in Indonesia and still felt guilty as I stood at reception, water pouring from my riding suit. Every trip I made through the lobby I passed a porter mopping up the floor from my previous trip. Once unloaded, I tried to tune the TV into Metro TV but without success. A guy was sent to tune the TV; still without success. Pissed off, I decided to have a soak in the bath only to find there was no hot water – what had I paid this extra money for? I could have found a place for a third of the price without TV or hot water. I complained and was offered a 10% discount – “You’re having a laugh mate” just didn’t translate and I ended up ‘downgrading?’ to a room that was 25% cheaper. Had it not been still been pissing down outside I’d have found another hotel. Everything was soaked, including my new passport and the contents of my wallet and so with everything spread out around the room to dry, I borrowed an umbrella and walked to the local truck stop for dinner. Back at the hotel I’d just settled into writing my diary when the local army chief turned up to ‘talk’ to me. I could tell by his facial expressions that the ‘translator’ was doing a poor job but by now it had stopped raining and I took him outside to see the list on Lady P’s screen. With the Chief satisfied I retired to my bed, it had been a long day.

The following day I reached Bukittinggi and checked into the Rajawali Hotel. A tiny guesthouse, recommended by Tim Walker and owned by Ullrich, (a 64yr old German) and his Indonesian wife. I took a room on the top floor that led out onto a roof terrace and once again laid all my kit out to dry. I’d been better prepared for the day’s rain but I still had a fair bit of wet kit.

I met Jacob, 27 yr old American on his way home to the States after spending 2½ years working for the Peace Corp in Uganda. He’d lived in Sumatra for 9 yrs as a kid (his dad works for Chevron) and had come to visit old friends.

Ramadan was in full swing and had been for two weeks only here they seemed particularly keen. The Imam would wake everyone up at 0300 by chanting ‘Eat,eat,eat’ in Arabic over the loudspeakers from the Mosque (audible across the whole town). If he stopped talking he would start again at 0445 to tell everyone to stop eating as sunrise was imminent. At 1800 he would start talking again and at 1821 (sunset) an air-raid siren would sound to indicate it was ok to eat again. As the siren sounded so the street vendors, who’d spent the afternoon setting up, were swamped with hungry locals and the tourists would hang around to await a place at a table. Sometimes the Imam would leave the mic open and broadcast what sounded like a committee meeting and Sunday evenings was definitely ‘open mic’ day. All the kids got to have a go and it sounded like Fame Academy outtakes. It certainly was a unique Mosque.

Jacob and I met most nights to await the air-raid siren and on one occasion he rented a scooter to join me on one of Ullrich’s mystery tours.

Ullrich’s hobby for the past two years had been preparing his own GPS map of Sumatra and during my six days there he plotted me several ‘tracks’ and uploaded them to my GPS for me to follow. His knowledge of the region took me along many roads and dirt tracks that didn’t appear on any of my maps. One day took me through valleys and gorges, past waterfalls and many traditional style Minangkabau  houses with their unique buffalo horned roofs. Another took me to the viewpoint over Lake Manintau and to the road where 45 hairpin bends wound their way down to the lakeside. Along the way were many great looking restaurants overlooking the lake but due to Ramadan all were closed.

I’d spent longer than planned in Bukitinggi thanks to the enjoyable company of both Ullrich and Jacob but I still had a couple of things I particularly wanted to do and see so I bid them farewell and was on the road at 0620 – destination Tuk Tuk, Danau (Lake) Toba.

Immediately I knew it would be a long day. Twisty mountain roads, often potholed, made for slow progress and despite the lack of traffic I was only just keeping my average speed above 50km/h. With a 650km day ahead of me I would be lucky to get to Tuk Tuk even if I rode non-stop. The day had started cloudy, almost cleared then clouded over again, and so the pattern went. I kept an eye out for somewhere to eat but everything was closed. Around lunchtime it pissed down and in doing so caught me out a treat. Within minutes I was soaked and then it rained harder and as my jacket became saturated until I felt the trickle of water run down my groin that preceded total saturation. The rain continued, but thanks to the low level of traffic I managed to keep my speed up, thereby keeping my visor relatively clear. Ullrich had made me a GPS track to follow and it took me (according to my map) away from the main road at Padangsidempuan, via Sarulla, to rejoin the main road at Tarutung. Had the weather been fine this would have been a very scenic route but at an altitude of 1000m cloud and rain not only restricted the views but it was rather cold. Not only that but in several places the road was being rebuilt. Once again the lack of traffic was my friend and I could keep up my momentum along these muddy sections, not wanting to stop given my bald tyres. More frustratingly though, was that I’d entered the predominantly Christian region of the incredibly friendly Bakak people (I’ve never seen so many churches) where once again roadside restaurants were open. Some food and a hot drink would have been welcome but I didn’t want to sit around in my saturated clothing, neither did I relish the thought of getting back on my bike afterwards.

As the rain stopped, so I could point one arm at a time at the ground, letting the water run out of my jacket. Slowly I began to dry out but as I contemplated stopping so I got another soaking. As I began to dry out a second time I couldn’t regain any body temperature and so stopped to change my base layer and don my goretex liner. This made a huge difference and slowly I regained some warmth. I rode on further north but as I rolled into the fuel station at Doloksanggul it pissed down yet again. Sheltering from the rain I bought a few doughnuts from a guy who’d pulled up behind me at the pump riding a sidecar outfit decked out for selling cakes.

The rain finally dwindled just short of Tele and the descent to Samosir Island on Danau Toba. The view was stunning. The verdant volcanic mountainside contrasted against the black sky and in the gullies of ancient lava flows so waterfalls raged. It was a volcanic Fjordland. Photogenic. But with rain still in the air my camera stayed in its bag. The road that switch backed down to the lake was under repair and I had to wait as JCB’s loaded tippers full with landslide debris. I rode north around the island, passing many traditional houses eventually stopping at Barbara Guesthouse 10km or so north of Tuk Tuk. Billy and Trish had not only recommended the place but given me some photos of them with the two local girls that ran the place, Barbara and Jojo. Unfortunately they were full due to a 3 day teachers conference but I promised to return with their photos. I rode on to Tuk Tuk where there was an abundance of accommodation and chose the Merlyn Guesthouse where I was shown to a large double room overlooking the lake. It even had hot water, HOT WATER! That was a first in Indonesia and what a day to find it. I’d been in the saddle for 11hrs and soaked to the skin twice. What price such luxury – U$6.50!

After drying out all my kit (again), I spent a few days riding around the island, eating the best fruit salad’s I’ve ever eaten (Pineapple, papaya, banana, avocado and ground coconut) and chatting with a few of the local girls in the restaurants along the way. I visited Barbara and Jojo to pass on Billy and Trish’s photos and took a few of my own.

Aceh

Continuing north, more rain and potholes saw me to the hamlet of Gurah, across the river from the Ketambe International Researh Station. I’d come here specifically to trek in the jungle around Ketambe in the hope of spotting Orang Utangs in the wild. Being the only tourist I had my pick of guesthouses  and chose the Pondok Wisata where I met Manser who was both manager and guide. His quote of 400k/day for trekking seemed steep to me and so I set about making further enquires in the village. I soon found it to be a closed shop though, with nobody wanting poach another guesthouse’s guests – I couldn’t even get a quote. I returned to the Pondok where Manser and I haggled over the price, eventually settling on 300k/day.

I spent the next 2 days in the jungle with my guide, Abu. We spotted a young Fire snake early on the first day but other than a few distant Long-tail Macaws the rest of the morning was quiet. We cooked lunch on an open fire by a river before stripping to the waist to cross it. Soon after we spotted movement in a tree and saw debris falling from it. An Orang Utang was breaking off pieces of a dead tree to feed on the termites inside. When he finally moved off we were able to follow him to a certain degree and it wasn’t long before he made himself clearly visible a mere 10m away. He was a magnificent sight and we managed to stay close for half an hour or so before he swung away though the trees and out of site. We made camp on an elevated section above the river and adjacent to a hot spring and after much searching, I managed to find a spot in the water where the river and hot spring mixed to a bearable temperature. Here I soaked for a good half hour whilst Abu prepared dinner. It was the closest I’d come to a bath in 18 months and I reveled in it. It soothed my body after days of riding in the rain and it soothed my ears; boy, could Abu talk!

We managed to eat and wash-up before the rain came and forced us into an early night. We watched the lightning over the next ridge and soon it was raining hard. The tent roof leaked and I knew were in for a long night. I was relatively comfortable in my sleeping bag but Abu hadn’t brought one. Once the rain stopped and the chill of the early hours set in he left the tent to sleep on the hot rocks surrounding the spring.

After breakfast we walked on amongst the magnificent Banyan trees but there were no more Orang Utang’s to be seen. Back in Gurah I was still the only tourist in the village and I wondered how long it would be before confidence in the region grew and the tourists returned. Pine forests and river valleys appeared as I rode further north. But for the destruction left by the logging trade it would have looked Alpine.

I spent a night in a hotel at Tapaktuan overlooking the lake where a missing window pane gave the mosquito’s free access to my room and drove me insane. After a poor night’s sleep I arose early once again and followed the road to the coast at Bireuen where I picked up the main road to Banda Aceh. I’d hoped to stay in Banda but all the hotels I tried were full. I was directed to the Losman where I waited an age for someone to arrive but even after a snack and a chat with a local shopkeeper nobody showed up. I couldn’t wait and risk having to ride out of town should the place be full and so I reluctantly headed south.

West Coast

Having been destroyed by the 2004 Tsunami, I’d heard many differing accounts of the roads current condition. There was only one way to find out and that was to attempt it for myself. It wasn’t long before I encountered my first obstacle. Three steel reinforcing plates normally found shoring up trench sides were submerged under 30cm of water and replaced a missing bridge. Further south I had to take three make-shift ferries to cross rivers where the bridges were yet to be replaced. Two of the ferries consisted of platforms mounted onto two boats and as such were fairly stable. The other was a collection of oil drums strapped together, topped with a rickety timber platform approx 4m sq and powered by an outboard motor. The jetty to board it was no better and I didn’t want to stop on it and put my foot through one of its many holes. Instead I hung back, awaiting the ferry’s arrival before riding on. What I hadn’t banked on were all the locals riding around me to fill the jetty and therefore the ferry. With everyone aboard and the ferry seemingly full, the operator signaled for me to ride aboard. I pointed at the full deck and shrugged my shoulders at which point he got everyone to move closer together thereby making room for me. I rode aboard just squeezing into the gap. Nobody had noticed but the ferry’s platform had overlapped the jetty’s and we struggled to power away. As we broke free so the ferry tipped up 30º and we all nearly fell off. Shocked faces grabbed at each other and when we stopped bopping about we settled into a 30º lurch and eased across the water. It was my 300kg of course, loaded onto one side that had caused near catastrophe and I along with all the others were glad to get back on terra firma.

I wasn’t far from where the Tsunami had first struck land and I marveled at how well Mother Nature had healed her scars. Indeed it was the road reconstruction that seemed to have caused the most damage. In places the new road was three times wider than the one it replaced. Huge cuttings had been made through the hills and cliffs reminding me immediately of Laos and the destruction of the landscape by the Chinese road builders. Only later as I approached Calang did I see unrepaired destruction. Hundreds of tree stumps protruded from the inland waters like the half empty reservoirs of Tasmania, only this time I didn’t see tree stumps; in my minds eye I saw only tombstones. This was ‘ground zero’ and a third of the population here lost their lives.

Feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic I took no photos and rode on into town. I took a room in the only hotel and walked out to find dinner. It took me a while to find somewhere to eat as the first few places I encountered weren’t the friendly establishments I’d become accustomed to. Instead I was treated with indifference and I couldn’t help but wonder whether they’d become jaded towards foreigners given the high number of foreign aid workers in the region.

Continuing south I rode past many new housing construction sites. Many were lived in but there were whole ‘estates’ that were uninhabited and nobody was working on them. I hoped it was because of Ramadan. As I approached Meulaboh I noticed the paint had fallen off of many of the houses and the guttering hung from many more. These houses must have been the first to be built but were still no more than 4 years old. Meulaboh lost a third of its population in the Tsunami – a staggering 40,000 people – when waves 15m high swept 5km inland. Looking at these houses I couldn’t help but think their troubles were far from over.

Derelict buildings lined the roadside and many were still lived in despite appearing near to collapse. Some were shored up with timber, others covered with tarpaulins. Yet again it was pouring with rain and I was glad to get to Tapaktuan and find somewhere to stay. Not that that was easy. All three Losmens in town claimed to be full and I was lucky to come across the Catherine Hotel. Their tariff was way too high but as the only guest in the recently opened hotel they were open to negotiation.

The following day was September 30^th: Last day of Ramadan. Thank the Lord for that! I had all but fasted myself that past 3 weeks, and not by choice. My trousers were hanging off me, but for no longer – the following day I would eat breakfast! Whilst Ramadan was set to end, the rain wasn’t and I spent another day in the pissing rain riding the 360km to Berestagi. Soon after leaving the state of Aceh I returned to the Christian region and stopped for lunch. The dish was the same as on the few other occasions I stopped amongst the churches – very hot spicy pork cooked with an inch of fat that you held whilst gnawing off the meat. In the afternoons torrential rain I managed to misread the map and overshot Berestagi. It was only when I recalled Berastagi to be a hill town and I was descending rapidly, did I realize my mistake. I turned around and took a room in the rather lovely Wisma Sibayak Guesthouse where the staff insisted I push my dripping wet motorcycle through the restaurant to park it in the courtyard outside my room.

I met Till, a German lad staying in the room next to mine and together we walked into town where we ate grilled fish on one of the many stalls. It was good to have some conversation again as I hadn’t seen another ‘foreigner’ since leaving Tuk Tuk a week earlier.

Mr Monte

The following day, Friday 3^rd October was my last days ride in Indonesia. With no vehicular ferry operating between Sumatra and Malaysia I rode to the docks at Belawan in search of a certain Mr Monte, who’s name had come up on Horizons Unlimited with regard to shipping to Malaysia. After asking around, someone said to follow them back to town where he would call Mr Monte. He jumped into his taxi van accompanied by a local policeman and I followed them to a parking area in the main street adjacent to the railway line, across which stood a small café. I accompanied the policeman to the café and drank tea whilst waiting for news. Soon after a message arrived that Mr Monte would arrive in an hour. Minutes later a guy sat down in front of me without introducing himself and started talking about shipping. He said today was not possible, maybe tomorrow and that Mr Monte wasn’t coming. He then wanted me to buy him a beer as we were ‘friends’. “Friends” I said, I don’t even know your name, buy your own beer! He did buy his own beer and soon became loud and obnoxious. Eventually he left and all eyes in the café turned to me. I looked out the door shaking my head and giving the thumbs down. “No good” I said. They all roared with laughter and repeated “No, good, no good”.

Throughout all of this the policeman remained at my side and gestured for me to stay. Two hours passed and still no Mr Monte. One of the guys in the café phoned him and passed the phone to me but I struggled to understand him. All talk was of me staying overnight and meeting him the following morning. I tried to explain that Customs would not be open on Saturday and that I needed to clear Customs today if I were to get Lady P aboard Sunday night’s timber ship to Penang. The one true thing Mr Arrogant had said was that there was only one ship sailing to Penang that week. I didn’t let on but my visa was due to expire the following Friday and it was imperative I got Lady P aboard that ship.

Just as I’d resigned myself to waiting overnight so Mr Monte arrived. He made a phone call to check when the next ship was sailing and another to get a price. 1.2 milion Rupiah was expensive – Claudio (who I met in Oz) had paid 850k just a few months earlier. Another phone call was made and a final offer of 1.1 million was made – take it or leave it. I had no choice but to take it. All the shipping agents had remained closed following the previous two days holidays and I had no other contacts. We took Lady P to a warehouse at the docks and I quickly unloaded what I would need whilst she was in transit. After ensuring everything was locked and ready for transit I returned to the café on the back of a scooter. Here I waited a further 2 hrs until 1700 when Mr Monte had arranged for me to visit the customs office. I was collected by the guy from the warehouse and taken to the Customs office where I met the boss. I’d been led to believe he’d come in from home especially to clear my bike but I found him sitting behind his desk, working through paperwork with a clerk. He was an affable man and quickly signed and stamped my carnet, adding “Indonesian Customs no problem. Stamp, stamp. No problem, no pay”. It was then that the penny dropped. “So why have I paid this man 550k for Customs ‘fees’ then?” I said, pointing to the warehouse guy. A brief exchange took place in Indonesian but I decided not to pursue the issue. Failing to get both Lady P and myself out of the country before my visa expired would have cost me far more. We returned to the café where I provided Mr Monte with a copy of my passport before he took me to a local bus and instructed the driver to drop me at my chosen guesthouse, the Pondok Wisata Angel.

The following morning Mr Monte brought my Bill of Lading to the guesthouse as promised. I spent a long weekend in Medan as I couldn’t get a ferry to Penang until the Tuesday.

Indonesia is so diverse it’s hard to sum up. Every island had its own character, climate landscape, ethnic group,religion etc. It’s a huge place and my 60 day visa meant I was constantly moving. Indeed, the longest I stayed anywhere was my 6 days in Bukittingi. I’d ridden a surprising 9500km since arriving in Dili.

Back in Malaysia

I arrived after dark to yet more rain and walked to SD Guesthouse in Love Lane where I’d had such a memorable time with Danny, Maarten, Ilse, Steven and Marlouse. I was taken aback when the funny Chinaman that runs the place asked after my bike, Danny and the others. It had been 18 months since I was last there.

The following day I took the passenger ferry across to the mainland and walked to the port at Butterworth where I collected Lady P, and the day after that I visited the local BMW dealer. It was a branch of Autobavaria, the dealer Danny and I had opened shortly after we’d left. At the dealership I met the sales manager Lim, who couldn’t have been more helpful. Having been involved in the local bike trade for over 40 years, he knew everybody. He was well aware of the needs of an overland traveler, rode a Yamaha Teneré himself and had met the legendary Helge Pederson whilst riding through China in the late ‘80’s.

Over the following days he arranged for tyres to be brought up from Singapore as all the local dealers were out of stock and collected both engine and fork oil in my favoured brand – Motul. I bought steering head bearings from his local supplier at his discounted rate and he arranged with workshop manager for me to use the workshop. Once again I ordered spare parts and once again the order got cocked up (remember the saga of Danny’s water pump parts), much to the embarrassment of Lim. When I mentioned going to the MotoGP at Sepang Lim added me to the BMW owners club list. This would entitle me to a pair of half price ticket, designated parking and BMW hospitality. I was even taken to dinner at a Chinese restaurant where there specialty was making their own noodles in full view of the restaurant.

Tim Hobin, who’d arrived from Sumatra a week after me had ridden ahead to KL and I joined him there once my bike was ready in Penang.

MotoGP – Sepang

On the morning of theMotoGP we rode to Autobavaria, the BMW dealer at Shah Alam. Jeffri, the young mechanic who’d put me up and looked after me following last year’s parts order cock-up met me with a surprised smile. I’d been unable to contact him via email and he was pleasantly surprised to see me, as was Garry the workshop manager. They whisked us off to the staff canteen for breakfast whilst we awaited the arrival of the other riders. Once everyone was ready we rode in convoy to the circuit where we had reserved parking opposite the main gate.

We’d not been there long when it poured with rain and we took shelter in the BMW hospitality tent where we made use of our free beer vouchers. Qualifying was fantastic, one of the best sessions I can remember. Afterwards we got directions to a cheap local hotel but arrived to find they had no parking. To cut a long story short we ended up unloading what we needed and riding 2km down the road to the police station where we parked the bikes overnight. We took a taxi back to the hotel easily enough but finding one the next morning was not so easy. Eventually we made it to the circuit in time for MotoGP warm-up and afterwards visited the BMW tent again where I met Lim, Jeffri and Garry. I was the last time I would see them as I left directly after the race to ride to Malacca. Incidentally, Rossi won but the race was boring.

Singapore Saga

The process for getting into Singapore with your own vehicle is unique. First you have to buy insurance in Malaysia. Then leaving you vehicle in Malaysia, take public transport to the AA office in Singapore. After checking your insurance, the AA authenticate your Carnet and issue an International Driving Permit (SG$10.70) for the duration of your insurance. You then return to Malaysia, collect your vehicle and present yourself at the border where your Carnet is stamped and you buy a compulsory Autopass (SG$10). You are still not eligible to use the toll roads though.

I found an insurance company in Johor Baru and by lunchtime had purchased a policy for 4 days and rode on to the border. Many Malaysians had warned me about a recent spate of bike thefts in JB and advised against leaving my bike there. I decided instead that I could exit Malaysia, park my bike at Singapore Immigration/Customs and take public transport from there – WRONG!

Imagine the look of horror on my face when the Malaysia Customs officer tore the export counterfoil out of my Carnet to reveal not a fresh page ready for presentation at Singapore Customs, but an administration page for the RAC to complete upon its return to the UK!. I’d managed to miscount the pages in the Carnet and had dropped myself right in it. I had no choice but to approach Singapore Customs and see what they said.

Once across the bridge to Singapore I took the motorcycle lane only to find it too narrow. My panniers bounced off the lane markers and I punctured my 5l waterbottle.  The lane took me to a passport and thumb print recognition (for locals) and I was stuck so I parked Lady P and went in search of help. After many phone calls I was escorted to where I should have been and stamped into Singapore. Then I asked about my Carnet and that threw them completely. More phone calls were made, Customs officers came and went and my Carnet was taken away. After what seemed like an age it was returned and I was told I would not be allowed to enter Singapore. I waited whilst they wrote a letter explaining my refused entry to the Malaysian authorities and returned to Malaysia. At Immigration I handed over my passport and the letter and was escorted to an interview office. Once I explained that the problem was not me but my motorcycle they stamped me back in. I thought this was what the letter was supposed to have explained but it turned out to be a standard rejection form with a tick in the box next to ‘Does not meet current Immigration requirements’! I then explained myself to Customs and they didn’t have a clue what to do. The boss was summonsed and I explained again. He summonsed his boss and I explained again. Eventually I was taken to see their boss (How many bosses were there??!!) and explained yet again.  It was too early to phone the RAC in the UK but this boss seemed to think the AA in Singapore would be able to help me. But where could I leave Lady P? I wasn’t allowed to take her into Malaysia and they had nowhere to store her, nor did they want any responsibility for her. Eventually he agreed to let me park her on the pavement outside his office whilst I travelled to Singapore. I quickly changed out of my riding gear and presented myself at Malaysian Immigration for an exit stamp. The letter was still in my passport and so again I was escorted to an office to explain myself. Once they were satisfied I took a bus to Singapore where I had to tick ‘yes’ in the box ‘Have you ever been refused entry to Singapore’. Off to the interview room again where once again I explained my situation and showed them my Carnet. They cleared me from their system and said that in future there was no need to tick that box and I left, taking another bus to the MRT (Metro) station. On the platform a sign said journey time to Somerset, (my destination) was 39mins. It was already 1640 and I still had to walk to the AA from Somerset (though I didn’t know in what direction). I exited Somerset to find a map on the wall and quickly set off to River Valley Road where I arrived just in time to hear the key turn in the lock. Nooooooo!!!!

Just then the security guard arrived and seeing my desperation showed me to the back entrance. Once inside the news was no better. There was nothing they could do. I would have to phone the UK.

I set off to find an internet café and phoned Paul Gowan at the RAC. To my astonishment he answered the phone. That is unheard of. Being the main man for Carnets in the UK he is an extremely busy notoriously hard to get hold of. He explained that a Carnet could not have pages added and that the only way out of my dilemma was for him to issue me a new one (£120) which he could do immediately and have it sent by courier that afternoon (2 days -£43). I had no choice but to agree and had him send it to the RAC in Singapore.

I was relieved but my troubles weren’t over. Back at Malaysian Customs the shift had changed any nobody knew anything of my story. Once again I explained my situation to one boss and then the next. Eventually I got to speak to the big boss and knowing that my Carnet was linked to a bond agreed to let me take my bike to a hotel in Johor Baru provided I leave my old Carnet and a copy of my passport as security. It would be returned to me when I presented my new Carnet.

It was now 2100 and dark. Given the warnings about parking my bike in JB I rode away from the port and found a hotel with secure parking and a security guard. It was 5 times the price I was used to paying and the receptionist asked for an imprint of my credit card. I handed it over only for it to be refused – ‘Refer to issuing bank’. I couldn’t believe it, and reluctantly used my debit card.

The following day I called Nationwide to enquire as to the problem. “Ahhh” they said, “Was yours a Comic Relief card?” (Charity). It was. “Our agreement with Comic Relief has expired and so we’ve cancelled all the cards – we did send you a letter!” I was fuming. They’d have known the duration of the Contract at the time of signing. Why issue cards with an expiry date 6 months later? Wankers. They said they could send me a new one but I didn’t know where I’d be in three days time. They initially agreed to send it to the British Embassy in Singapore but when I couldn’t provide a personal contact number they refused to do that. “Sorry sir. We can’t help you” – Goodbye.

I tracked my new carnet online and two days later I got up early, loaded Lady P and returned to the AA in Singapore. To my relief my Carnet was there waiting for me but there was an issue with my insurance. Given the delay in entering the country it only had one day left to run. I explained that by the end of the following day my bike would be in a warehouse on the docks but they weren’t convinced. They seemed to think it needed to be covered by insurance until the day Customs stamped it exported. That was ridiculous. What bearing did road traffic insurance have over a crate in a warehouse? Eventually they conceded, authenticated my Carnet and issued me an IDP.

I returned to JB, collected Lady P, cleared Malaysian Immigration and collected my old Carnet from Customs. I took the CAR lane into Singapore, had my Carnet stamped and an Autopass issued. Finally, after three days and two pages worth of passport entry/exit stamps I was in Singapore. And the worst of it? It was all my own fault. Why? Because I couldn’t count to 5!!

I rode straight to the Performance Motors, the BMW dealer, and found Chris, the workshop manager. Lim at BMW in Penang had recommended I speak to him after their diagnostic machine failed to recognize Lady P. There was a software update for the engine management system designed to help poor starting, especially from cold. This was a problem I’d encountered throughout the trip and one that I knew would be a real issue in South America. Chris was incredibly helpful and after explaining my lack of time etc he said to leave Lady P with them overnight and they’d see to her in the morning. This also resolved my second problem – finding somewhere with secure parking in Singapore.

I took a taxi to McKenzie guesthouse on the edge of Little India where I took a small windowless room for SG$22. After dinner I walked around many other guesthouses but soon realized I already found the cheapest by far.

When I returned to Performance Motors the next morning they’d just finished the software update. Brian, the mechanic who’d done the work, dug me out a few spare headlight bulbs and also gave me as many tie-down straps as I wanted for crating my bike. What price for such service? Nothing. Free. BMW might not always get it right but they certainly know how to look after their travelers.

I rode straight to the dockside warehouse as I’d arranged the previous evening. I met Richard and gave him dimensions for the crate which he said he would have made overnight and I took everything I’d need whilst Lady P was at sea back to the guesthouse. I returned the following morning, packed her into the crate and that was that. All being well, the next time I would see her would be in Valparaiso, Chile. I took a bus to the shipping agents office where I was shocked to find they didn’t accept credit cards. But this is Singapore, worldwide shipping hub and centre of banking and commerce. Danny and I paid for our shipping with a credit card in Kathmandu!

Eventually everything to do with shipping was complete and I could relax and enjoy Singapore; except I couldn’t because it was so bloody hot & humid – 98%!. Had it not been for the fact that my friend Jez and his family were stopping over for two days en-route to Australia, I would have returned to Malaysia. I waited a week for Jez to arrive during which time I met up with James and Chris, two friends of my sister and her boyfriend who’d left Jersey to work here. They took me out for a few several beers and showed me around. They were good company, thanks guys.

It was great to see my friends Jez, Jane and daughter Faith but my day and an evening with them passed all too quickly and before I knew it I was on a plane to Bangkok.

Thailand – pt.3!

I walked into Mini House guesthouse on Soi Rambuttri where I’d stayed with Danny, Maarten, Ilse, Tim and Tracy almost 2 years ago only to have the lady that runs the place ask where my bike was!

Two days later I was back at the airport, this time bound for Jersey (Channel Islands) via Bahrain and Paris. It was considerably cheaper to fly to Chile via Europe and so with Lady P at sea for 5-6 weeks, I took the opportunity to spend an early Christmas with my sister Michele and partner Paul. I filled my boots with all the things I hadn’t seen and won’t see for ages – French bread, good cheese, mince pies, stolen. Mmmmm….Christmas! My svelte figure post Ramadan is but a memory!

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

Australia

Riding east from Kununurra I felt tired, very tired. Not only had it bee an eventful few days but I’d ridden 34,000 km since arriving in Oz last November and spent 160 nights in my tent. The pound sterling was weak, oil prices were soaring and as a result, since leaving Freemantle I’d been considering a different route to South America.

Finally, I decided I was ready for a change. Queensland was somewhere I could easily return to in the future if I so desired and missing it out now was no big deal. With my decision made I rode north to Darwin to plan my unexpected return to Asia.

The Pilbara and North West Coast

I turned off the Great Northern Highway just north of Nanutarra Roadhouse and headed inland towards Tom Price and the Karijini NP in the heart of the Pilbara.

En-route I spent the night in a roadside rest area where I met three related families from Queensland traveling west in their three campervans. I soon had a cold beer in my hand an invitation to join them at their campfire so after cooking up Bangers ‘n’ Mash courtesy of a ‘real’ butcher in Exmouth, I did exactly that. They had all recently retired from a life of running prawn boats on both the east and west coasts and were good for a yarn.

The following morning I was pleased to discover that although the final 68km to Tom Price was a dirt road, it was in good condition. My rear tyre was looking rather bald and I still had a long way to go before I could collect my new one from Billy.

The tourist info centre said the campsite in Karijini NP had been full the previous night but that the private eco resort charged $12.50pppn and was 50km closer so after filling up with fuel and supplies I headed off out of town.

After handing back my completed registration card the receptionist said “That’ll be $25”.

“Eh…how much!?” and I proceeded to explain what I’d been told in the visitors centre. “Well it is $12.50pppn…. based on two people sharing a pitch.” I decided to leave and take my chances at the NP campsite another 40km along the dirt road.

As it happens I had no trouble getting in and pitched up next to John and Lynn, a retired couple from Lorne on the Great Ocean Road in Victoria. I was soon drinking coffee with them followed by dinner and plenty of banter. They were great fun and despite being married for 18 years (2^nd time round for both) they were obviously still smitten with one another (Oh how they’ll hate me for saying that – eh John!?).

I was shocked at how cold it was during my first night in the park and so put the flysheet on my tent to retain some more heat the following night. It was a god job I did as it poured with rain during the night and many fellow campers were caught unawares, getting a good soaking. As a result many left in the morning and I spent much of the day in my tent. Not only can the gorges be dangerous with the threat of rain but it takes the sun to bring the colours to life.

Pic – 2196

Eventually the sun appeared and I got to visit the majority of the gorges in the region. They were great to see but unlike Kalbarri NP there were a lot of people here eager to explore the narrow canyons. One such canyon was blocked by a walker who’d fallen and broken his knee cap. The accident had happened two hours before I arrived and when I eventually left that section of the park some four hours later I passed the emergency service vehicles on their way into the park. They still had to get into the canyon and prepare a stretcher to haul up the canyon side to extract him. It was a reminder of just how remote Western Australia is.

Did you know ? Perth is the world’s most isolated capital city being closer to Singapore than it is Sydney.

I had planned to visit the disused asbestos mining town of Wittenoom and its surrounding gorges after leaving the main park but I awoke to yet more rain and it took me all morning to pack up between showers. With no clear sky in sight I decide to skip Wittenoom and head north to the coast at Port Headland.

The crosswind whistled through the gap in my armpit where the ends of the detachable sleeve zips meet (only bad thing about my jacket) and no matter what extra layers I added I remained chilled.

As I descended from the gorges plateau so the landscape turned once again into vast gibber plains and eventually threw up some unusual rock formations close to the road. Resembling giant marbles and often stacked precariously atop one another I would have stopped to take some photos but for the weather. My thoughts were focused on finding a suitable spot in which to bush camp but the terrain had other ideas. I decided to push on in a hope of escaping the rain but with the sun setting at 1730 I wasn’t going to get much further. The rain stopped just as I rode into Port Headland but having paid for my tank of fuel I walked outside to find it pouring down again.

Still determined to escape the rain I continued east and after 80km was delighted to find a 24hr roadside camping spot by the De Grey river. Obviously a campers favorite, there were at least 30 vans and caravans spread throughout the trees alongside the river. I quickly pitched my tent and set about collecting firewood with the intention of having a good burn up to dry out my riding kit. “Don’t bother with that” said a voice from the darkness “We’ve got plenty” and so within minutes I was sat by a roaring campfire chatting with Don & Julie, supping cold beer and watching all my wet kit smoulder itself dry. As if that wasn’t good enough they insisted I didn’t unpack my stove and instead Don cooked steak on the fire whilst Julie prepared salad in their caravan. A miserable day had once again been salvaged by Australian hospitality.

Of course, the rain caught up with me and I awoke to the joyous ‘pitter patter’ of raindrops on my tent and once again packed up slowly in between showers.

80km further west I did something very unusual and checked into the commercial campground at 80 Mile Beach. Several people had recommended it and by turning up early I got my moneys worth. Having being packed away soaking wet yet again it was nice to have time to spread my tent out to dry before pitching it, I did my laundry, had a shower (rare treat) and then realized I was pitched directly opposite John & Lynn who I promptly joined for supper!

After a stroll along the beach with a cup of tea at sunrise I rode the 376km Broome.

Friends and travelers

On the campsite in Broome I met two Kiwi’s riding a pair of Suzuki DR650’s on a two month offroad tour of Oz. It was Sunday and so with the local bar/restaurant offering a Sunday Roast for $15 we shared a few yarns over roast beef and the first ‘pint’ glass I’d seen in Australia. When I mentioned riding up Cape Leveque to visit Billy and collect my tyre their response was “Whoarrr….. I wouldn’t ride up their unless I had to….blah, blah, blah….sand, blah, blah, blah… worst road since…., etc, etc” ‘Great’ I thought. Not what I wanted to hear especially now that my tyre was balder than me, offered no grip and was so thin it was likely to burst under its own pressure.

I had no choice of course but to go so the following morning, after lowering my tyre pressures, I set off. I was expecting 200km of dirt road from the Cape turn off but after negotiating a reasonable amount of sand and corrugations, the road suddenly turned to tarmac after 113km and remained that way until I turned off for Cygnet Bay Pearls at 210km.

Once in the Cygnet Bay compound I found George who had instructions to take me to Billy’s house. Buried in the trees, set back from the sea just far enough to offer some protection from the wind, Billy’s house is an idyllic, minimalist construction that reflects Billy’s mindset and lifestyle perfectly. Two separate rooms are spanned by a single roof creating a covered outdoor area between the two. One contains a bedroom and office/kit room whilst the other is a kitchen/dining/living area. The bathroom is an outdoor shower and bath overlooking the beach with hot water provided by a woodfire heating a bore fed 50 gallon drum. The toilet consists of a shovel and a walk in the bush.

Showering outside was great until the wind blew and I couldn’t get wet despite standing directly under the head!

Three further metal sheds provided a workshop, home storage and a garage for his collection of old motorcycles, a restored WWII UniMog and his dad’s 1960 Ford Falcon.

I spent 5 nights with Billy, catching up on his and Trish’s travels through Central Asia. We cooked Pearl meat on the wood fire, he gave me a guided tour of the ‘Seeding Shed’ where he returns each season to take up his rather skilled occupation as a pearl seeder and showed me around the tip of  Cape Leveque in his (owned from new) 1979 Toyota Landcruiser.

Techy bit –  (girls & pen pushers may want to skip)

During the day whilst Billy was at work, I worked on my bike. Back at 80 Mile beach I’d noticed the water pump leaking again and had been rather lucky to find ‘Phosphate Free’ coolant in Broome (Having used this the last time I replaced the water pump it lasted twice as long as the previous two pumps). I always carry a spare impeller kit with me so changing it was no problem and the modification I’d made to the oil return pipe in Queenstown worked a treat. I fitted a brand new rear tyre and the part worn front I’d posted from Albany. I refitted the smaller front sprocket ready for the next stint of off-roading along the Gibb River Road and gave her a general checkover.

I wasn’t too pleased to find some vertical play in the rear shock. A closer look revealed it coming from the top shock mount, a fault that the spherical bearing fitted whilst Danny was back in the UK last year had seemed to cure. The corrugated roads had obviously taken their toll and I would need to get it to an Ohlins service agent sooner rather than later.

I said goodbye to Billy, rode south 100km then turned east onto the back road to Derby. The Kiwi lads had described it as the worst of their trip but they’d also said not to ride the Cape Leveque road unless I really had to. At over 100km shorter than returning via Broome I decided it was worth the risk. In some places the sandy ruts were 300mm deep and I had a few ‘moments’ but by keeping the speed up I got through without any trouble and had a lot of fun in the process. Back on tarmac I had another 300km to ride to get to Trish in Fitzroy Crossing. Along the way I got my first glimpses of the Boab trees with their curious, bloated, wine bottled shaped trunks.

Having left their bikes in Kenya, Billy and Trish had both returned this year (Trish stayed in Pakistan last year) and whist Billy was farming pearls 500km away, Trish was once again teaching. No mean task in Fitzroy Crossing.

I spent two nights with Trish which allowed me to visit the nearby Geike Gorge and the Fitzroy River. Whilst appearing as nothing special during the dry season, in the wet season the Fitzroy River plays second fiddle to only the mighty Amazon in terms of flow with an incredible 2 cubic kilometers per minute surge under the roadbridge and into King Sound.

I spent Sunday night on the sofa and set my alarm for 0245 to watch the Moto GP from Donington Park. Shouldn’t have bothered; it was shite. Bring back the 990’s (or WSB!) I say.

More gorges… more water

I backtracked 50km from Trish’s and picked up the particularly corrugated road north to Windjana Gorge NP. The gorge itself was ok but what made it special were the freshwater crocodiles sunning themselves along the river banks. Having never seen crocs in the wild before that was pretty special.

The following morning I picked up the famous Gibb River Road that runs through the heart of the Kimberley and for the most part it was a joy. Snaking its way through gorges and climbing over 500m peaks, my view was forever changing. The further east I rode the deeper the creek crossings became and after taking on a splash of fuel at Barnett Roadhouse I rode into a creek thinking the grey surface protruding from either side of the water was concrete. It wasn’t. It was sand and I was too late to change my approach. Luckily for me as I looked ahead to the opposite bank I was directly inline with a deep wheel track and rode out without any trouble. It was a reminder though of how different each creek can be and that complacency could cost me dear.

A few kilometers further on I encountered a beautiful Black Headed Python sunning himself in the road. Untroubled by my presence I was able to park my bike and take a few photos. He was still sunning himself when I was ready to ride away and I had to give him a kick up the arse(?) to get him to move off the road as the next vehicle may have reduced him to roadkill.

The Pentecost River

“Mate… you don’t want to be wandering around out here… saltwater crocs in here mate…” said the two locals in their ute as they stopped to pass on their warning. ‘Great’, I was knee deep in water, it was 60m to either bank and the only crocs I wanted to see were those on my feet. I made a hasty retreat to rethink my strategy.

My mind had been filled with thoughts of crossing the Pentecost for sometime. If I was lucky it wouldn’t be the deepest river I’d crossed but it would certainly be the longest. What would the riverbed be made of, I wondered? A reasonably deep river with an even bottom generally presented no problems but unseen rocks had been my undoing in the past. My mind was so predisposed with getting across the river that I’d forgotten all about the crocs! DOH!

My recce had told me what I needed to know and that was that it was stony, uneven and was pocketed with unseen holes which meant there was a fair chance of falling off. I unloaded all my kit and within minutes a family in a 4×4 arrived and offered to carry all my kit across for me, an offer I gratefully accepted. I jumped on my bike and despite being bounced all over the place and with the water above my engine casings, I was three quarters of the way across and thinking ‘This is a doddle’ before I hit a large rock obscured from view under the surface. Suddenly my bike was pointing 90º upstream but all my momentum was carrying me forward and I inevitably went swimming. I wasn’t afraid of the crocs. Despite their diet of putrefied flesh there’s no way they’d have come close to my boots after months in the bush! (Eh Sis!)

Being unladen I picked my bike up relatively easily and rode out of the river to park in the sunshine. I collected my luggage, laid all my kit out to dry in the glorious sunshine and sat in the shade of a tree to make a cup of tea.

Little did I know that my days’ adventure wasn’t over. After cruising along the remainder if the Gibb River Road I turned north the Wyndham to buy supplies. Heading back out of town I saw a sigh pointing west 29km to the Boab Prison Tree. ‘Worth a look’ I thought, and set off along the dirt road. After looking over the tree (average) I noticed on my map another dirt road heading south to intersect the final stretch of the Gibb River Road. On the horizon I could see the red rocked escarpments that had presided over the final kilometers of the GRR. Camping below them at sunset would have been beautiful so turned south and set about finding the rather poorly marked track.

I followed a rather sketchy trail to a closed gate after which the track was more clearly defined. It wasn’t long before I found myself crossing two dried up creek beds that were rockier than anything I’d ridden since the (f*#@+*) Babusa Pass in Pakistan. I got through without too much drama but my heart was pounding and I knew I’d committed myself to whatever lay ahead – I didn’t want to cross those creeks again.

My footrests constantly glanced off the rocks until the rocks decided to trade places with my favorite riding surface – sand. Although only occasionally deep, the sand track was narrow and twisting, preventing me from building any momentum. Despite my lower gearing third gear was still often too high and I fought for control along much of the track. Unable to build any speed I paddled through the deepest ruts in first gear, occasionally stopping altogether to regain my breath and give my arms a break. All thoughts of camping along the track had long since gone out the window; there was no way I wanted to face more of this ‘cold’ the following morning. In fact I just wanted it to be OVER… NOW!!

And soon it was. I opened the gate, pushed my bike through onto the GRR and spun round to shut the gate only to read the sign ‘NO ENTRY… TRACK CLOSED’. If only they’d hung a similar sign at the other end of the track…

Another 20km saw me to a roadside rest area just before dusk and it wasn’t long before I was sitting next to a campfire, supping a cold beer and reliving my tales from the day. Australian hospitality saved the day again.

Purnulu NP – ‘The Bungle Bungles’

The Bungle Bungles were placed very high on my list of ‘must sees’ in Australia and I wasn’t disappointed. Gorges, chasms, ‘Bee hives’ and elaborately eroded dry riverbeds, sculptured by mother nature herself were home to too many species of plants and animals to mention. I spent two days wandering the parks trails, occasionally having the place to myself, occasionally dodging tour groups. It is certainly deserving of its UNESCO World Heritage listing. The only shock was the night time temperature of approx 5ºC.

Pic – 3132

The ‘road’ in and out of the park was a whole different story. Everyone I’d met had told of it taking in excess of two hours to drive the 53km from the main road to the visitors centre, such was the nature of the 4×4 only track.

The track climbed, descended and twisted its way into the NP, affording some beautiful views along the way. Two of the five water crossings were deeper than I expected and despite the final one being rather long I had no problems… on the way in…

On the way out however, it was a different story…

Unable to get a photo of myself mid crossing on the Pentecost I decided that the largest of the crossings on the NP access road would make a good photo. I left camp early, arrived at the crossing and set up my camera on the tripod. I set the self timer to the longest available (20sec) and jumped on my bike – counting down in my head. With five seconds to go I rode into the creek but I wasn’t on exactly the same line as I had been when I’d entered the park. The water covered the bottoms of my panniers and halfway across I hit a rock taking my front wheel out. NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!

I managed to throw all my weight to the right to ensure I fell that way as I was fully loaded and falling to the left would have filled my laptop up with water. Falling to the right though created other problems. The air intake is on the right and the rock that had caused my fall was obscuring the engine kill switch adding to the time it took me to turn her off.

Somehow, thanks to the shape of the riverbed, I managed to pick her up on my own. I daren’t start the engine though and was pleased to see a 4×4 arrive and the driver jump out and race in to help me. Together we pushed her out to a safe spot in the shade and after laying my riding suit out to dry I donned my shorts and set about draining the water from my engine. The process goes like this:

Remove all luggage, rack, seat, fuel tanks, airbox drain plug, air filter and spark plugs. Soak up remaining water in airbox and disconnect fuel pump. Lay air filter out to dry. Spin engine over until water stops spurting from spark plug holes. Re-assemble and run engine. All this took 1.5hrs during which time I had many onlookers. “Yes, yes I’ve been for a swim”, “Yes, yes I enjoyed the bath”,  “No, no I didn’t want to do it like that” etc, etc…

There was a picnic area adjacent to where the track met the main road and I stopped as I’d planned to, to clean my chain and re-fit the taller gearing as I wouldn’t be seeing a dirt road again for a few thousand kilometers. It also dawned on me that I’d forgotten to make one of the most important checks after filling an engine up with water and that is to see whether the engine oil was contaminated. Mine of course was.

During this time an overloaded Yamaha XT225 rolled up and the rider removed their helmet to reveal ‘Papi’, a 29yr old Japanese girl who was working and riding her way around the country. We had a chat over lunch and arranged to meet at the roadhouse 60km north. With no off-road experience Papi didn’t fancy riding to the Bungles and so at the roadhouse started asking around to see if she could leave her bike at the campsite and join someone else for the ride in. Of course, being Australia it wasn’t long before she’d found a couple willing to take her. In fact, I hadn’t finished changing my oil in the truck stop before she returned with a big grin on her face.

With my oil changed I got another 160km under my belt and spent the night back at the roadside rest area I’d stayed in after my last eventful day. I sat under the stars drinking a cup of tea, listening to the highlights of Nelson Mandela’s 90^th birthday celebrations on the BBC World Service and reflected on the day. Once again a bad experience had led to a good one that otherwise wouldn’t have taken place. Had I not fallen off in the creek I wouldn’t have met Papi and received my invitation to Japan. What a day!

Pic – 3177

At 8am the following morning I ran out of fuel 18km from Kunnunurra.

I must have lost much more fuel than I’d thought in the river for I should have made it to Kunnunurra with several litres to spare. I took my jacket off, sat in the shade and 45mins later Jennifer arrived. She had no petrol (her Landcruiser was diesel as was most of the passing traffic’s) but offered me a lift to town. I thanked her but said I was reluctant to leave my bike at the mercy of thieves. She agreed and instead said she’d get some fuel put in a can in town and find someone to drop it off on their way past so I gave her $10 and waved her goodbye. 40 mins later she returned with $10 of petrol in a can saying that the garage wanted a deposit for the can so she brought it out herself. Not only that but she wouldn’t accept any payment for diesel for her own car as it belonged to the government and besides “If you were my family, I’d like to think someone would help you out”. What a top lady. Thank you Jennifer and cheers Kevin!

Onwards to Darwin

I had hoped to ride to Katherine Gorge that day but running out of fuel had put pay to that. With 500km on the trip I rolled into a stopover 40km west of Katherine. No sooner had I removed my crash helmet than a voice from the picnic area shouted “Hey Adam!” I wandered over to find Peter & Denise, one of the three related couples I’d shared a campfire with on my way to Tom Price. I soon had a beer in my hand, then another, then another then rump steak and stir-fried vegetables, then coffee. I couldn’t help but think of the film ‘Sliding Doors’.

I decided to skip Katherine Gorge for the time being and instead pressed on to Darwin in order to get my suspension repaired and to make further enquires into my planned change of route.

Tim & Dale Walker

When Danny and I stayed with Dutchman Maarten Munnik in Thailand at the end of 2006, we met Englishman Tim Walker who was riding his Honda XR650 from Australia back to the UK. When we arrived his bike was already crated ready for shipping to Calcutta but nevertheless we spent a few evenings together. Tim’s journey didn’t last much longer but his story had only just begun. After falling off approx 200km from Calcutta he broke his leg and was subsequently abandoned by his insurance company. His story is one of incredible hospitality and caring by the Indian people who never left him alone in hospital for a single night. Mothers of some lads he’d befriended prior to his accident ensured a bedside vigil was maintained and brought him meals etc daily. Once he could move around on crutches he set off around the various hospitals to get ‘quotes’ to have his leg pinned and plated. After choosing a hospital the bedside vigil continued and once discharged was taken into a locals’ home whilst he convalesced. Whilst the mothers looked after Tim the lads took care of his bike, arranging transport, storage and eventually, shipping back to Australia. Tim eventually returned to Australia and married his fiancé Dale in 2007.

I had stayed in touch with Tim and took up in invitation to spend some time with him and Dale in Darwin. Little did they know that ‘some time’ would turn into ‘quite some time’!

Earlier (in the techy bit) I mentioned finding some vertical play in my rear shock so after speaking to Jan at Shocktreatment nr.Sydney, I removed the shock and set off to the local bike dealer to get the spring removed. This would reduce the shipping price and time for sending it to Sydney. When I arrived at the bike shop they asked “Is this the one for Shocktreatment?” It transpires that Jan had realized the dealer had a trained suspension technician who could do the work in house. Jan would post them the parts which would reduce the turnaround time to 4-5 days instead of a week. Great.

But it wasn’t, and with hindsight I wish I’d sent it to Sydney. Just as I’d been warned back in Western Australia that WA stands for ‘Wait Awhile’ so I was warned that NT (Northern Territory) stood for ‘Not Today, Not Tomorrow, Not Tuesday, Not Thursday’! I should have seen it coming.

First the parts arrived late, then the shops owner took the suspension tech off motorcycle duties for a week to build the his ‘Sprint Car’ to go racing at the weekend. When they did finally dismantle it some 10 days later they discovered it needed another part. It took them another day to order it which meant it wasn’t delivered until the Friday but nobody went to collect the post until 1630 – on a Friday afternoon! By the time they got back the tech had left for the weekend. I finally got it back the following Tuesday – after 18 days!

During this time Tim and Dale were fantastic. As well as giving me a room and a key, they leant me there spare Suzuki DRZ400 to get around on and took me trail riding twice. We shared the cooking, spent most evenings enjoying a few cold beers in the garden and watching the Tour de France highlights. Thanks guys.

Surprise return to Asia

Earlier I mentioned finding an alternative to airfreighting to South America. During my research I learned that no direct ocean route exists between Australia and South America. All ocean freight is shipped via Hong Kong or Singapore and takes 60-68 days. ‘Mmmm… Singapore I thought. I could ride there…’

So that’s my plan. I’ll ship my bike from Darwin to East Timor, traverse the Indonesian islands of Timor, Flores, Sumbawa, Lombok, Bali, Java and Sumatra before returning to Malaysia and riding down to Singapore. From Singapore I’m told it will take 30-35 days to ship my bike to Valparaiso, Chile.

Sounds simple enough but I had a few hiccups just in Darwin. Firstly I had a battle royal trying to get the guy at the Indonesian Embassy to accept my visa application. The problem being that I didn’t have entry and exit flights booked, neither was I going to book any. He wanted me to apply in East Timor but I knew they would only issue a 30 day visa and I wanted 60 days. Eventually I managed to persuade him to consult a colleague who confirmed they would accept my Carnet de Passage as an alternative travel document. Phew!

Next up Perkins, the shipping agent, increased their prices for uncrated motorcycles by 350% (to AU$350 m3) the day after I arrived in town. To get around this I had to build a crate for my bike which then reduced the rate to that of normal ocean freight – AU$100 m3. Tim and Dale came to the rescue here to. Coincidentally they both worked in the bike shop that had repaired my shock and arranged for me to use whatever I wanted from their pile of broken pallets.

Last Ride

With my bike back together I set off to spend a week in Kakadu and Litchfield National Parks.

Kakadu  (Australia’s largest NP) is often referred to as ‘Kaka-don’t’ and with this in mind I set off wondering why. I also returned wondering why. Ok, it wasn’t the most picturesque of the many parks I’ve visited but the wildlife, and particularly the birdlife was nothing short of stunning. The parks other special feature was the regular ‘Ranger talks’ given free at set times of day in set locations. They were fascinating and gave a real insight into the 50,000 year culture of the Aboriginal people in the area. Not only that, but the parks campgrounds were half the price of WA AND had showers! So impressed was I with the wildlife that I undertook only my second paid for tourist activity in the country (Sydney Harbour Bridge was the other) and got up at 0530 for the 2hr dawn cruise on Yellow water. I saw so many species of bird I can’t remember them all but they included the Azure Kingfisher, Sea Eagles, Herons, Egrets and the huge Jabiru. And of course, plenty of crocodiles.

Running out of fuel prematurely close to Kununurra a few weeks ago had not been caused by spilling fuel in the creek as I’d suspected (although I was never totally convinced). My fuel consumption was down to 47mpg (16km/l) from the usual 68mpg (24km/l) despite servicing my bike at Tim and Dales. A trip to the BMW dealer confirmed my suspicion that the oxygen sensor was faulty and to rub salt into the wound charged me $95 to diagnose the fault using their plug-in computer and quote $460 for a new one! Chuffin’ ‘eck… that creek crossing back in the Bungles had been an expensive one!

Thanks to Tim I had a contact in a BMW dealer on the east coast and Toby sold me one for $350. He’d previously helped me out with the price of all the other BMW service parts I’d needed, but all up I’d still spent $1325 on my bike since riding into town three weeks previously and I hadn’t even fitted new tyres!

With the diagnosis complete and a new sensor ordered I rode back out of town and into Litchfield NP for my last night in the bush. Unlike Kakadu the campsite was rammed; unfortunately with foreign tourists. I say unfortunately because they tend to keep themselves to themselves and don’t seem to know how to react when you say ‘G’day’! Unlike the Aussies of course who all say ‘G’day’ to everyone on camp, on the trail, in the dunny etc, etc. The park itself was worth the visit with most of the billabongs looking extremely inviting. Unfortunately for me I was still treating an ear infection I’d picked up last time I’d gone swimming and couldn’t dive in.

I had no idea an ear infection could be so painful. I went deaf in one ear, my cheek swelled up so much I couldn’t chew my food and after a few sleepless nights I undertook an 8hr round trip by bus to visit the hospital (I’d already been to the doctor). Fortunately for me they managed a more successful treatment and I avoided doing a Van Goch – I was bloody close though!

Final Days Down Under

Back in town I rode to the bike shop and finished crating my bike. Tim leant me his car and the bikeshop trailer to deliver it to the shipping agent where I discovered that Customs had cancelled the inspection appointment I’d made which meant me going to them but once they’d cleared my Carnet everything went smoothly. Back at the shipping agents I handed over my bike and AU$293. That was it; the end of Australia. On Tuesday 5^th August I’ll fly into Dili, East Timor, collect my bike and return to guesthouses, street food and, hopefully, a few months of cheap living!

Australian summary

After 9 months, 36,191km (22489m) and 160 nights in my tent my Australian adventure came to an end. It was hard; harder than I’d anticipated. In fact it was one of the harder countries I’ve traveled in – hard in a physical and mental sense that is. As a European it’s easy to not only underestimate the size of the country and the distances between places, but the remoteness, and that despite being a ‘western’ country, step away from the main centres and you may as well be in Central Asia.

The distances, the dirt roads, the temperature changes and the constant camping all add up and take their toll. Limited space on the bike means shopping at least 4 times a week – sometimes daily, and every time in a different shop – laid out differently. Imagine going to your local supermarket 4 times a week only to find they’d completely re-arranged everything every time!

Planning for food, water, tyres etc are just a few of the things I can’t think would be a major consideration in any other western country but they are in Australia.

That said, the Australian people have made it easier. I cannot speak highly enough of the people I’ve met and shared homes, campsites, food, beer and a good yarn with. Complete strangers have welcomed me into their homes like a long lost brother, given me the keys and gone off to work saying ‘help yourself!’

I’m sure that being the oldest continent on earth plays a role in the laid back and easy going attitude of its people. Mountaineering fan Tim Hobin once described the Himalayas as being ‘young kids’, still growing, feisty, argumentative whereas the worn down mountain ranges of Australia are the older statesmen, wise, content and relaxed. Think of the people that live in those regions and he has a point. The Himalayas run through Pakistan, Nepal and China; regions of great unrest. The Australians however are relaxed, confident and laid back.

As well as being the oldest, Australia is also the driest continent on earth. You wouldn’t believe it from either the wildlife or the flora and fauna though. I’ve not encountered such an abundance of wildlife anywhere else on my travels and the change in flora and fauna, although subtle, is enormous.

From ski fields to sparse bush, twisting mountain roads to outback dirt tracks, coral reef to sub-tropical forests, starry nights and bluebird days, Australia has a lot to offer and it’s with a tinge of sadness that I leave for Asia.

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

Australia

Autumn was making itself known as we rode out of Warragul. Not only were many of the trees turning various beautiful shades of red but the temperature had dropped below 20ºC; a far cry from last weeks barmy 40º!

The bikes felt particularly unwieldy with a set of tyres strapped on the back and 10 litres of water onboard ready for the Outback. Having got used to riding around on Trevor’s XR400 it was like getting out of a sports car and into a truck!

One by one the bends disappeared and the hills flattened out; we were well and truly on our way Outback.

It was easy to see how you’d get bored driving the 112km between Menindee and Broken Hill. For me though, it was new and that meant interesting. A featureless vista that stretched to a horizon so wide you could see the curve of the earth.

I passed a roadside memorial to a young victim of falling asleep at the wheel. My concentration though, was maintained by vigilantly looking out for emus. Emus are so stupid they are to Australia what Yaks are to Asia – totally unpredictable. Not only will they run straight out in front of you, they’ll run straight into you – as Tim discovered when he got T-boned by one in Mungo Lakes NP.

They are so well camouflaged for this scrubland that despite looking hard I often found myself alongside one without realizing.

I negotiated the first bend in miles, midway through which skid marks led off into the bush where scattered paperwork and a complete but smashed windscreen marked the spot of another SVR (Solo Vehicle Rollover) and I could feel my eyes physically stretching as they widened to ensure I didn’t suffer the same fate.

The flat plains resembling the African Savannah finally rose up into small hills. Cresting the first of these I found myself staring along a road that ran dead straight all the way to the horizon and reminded me of Arizona. My mind carried me back to two trips there with several great fiends back in ’94 & ’95 but I have little time to reminisce as a final crest in the road revealed my first sight of the former gold mining town of Broken Hill and my mind returned to Australia.

After a few days in Broken Hill we headed west to Yunta where we topped up with fuel before picking up the dirt road north towards Arkaroola. In the petrol station they were selling stickers that read “Where the hell is Yunta?” – quite.

We turned off the main Arkaroola track to head NW towards Hawker at the southern end of the Flinders Ranges. The track halved in width and the change in scenery surprised me. The land was undulating bush with scrub and trees. The colours of everything changed constantly under the vivid blue sky, especially the soil which went from almost white to a rich ochre red. We crossed dry creek beds which were always surrounded by deep rooted eucalyptus trees, floodways and two remote stations. There were kangaroos, emus, parrots and galahs. The sometimes stony track wound its way through the hills often resembling the rocky Moroccan stages of the Dakar rally.

In Hawker, at the southern end of the Flinders ranges, we found a covered picnic area and after lunch made the most of it to fit our new tyres. The tarmac only lasts another 50km from here.

The front tyre I took off (bought used for $20 in Warragul) still had plenty of life in it so I took it to a surprised Post mistress who was extremely helpful and posted it to Albany in Western Australia for $5.20! I’ll collect it from the post office when I get there.

Wilpena Pound

Having arrived in glorious sunshine we were disappointed to awake to a grey, drizzle filled sky. We’d opted against the (8hr return) walk up to the lookout at St.Mary’s point the previous day deciding it best to get an early start today. Once the rain stopped we set off but the skies never cleared and this restricted our views from the summit which would have been outstanding. (The following day was, of course, clear blue skies).

We walked back into camp to find Holger & Anja pitched up next to us and we spent the evening eating, drinking and sharing stories of where we’d all been since Tintaldra.

Arkaroola and Leigh Creek

We left the Flinders Ranges NP to visit the observatory at Arkaroola 200km away only to find it closed for a private function – aaarrrhhh! We booked in for the following evening a rode the 140km to Leigh Creek to take one of the free mine tours.

“Sorry, we need a minimum of six for a tour. Come back at 0900 and maybe we’ll have enough” We did: They didn’t.

Tim wouldn’t take no for an answer so set about trying to persuade them otherwise. Their first excuse was “The driver doesn’t have a licence for the new route” (!!?) followed by “Anyway, the mine need the bus today”. We couldn’t help but thinking the tour’s a publicity stunt the mining company didn’t really want to pursue.

Before setting off to Arkaroola we visited the library to use the internet. The library was part of the local school and as a result we had to sign in at reception. The receptionist greeted us with a “Good morning gentlemen. Which one of you overtook the school bus on the Arkaroola road yesterday afternoon?” I put my hand up and was met with a raised eyebrow glare I so often received from my school teachers. Nothing went un-noticed in this town.

We returned to Arkaroola on a small track via Yankaninna and Umberatana that took us through the heart of the Gammon Ranges NP. At first the scenery appeared so stark it was as if a bomb had exploded. Soon though the trees reappeared bringing with them more dry creek crossings and some stony riverbeds. We opened and closed many gates along the way as we crossed the various stations before entering Vulathunha Gammon Ranges NP and turned south to Arkaroola. Upon registering for camping we were told “Your friends on the two BMW’s are waiting for you”. Sure enough, Holger & Anja were on the campsite and booked in for the evening’s trip to the observatory. As it turned out, the four of us were the only ones booked in and we had a fantastic evening viewing ‘Globular Clusters’, ‘Twin Stars’ and ‘Nebuli’. For me though, the highlight was seeing Saturn in all its glory. It was SO bright and SO sharp it was as though it had been stuck on the front of the telescope just for us and blew us all away. I can only begin to imagine how Gallileo must have reacted when he saw it for the first time some 300years ago.

Holger & Anja finished off the evening perfectly with a nightcap of Port huddled in the warmth of the laundry room.

Innamincka bound

The sign at the T-junction south of Arkaroola read ‘Innamincka 430km – NO SERVICES’. Once past the homestead we were into a whole lot of nothing. The track was quite rocky and very stony for a fair distance and it was easy to see why NASA want to build a research facility here based on its resemblance of the surface of Mars.

The Gammon Ranges away to our left kept us company for the first 100km but eventually petered out as we approached Mt.Hopeless (appropriately named). This is real Outback, the land harsh and barren, where a few small trees and bushes cling to life despite the lack of visible water.

We eventually came to a gate that led to the Strezlecki track where a loose, rutted, gravel surface headed NE to Innamincka. We initially rode through a landscape of mini sand dunes before the road became sandwiched between two embankments set a fairway back from the road but that nevertheless restricted the view. The surface changed from hard packed dirt and back to gravel and was quite poor in places. I found myself using the whole of the road in search of the smoothest line through the ruts and corrugations. Bull dust filled pot holes appeared out of nowhere and needed to be avoided at all cost.

We turned off the main track at the sign for Merty Merty and found a place to camp in a dried up creek. We put some of our dehydrated beef in a pot of water to soften it before cooking dinner and retired to our tents for an hour to escape the onslaught of flies. We returned to the pot to find it overrun with ants and spent the next 20 minutes picking out as many as we could before the unlucky ones got cooked along with the beef.

The following morning we returned to the Strezlecki Track and continued on towards Innamincka. Shortly after passing the Moomba gas field the road turned north and the landscape took on the look of rolling farmland with the grass stripped off. The increase in truck traffic servicing the gas field had taken its toll on the road surface making the run into Innamincka particularly corrugated. On some sections it was impossible to find a speed that smoothed out the corrugations and I was sure I could feel my teeth being gradually dislodged. We also encountered roadtrains for the first time. These are often articulated trucks with three trailers and are therefore ‘king of the road’. We soon realized the best course of action when one approached was to get off the road on the downwind side and kill the engine but leave the headlight on. This meant we could be seen clearly by the driver and minimize the amount of dust being sucked in by our engines.

Just outside Innamincka we encountered Coopers Creek. The water was only about a foot deep but the current was strong and the concrete base (built to support the trucks) had a slimy layer across it making it rather slippery. After deciding it would be all to easy for the current to push a front wheel out from under us we put on our shorts, unloaded the bikes and carried everything across before pushing the bikes across one at a time.

Another kilometre up the road we turned off onto the 106km track to Coongie Lakes It was the sandiest we’d encountered so far and it wasn’t long before I was lying on the floor cursing the stuff. I’d seen Tim’s tyre tracks ahead of me, crossing from one wheel rut to the other and just as I was thinking he’d obviously had a ‘moment’, I found my front wheel following his track but my rear wheel refusing to. As a result I spent the next half an hour unloading my bike, digging the sand out from under the wheels and eventually lifting her upright. After walking her onto firm ground I reloaded and set off the best part of a kilo lighter thanks to all the sweat that had trickled down my back. This would be the first of three times I would repeat this process over the next four days.

There were many tricky sections along this track that had me fighting for control of my bike and that left me wondering how the hell I’d stayed on. One such section was several hundred metres long and the sand was by far the deepest. I was riding in a ‘V’ shaped rut at about 70kph with my weight finely balanced between keeping the front wheel light enough to not sink but weighted enough to keep it in the rut, knowing full well that climbing out of the rut would result in another crash. Just as I seemed to have everything under control so a Toyota Landcruiser appeared heading towards me. As he got closer I noticed the ‘bow wave’ of sand from behind his car was filling in my rut. Nooooooooooo!!!!!!!

I got completely sideways with one foot on the peg as my rut disappeared but somehow stayed on. Had I been wearing a heartrate monitor, I’d have broken it.

After dinner we joined Maarten & Amanda, who were camped next to us, for a cold cider and a chat. Turns out Maarten owns a Vincent Black Shadow and they’d both visited the Isle of Man last year for the Centenary.

By lunchtime the following day the flies had driven us mad. The only respite from them was sitting in my tent which I’ll tolerate when it’s pouring with rain but not when the sun’s shining. As a result, we packed up and headed off to the pub back at Innamincka.

Riding away from camp was like starting an enduro. No warm-up, just straight into the hard stuff. Setting off under the midday sun proved to be a mistake as the absence of shadows made it impossible to see the ruts; everything ahead on the track blended into one.

After stopping for a cup of tea the sun had moved only slightly across the sky but it was enough to cast shadows across the ruts and give them definition. It made a huge difference. After re-crossing Cooper Creek we pitched our tents, ate and wandered up to the pub for a few cold ones.

Walkers Crossing

It was Graeme backing Warragul who’d first told us about Walkers Crossing. Accessed via Fifteen Mile track, SE of Innamincka it would take us across the sandy Strezlecki Desert and into the Sturt Stony Desert before joining the Birdsville track some 120km south of Birdsville.

Our experiences in the sand over the previous two days paid off as we encountered more and more sand. I seemed to be forever changing down through the gears to keep the engine revving and the front end as light as possible. 63km from Innamincka we joined the Walkers Crossing track and what a delight it was. Yes it was rough in places and yes it was sandy but the previous two days had built my confidence to a point where the more difficult it looked, the harder I attacked it. Sections that I wouldn’t have attempted previously passed by with a big grin on my face and I was forever telling myself to slow down.

Slowly the sand subsided, giving way to vast gibber plains that twinkled purple in the sunlight and whilst different to anything I’d seen before, the colours reminded me of a particular section of the Manali – Leh road in northern India.

At the Birdsville track I was suddenly struck by just how big the sky was. It appeared like a huge dome as though I was staring up from inside one of those plastic thingy’s that you shake up to make it snow and usually contain a Christmas scene. (I know they have a name but I can’t remember it).

Turning south we got our heads down for the 200km to the Mungerannie Hotel. We knew we were tight for time but the reward would be worthwhile. Slowly the scenery changed and cattle appeared for the first time and shortly after them a lone Dingo wandered across the track in front of us.

Thankfully the Birdsville track was in good condition and we rolled into the Mungerannie Hotel with time to spare. Cold beers were followed by an hour floating around in an inner tube in the natural hot springs. It was a fitting end to what had been the most enjoyable, memorable days riding in a long, long time and my thanks go to Graeme, Dave and Trevor who convinced us it was a good idea. Cheers guys.

Lake Eyre

The first few hundred kilometres from Mungerannie were boring. So boring in fact that Tim stopped to make tea in a bid to break up the journey after just 1.5hrs riding. It would be the last time today either of us got bored.

In Marree we took the 100km track out to Lake Eyre. The sand increased the closer we got to the lake and soon we were battling longer, deeper, softer sections of sand than ever. After negotiating some particularly tough sections we came to the hardest section of all. Here the ruts didn’t run in straight lines and this made them very hard to follow. I got bogged down a few times but managed to get going again, eventually realizing that the ground off to the side of the track was in fact firmer than the track itself. ‘Off-Piste’, whilst firmer, was also much more undulating and this reduced our speed and fair bit. After noticing the main track had improved, Tim took advantage of the level going and shot past. I got back onto the main track just before it became very deep again and quickly lost all of my speed trying to regain control of my out of control motorcycle. Without momentum I was soon bogged down and it took me ages to get going again.

When I finally did get going I fell off attempting to return off-piste. I was pretty tired having just dug my bike out and by the time I’d unloaded, got my bike upright and onto firmer ground and reloaded, half an hour had passed. I checked my map to discover there was another 8km to go to the end. I knew I wouldn’t ride another 16km in this sand without falling off again and I didn’t have the energy to go through the palaver of picking my bike up again and so I back tracked and found a spot to camp. Turning off the main track I fell off again. It was a poxy little slow speed crash that I would have avoided given a little more energy but I was bolloxed.

After dinner I relaxed under the most incredible night sky; the Milky Way more vivid than I’d ever seen it. But then I guess there was no light pollution to interfere with it for a long, long way.

Bugger me if I didn’t fall off my bike after riding a paltry ten feet the following morning – what a wanker!

After going through the usual unload, pick-up, reload routine, I’d just put my helmet on for a second time when Tim arrived. We rode back to Marree, picked up the Oodnadatta track and headed to Coober Pedy via William Creek. After a night camped in the bush close to Lake… wait for it… Caddibarrawirracanna(!), we rolled into Coober Pedy and took an underground room in an old Opal mine now converted into a backpackers hostel.

Whilst checking my bike over I found the chain had shed a roller. Although well worn, I was hoping it would see me off the dirt in Western Australia but burying it in sand had finished it off prematurely. With no motorcycle shop in town and any delivery 3-4 days away I decided to make a temporary repair. The local garage ground off the damaged link and using a spare piece of chain and two split links, I was able to regain the length I needed.

The missing roller was an indication of the poor state of my chain and it would have been foolhardy for me to have continued through the Outback knowing it could fail at any time. Instead, Tim continued on our planned route via Oodnadatta whilst I ‘limped’ the 695km up the Stuart Highway to Alice Springs.

Dib, Dib, Dib; Dub, Dub, Dub…

Back at the HUBB meeting at Tintaldra in February I met a fellow from Alice Springs named Stephen Ashley, and his wife Debbi. Stephen is a Cub and Scout leader and had arranged for me to stay in the local Scout hall during my time in Alice. Don’t laugh, it was a far cry from my old Scout Hall (3^rd Andover, Dean Path). For starters the main hall was an ex-railway locomotive shed and, not wanting to impinge on its space, they built an extension to house the industrial sized kitchen, showers/toilets, storeroom and two meeting rooms!

Once I’d settled in Stephen’s son Brad picked me up and I not only joined the family for dinner but the family viewing of the Portugese MotoGP – LIVE! What a treat.

I went on to spend a week in Alice Springs. Dave Patterson (in Warragul) posted me the spare chain & sprockets I’d left at his house for, I spent some time with Anja & Holger whom I’d bumped into in town and prepared a slideshow for the Scouts. Stephen invited some friends from work to join the Scouts and having never given a slideshow before, ended up talking for 1h 50mins! I guess I’ll have to work on my timings.

Solo once again

Tim and I had a chat in Alice and decided to go our separate ways. We both like to travel in different ways and finally acknowledged that constantly compromising to fit in with one another was causing friction between us. Rather than fall out, we decided it best we traveled solo.

Streuth… the bloody dingo’s nicked my snags!

Stephen had taken the week off work and so on the Tuesday morning he loaded up his BMW 1200 Adventure and we set off for Kings Canyon via Hermannsburg and the Mereenie Loop road. The track was quite corrugated in places and I arrived at the King Canyon campsite to find I’d lost one of my 5l water containers. Having found it so hard to find them in the first place, imagine my surprise when I found they had one (and only one) for sale in the service station shop!

We pitched the tents, ate lunch and rode out to Kings Canyon itself where we spent a very pleasant three hours walking around and through the gorge.

Back at the campsite a fellow camper approached us and said that another camper had rescued my rucksack from a dingo (which it had dragged out from under my flysheet). On the way out of Alice I’d bought some particularly fine Italian sausages to make bangers ‘n’ mash for tea and the dingo had obviously got a whiff of them. My rucksack was returned to us and Stephen said he’d keep an eye on the gear whilst I had a shower. When I returned he was full of apologies saying that he’d only turned his back for a minute and a dingo had jumped on the table, grabbed the snags and run for it! The cheeky bastard! We had pasta for tea but poor Stephen felt so guilty we washed it down with plenty of beer.

Uluru

The following day we cruised down to Yulara and camped in the bush just outside the NP. Our plan was to get up early (bloody early) and enter the park before the entry booths were manned, thereby avoiding the $25 entry fee.

We got up at 0400, packed up the tents and rode into the park as planned. Just as we arrived at the sunrise viewing area so a park ranger engaged us, explained that the park wasn’t open yet and politely threw us out!

Once outside the entrance we had a brew before saying our goodbyes. Having seen it several times previously Stephen decided to hit the road whilst I joined the queue for the park to open. After Uluru and the Olgas I would be riding the Great Central Road to Laverton in Western Australia and in order to do this I required two permits to traverse Aboriginal land along the way and having obtained both of these in Alice Springs I showed them at the entry booth and was admitted without paying the entry fee.

Some love it, some say it’s overrated, some say it’s just a tourist draw. Personally, I found it rather special. As I watched the sunrise on its less pretty eastern flank, I chatted with a young Japanese couple on a nine day honeymoon having just got married in Cairns and was then adopted by Heather, a Pome on a works jolly with employer Allianz Insurance. The 36 of them had a coach, driver and chef and after meeting as many of the 36 as she could possibly whisk me around before the chef packed up, I was fed breakfast. It wasn’t long before the place was deserted and after completing the loop around the rock I headed for the Olgas.

The Great Central Road

I have to admit to a little trepidation as I sat staring along the star of the Great Central Road. 1150km of remote dirt road lay ahead of me and I knew the first few hundred kilometres at least would be quite sandy. Whilst I expected the sand I didn’t expect the rest to be so stony and with my tyre pressures lowered for the sand I took it steadily on the stones aware that a ‘rim pinch’ was more likely than usual.

The experience I’d gained riding in the sand over the previous few weeks paid off and I made my way past Docker River and onto Warakuna Roadhouse without any trouble. It was much earlier in the day than I would normally stop but I wanted to phone the UK and I’d been warned off stopping at the next roadhouse (Warburton) a further 260km away.

Sadly, some of the Aboriginal communities have problems with fuel sniffing and as a result unleaded fuel isn’t available in certain areas. Instead, an un-sniffable Opal fuel is provided and even these fuel pumps are protected by lockable cages large enough to prevent anyone reaching through to slash the hose.

Not wanting to take any chances with my bike I heeded the warning and avoided stopping at Warburton.

The following morning I hit the road early and rolled into Tjukayiria Roadhouse (Australia’s most remote) at 1330. I’d ridden 550km that morning and seen nobody. I chatted with the owner who said I’d make it to the end of the dirt that day and so after some lunch I set off once again.

The scenery was much more interesting than that of the previous ‘famous’ Australian tracks I’d ridden. The road undulated, the surface changed, the hills eroded into rolling plains and eventually flat scrubland. After 777km I reached tarmac and after a further 123km found a nice spot to camp in the bush.

I can see the sea!

After picking up supplies in Kalgoorlie, visiting the ‘Superpit’ and spending a few nights camping in the bush along the way, I rolled into Esperance on the south coast. I spent night in a commercial campsite for the first time in so long I can’t remember, did my laundry, changed my engine oil and filter and the local bike shop, Powerhouse Motorcycles, kindly let me use their facilities to wash and oil my air filter.

The South West

By hanging around in NSW and Victoria awaiting the temperature to cool sufficiently to venture into the centre of the country, I’d unwittingly now arrived in the SW late autumn. Grey skies often took the sparkle out of the landscapes but it would take more than a dull day to spoil the most stunningly colored seawater I’ve ever seen. Brilliant clear turquoise and deep blue water washed over rocks worn as smooth as pebbles before lapping at beaches of sand so soft and fine it may as well have been talcum powder. There’s no doubt that the coastline of South Western Australia is beautiful.

I zig-zagged between the coast and the inland karri forests, camping in the NP’s along the way. Riding along the coast and through ancient forests was a far cry from the outback a few days previously and I reveled in my new surroundings. The fire ban had been lifted early and once again I enjoyed cooking and eating around a campfire.

In Albany I collected the tyre I’d posted from Hawker, changed it in the petrol station opposite the post office and posted the one I’d just removed to Billy & Trish (remember them?) in Broome.

I visited Wave rock and got a sharp reminder of what season it was when I awoke in my tent to find it a chilly 3.5°C!

In Leeuwin Naturaliste NP near Margaret River I came across a good size snake for the first time. Riding back into the park after collecting supplies I encountered a 2m carpet python stretched out across the road. I parked my bike so that no car could run him over and attempted a few photos but it was too dark for a decent photo but I waited until he retreated into the bush before riding on.

MORE bloody Germans!

Werner & Claudia (BMW Motherfucker/ HUBB meeting) were back in Freemantle where they will spend the next two years working and saving to continue their journey. They invited me to stay and I arrived to find Holger & Anja, Guido & Ester and another young German lad, Moritz all in residence. For once I was the one who didn’t speak the common language but still enjoyed many evenings of shared cooking and beer drinking.

My priority whilst in town was to get my Carnet de Passage extended. Knowing this would be a long winded process I started the ball rolling back in March (it was now mid May) and my Carnet expired on May 23^rd. I won’t bore you with the details but the process involved emails between Canberra, Joondalup (Nth of Perth) and Bristol (UK), faxes to Sydney, two visits to Joondalup and one to customs in Freemantle.

The extension was finally granted with four days to spare but despite having to pay 12 months bond in the UK, Australian customs would only authorize an extension until my visa expires on 5^th November.

Freemantle/Perth was also my last chance to buy a rear tyre for several thousand kilometers and so I ordered one from Bruce at Munich Motorcycles. When I collected it we got chatting and I said that I was posting the tyre ahead to a guy I’d met in Thailand who was from Broome. The conversation continued for a while when Bruce exclaimed “Not Billy Gibson!”

The West Coast

I detoured to see the curios eroded limestone formations of the Pinnacles at Cervantes before continuing north towards Geraldton. Along the way I met Ken, a Geraldton resident returning from Perth on his Buell (American motorcycle). He asked what my plans were for somewhere to stay and when I said that I didn’t have any he offered me a good feed and a real bed. I followed him into town where I met his wife Alice and two sons Adam and Mason. They were great fun and the banter flowed along with cold Corona’s and I spent three nights with them unable to drag myself away from the first bed I’d slept in since Coober Pedy which in turn was the first since I’d stayed with Jean and Linda in Hobart back in February.

Alice was a policewoman (I didn’t hold it against her) and Ken was in the process of getting a Norton spares business off the ground. During the day Ken showed me the sights on his immaculate 1974 Norton Commando 850 whilst I followed along on his Buell.

When I mentioned that I was on my way to visit a friend who worked for a pearl farmer north of Broome their eyes lit up and they started asking questions. It turns out that they had lived in the region for many years, Alice as the local copper whilst Ken ran the store on one of the (Aboriginal) communities on Cape Leveque. Eventually I mentioned Billy & Trish by name and of course Ken & Alice knew them both. I wasn’t sure if Australia was shrinking or Billy was becoming more infamous.

Kalbarri NP was my next stop but with no camping in the NP and the commercial campsite in Kalbarri town wanting AU$24 I found a good bush camp. The following morning I packed up, visited the NP and returned to my bush camp for a second night.

At the time of writing, the walk around ‘The Loop’ was my favorite walk thus far in Australia.

Setting out along the canyon rim the walk overlooked the river until approx half distance when it descended steeply to the riverbank. In places I had to pick my way carefully along the rock overhanging the river, one slip and I’d have been swimming. Eventually the gorge widened and the trail furrowed the rocky riverbed littered with debris carried along during the wet season. During my 5hr walk I met two other people. Two too many for a wilderness walk but hey, it was a NP!

10pm – You’re having a laugh!!

At Monkey Mia I watched a beautiful sunrise over the jetty before joining many other tourists for the dolphin feeding. As we lined the shore, ankle deep in water so the dolphins came in to be fed by hand by the staff. Each dolphin was known by name and are direct descendants of the first dolphin to be fed by hand here by a female sailor from Perth many years ago. The dolphins swam slowly along the line of spectators, lying on their sides and eyeing the crowd as if to say “I’m gorgeous aren’t I!?”

My only disappointment at Monkey Mia was that the bar closed at 2200. Not that I was desperate for a drink, but because I’d deliberately timed my visit to coincide with the Italian Moto GP at Mugello. I knew they’d have a TV and chances were that the TV room would be pretty quiet at 2245 on a Sunday evening. There was no TV room. The TV was in the bar! AARRRHHH!!!!

I had planned on staying at Coral Bay but when one campsite wanted AU$28 and the other AU$30 I knew I’d have to leave town early enough to find a bush camp. I parked up at the beach, paid my AU$5 to hire snorkeling gear and had a very pleasant afternoon out on the reef. Unlike the Great Barrier Reef, the reef here is so close to shore you don’t need a boat. Just swim out 50m and there’s the reef in all its glory.

A short distance north of town I found a dirt road heading towards the coast at a place called Ningaloo. It turned out to be Ningaloo Station where I was able to camp for AU$5. There were no facilities but I was just behind the dunes that led onto an empty beach perfect for a skinny dip.

The map showed a track following the coast up to Cape Range NP (my next destination) and so I asked the woman at the station about how sandy it was. “No worse than the track you’ve just ridden up but you’ll have to wait until low tide to cross Yardie Creek and that’s about 4pm”.

The following morning just as I was getting up so a few 4×4’s drove past heading south. My immediate thought was that they’d crossed Yardie creek on the morning low tide and that if I was quick I could do the same. I quickly packed up and set off up the track which became increasingly sandy. After riding for quite some time I moved out to avoid snagging my panniers on a protruding tree and rode straight into a pile of soft sand, falling off in the process.

I was halfway through unloading my bike to pick her up when a family in their 4×4 appeared traveling the other way. After helping me pick my bike up we got chatting about the area and they told me that even at low tide, Yardie creek was still 600mm deep and had an uneven sand base. Given that it was salt water it would have been madness to continue and so I turned around and settled into the 280km ride to the NP that was only 20km away.

It was worth the ride though. With 500 recorded species of fish and 250 species of coral, it came as no surprise that the Ningaloo Reef (stretching the length of the NP and beyond) was promoted as ‘The Great Barrier Reef without the barriers’. AU$15 got me snorkeling gear for two days and with so many options throughout the NP I was spoilt for choice. It was the hour before I returned the gear though that was the most memorable.

I took my last swim at ‘Lakeside’ close to the hire shop and within 2 minutes of being in the water I was staring down on a Stingray over 1m across less than 2m below me. Soon after I spotted a Turtle feeding on sea grass and he wasn’t the least bit bothered by my presence. After a while he swam off slowly and I was able to swim in a small circle with him and back to his chosen feeding spot. It was an incredible experience to share the reef with this majestic old man of the sea and it was only the cold setting in that eventually made me move off. As I swam back towards shore marveling at how lucky I’d been so a White Tip shark swam out from under a ledge 3m below me. It was larger than me and cruised right under my nose and away over the adjacent rocks. I spent the rest of the afternoon in a trance, blown away by my recent encounters – and all for $15!

Still reliving my previous days experience, I rolled out of Cape Range NP early and headed inland for the Pilbara region but I’ll tell you all about that next time…

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

Australia

Raised eyebrows followed by “Bloody Hell; you’ve seen more than us!” has become the de-rigueur answer when the Australian’s we meet discover that we’ve managed to ride 13,000km between Sydney and Melbourne – a distance of 892km! – Plus another 3500km on Tasmania.

For various reasons our tour of Australia has so far been restricted to the South East corner. Firstly we had to find a bike for Tim and then my sister came for her now annual Christmas/New year holiday. We also wanted to visit Tasmania but the biggest reason is that everyone we’ve spoken to has told us it’s just too hot to head out ‘Central’ until March/April.

Think of Australia…

…what pictures do you conjure up in your head? For me, I can see beaches’, the Outback, Uluru, Sydney Opera House etc and I think most people would be the same. Luckily for us, sandwiched between the populated coastal belt and the Outback is the Great Dividing Range. Stretching a few thousand kilometers from the outskirts of Melbourne up into southern Queensland, this mountainous (well… hilly!) divide is an often picturesque strip, full of National Parks (NP), rivers, lakes, reservoirs, and contains all of Australia’s mainland ski fields. The region is cris-crossed with logging tracks, dirt roads and 4×4 tracks that have given us a great opportunity to explore this under publicized part of the country; and well worth exploring it was to.

Coming from England it’s hard to comprehend the size of Australia. The following picture helps put it into perspective.

We found the following extract from an early visitor’s writings in Canberra’s Australia Museum and think it does a good job of summing up some of the peculiarities of this ancient continent.

“Trees retained their leaves and shed their bark instead, the swans were black, the eagles white, the bees were stingless, some mammals had pockets, others laid eggs, it was warmest on the hills and coolest in the valleys, even the blackberries were red”

J. Martin 1830’s

Christmas once again

“Bloody Hell…it stinks in here!” were my sisters first words after stepping into our Melbourne hotel room. She had a point. After a week in the bush stuff tends to get rather smelly and it wasn’t helped by lugging all my kit up to the 6^th floor after a stop/start ride through the eastern suburbs in 30°C heat. I’d only had enough time for a shower before heading off to the airport to collect her and so my smelly kit laid in a heap on the floor. Two days later Michele emerged from the Botanical Gardens gift shop with a pair of natural odor eaters for my riding boots.

We spent four days in Melbourne before getting out of town for a look around. The big black bag on the back of my bike contains all my camping gear and so I posted it on to our Sydney hotel to make room for Michele’s rucksack. She’d done a good job of packing light and so fitting us both on the bike was relatively easy. We spent a few days riding along the Great Ocean road before turning inland for the old gold mining town of Ballarat where we rented a cabin within walking distance of town and the reconstructed/preserved site at Sovereign Hill. The town is full of well preserved 19^th century buildings that make for an interesting walk but the rain we’d encountered in Melbourne and the Great Ocean road had caught us up and as we emerged from the supermarket so the heavens opened and we took shelter in the adjacent café. Within a few minutes the drains became overwhelmed, the road flooded and came within inches of flooding the supermarket. On the news that evening we learnt that a tornado had passed through the outskirts of town!

In Mansfield we took one look at the cheap hotel room I’d booked and realized there was no way we could spend Christmas in it. By now we’d stayed in many cabins and decided to see if we could get one over Christmas. It was Christmas Eve so we were pushing our luck but the campsite on the edge of town had a choice of two and after very little consideration we took the larger one. I returned the hotel key to the reception explaining our change of plans (fortunately I hadn’t parted with any cash!)

All we had to do now was inform Tim of our change of plans but this was soon resolved as he appeared around the corner.

We spent Christmas Eve, Day and Boxing Day in the cabin and cooked the biggest Christmas dinner I’ve seen in years. There was so much that we had a re-run on Boxing Day!

We left on the 27^th and Tim rode with us as far as Goulburn before heading off to do his own thing whilst Michele and I carried on to Sydney. Not only were we planning to see the New Year fireworks but Michele had bought me a place on the Sydney Harbor Bridge climb.

Not being a great fan of heights I was a little apprehensive about the climb and constantly put up with Michele’s ribbing. She’d not only done it before but was coming with me “To make sure you do it!”

The day dawned with a cloudless blue sky which continued through to my late afternoon ‘departure’ time. It turned out to be a great experience with stunning views across Sydney. At the top our very comical guide gave us a few suggestions regarding potential vantage points for the fireworks and told us that wherever we went we’d need to get there early, ie mid-morning. He also said that this year was set to be the biggest display ever with fourteen sea container loads of fireworks!

We spent the next few days visiting the usual tourist sites around the city and trying to pick a good vantage point. We eventually settled on a spot quayside that afforded us sufficient shade for a full day in the sun and gave us a good view of the bridge.

Steven & Marlouse, the Dutch cyclists we’d spent some time with in Malaysia were spending six months working in a local restaurant to help fund a continuation of their trip. They joined us for a while in the afternoon before heading off to their private function. It was great to see them again and funny to hear that neither of them had so much as sat on their bikes since arriving four months earlier. Starting again will be hard, especially in the mountains of New Zealand!

Three weeks had flashed by and all too soon it was time for Michele to return home. A long queue at the under staffed check-in meant there was no time to have breakfast together so after a tearful farewell I waved her off through passport control.

Back in the Bush

“Page 22, F7, Newnes. 50km Nth of Lithgow. Dirt road. Small creek crossing. Camping in field opposite” were the instructions I’d received from Tim over a very poor telephone line. North of Lithgow the road resembled a cluster bombed Afghan runway but it carried me to the rim of a canyon in which I would find the campsite. I was afforded beautiful views as the road plunged into the canyon, turned to dirt and passed a beautifully located station. I eventually crossed the creek where I found a grassy area the size of several football pitches surrounded by 150m high cliffs and forest. What a place to camp!

On the way into Sydney Michele and I had stopped off to visit Ralph (Wayne’s mate). He’d told me he would be at home in Byron Bay until January 10^th and that Tim and I were welcome to join him and he’d show us around the area. With this in mind we left our beautiful campsite after two nights and headed north. On the way to camp that night we discovered in Merriwa and again in Coolah that EVERYTHING bar the pub closes after lunch on Saturdays and so we made do with what supplies we had. Whilst we had phone reception I sent a text to Ralph to let him know we were on our way. His reply said not to bother as much of the region was flooded and that rain was forecast to continue for another week!

Wayne & Chris Todhunter were expecting another visit from us prior to them leaving for Canada. Rather than just turning up, I called to ask when would be convenient to visit. “Whenever you’re passing through” said Chris over the phone. “Luvvly jubbly” I said “See you in a few hours!”

Waynes World II

On arrival we were immediately handed cold beers and fresh towels for the shower. The caravan we’d slept in previously had been sold but with their daughter Lee now in the USA there were enough spare rooms for one each. We chatted all evening over dinner and drank far too much white wine. I virtually passed out as my head hit the pillow.

Wayne arranged with Oliver & Christina (present owners of Cundle Flat Farm) for us to spend some time there, get a feel for the farm and do a bit of work in return for accommodation. We couldn’t go until the end of the week though as they had other visitors. “You’ll have to stay here then” said Chris with a big grin. So we did, for another six days.

The hospitality afforded us during this time was overwhelming. Cooked breakfasts, lunches and dinners. Wine, beer etc. Unbelievable.

Wayne had a food de-hydrator and suggested we use it to prepare food to carry in the Outback. Tim bought 3kg of beef which he marinated prior to dehydrating. He also dried onions , peppers and courgettes before Wayne gave us his previously dried tomato and (mind blowing) chilli. All I managed to do in return was to help Chris set up an online Blog for their forthcoming year in Canada. Not that they expected anything in return but it made me feel better if I could do something.

There was no need for a big goodbye as Wayne & Chris would be visiting the farm whilst we were there but nevertheless we drank so much during our final meal together that we didn’t manage to leave until gone 1500 the following day.

Down on the farm

Day 1 – Our first job was to help Oliver replace guttering on his neighbors’ farm. The three of us rode the 8km on the tractor as it was the only way to get across the flooded river. After a mornings work we met Kelvin & Maree the owners and had lunch with them, Maree’s mother and 80yr old neice. It reminded me of visiting my gran’s house when I was a kid.

Kelvin was a real character. His first words to Tim were “Aren’t you the blokes we beat in the cricket!?” to which Tim replied “Aren’t you the blokes we beat in the Rugby!?” Fair dinkum.

On the way back we took it in turns to drive the tractor and I discovered the true meaning of the term ‘agricultural’. I drove it to the top of a very steep hill for a good view down the valley to the farm but let Oliver drive it back down given the ‘knack’ to getting the brakes to work! It was baking hot when we arrived back at Cundle Flat and so the three of us sat in the river with cold beers. Normally there would be a good chance of spotting Platypus’s in the river but with it being in flood there were none about.

Day 2 – We constructed a concrete drain before I had an evening with the local wildlife. Firstly I was joined in the bathroom by a Green Tree frog, then as I shut the door to my bedroom so a 6” Huntsman spider appeared and when I turned my light out something started flying around the room and crashing into my bed. After getting up to turn the light on three times I eventually spotted a bat staring down at me from the rafters!

Day 3 – On the third day we played ‘Cowboys’ and saddled up for a morning on horseback, something I hadn’t done since I was a kid. I got the stubborn horse who wasn’t too impressed with crossing rivers. He flatly refused to make the first crossing and had to be led across but the approach to the second crossing was so steep that he had no choice but to end up in the river and once in he went where I told him. The current was quite strong here and Jedda, the dog, got washed down stream twice before finally making it across.

Day 4 – Tagging, vaccinating, castrating and Tick inspecting sixteen young cattle was the order of the morning and we were all done by the time Chris & Wayne arrived to say there final goodbyes to all. It’s a shame they won’t be home when I pass through later in the year but they’ll be having a great time in Canada (even without a bike, eh Wayne!?)

Oliver & Christina were keen to show us their neighbors’ unique house and so in the evening we joined Luke & Deborah Evringham for a BBQ. Their house took 10 months of construction over a two year period and after dinner Luke gave us a guided tour. What’s so unique about it? Well not only is it Octagonal but it rotates through 360° and can even be programmed to follow the sun! Take a look for yourselves here: www.everinghamrotatinghouse.com.au

Day 5 – Very little happened on day 5 thanks to us all having thick heads from the previous evening. Christina had arranged for us to be interviewed by the local rag and we just about managed to surface in time for James to pull out his notepad.

Shock Treatment

“Help, Adam, quick. I’m losing all my fuel” Tim shouted and I turned around to see his bike lying on its side in the petrol station with fuel pouring out of the open filler neck. We knew it was going to be one of those days. We’d set our alarms early for the 400km ride down to Shock Treatment at Greenville but had awoken to the sound of rain on the tin roof and so delayed our start. We said farewell to Oliver & Christina who had been our [excellent] hosts for the past five days and hit the road. The sky looked menacing and it wasn’t long after the fuelling incident that we stopped to put on our Goretex liners. Within minutes it was pissing down and continued to do so all the way to Hornsby where I collected a new starter motor oil seal I’d ordered last time I’d passed through, along with a pair of fork seals to take to Shock Treatment.

We’d come across the suspension specialists Shock Treatment whilst staying with Wayne & Chris. Knowing how much off-road riding we would be facing once ‘Outback’, I was keen to improve the performance of my forks and had decided the best option for me was to install some Racetec ‘Emulators’. It turned out the Australian importer for these US products is Shock Treatment – hence the visit.

Our appointment was for 0800 the following morning but the map showed no suitable camping spots close by and so I phoned to see if we could camp in the yard. Having seen on their website that they had their own motocross track in the yard I figured that space wouldn’t be a problem. We arrived late in the afternoon ready to pitch our tents but Jan wouldn’t have any of it and we were ushered into the spare room and before we could blink we were sitting in front of the TV, beer in hand, dinner on lap and putting the world to rights with Terry (the Owner) and his good lady Jan.

In the workshop the following morning I pulled my forks out whilst Tim removed his rear shock. Wayne had had a heavier spring fitted to the Suzuki but it was too heavy for the adjustment range of the rebound damping. As a result it was ripping rear tyres up at an alarming rate and re-valving it was in order.

Mid-morning everything stopped and we sat around drinking coffee and making our selections from a huge spread of fresh cakes any baker would have been proud of. Terry took up his favorite topic of taking the piss out of son Grant who in turn had that air of ‘heard it all before, not biting’ and carried on as though Terry wasn’t there.

Lunchtime came and so did the steak sandwiches “Steady on Tel, much more of this and we’ll be stripping the bikes down for some more suspension work!” Maybe it’s a ploy?

The rain continued and by mid-afternoon it became obvious it wasn’t going to clear and so Terry & Jan kindly said we could stay another night. We did and Jan’s roast chicken went down well.

English Summer Down Under

We awoke to yet more rain, had breakfast with Terry who had just arrived home from his other job as a Fireman, and hit the road. By the time we turned onto Route 4 near Penrith it was once again pissing down and it didn’t take long for us to get a good soaking. We turned off the main road and headed down a minor one towards Jenolan caves. The approach would have been quite something but we struggled to see through the mist and cloud. The road running straight through a cave came as a pleasant surprise and we took the opportunity of the shelter to get the stove out and warm up with a cup of tea, much to the amusement of the coach loads of ‘foreign’ tourists.

It didn’t stop raining until we reached Goulburn, a mere 90km from Canberra, which meant we’d ridden 300km in the rain that day.

I’ve not really said too much about the rain until now but I’ve seen more rain here in Australia than during the whole of the rest of my trip put together. It was raining when I arrived in Sydney, it was raining when Tim arrived in Sydney and it rained the day after Michele arrived. My decision to leave my waterproof oversuit with Jonno in Manly was looking like a poor one. Ironically, I’d done so to make space to carry more water!

We skirted around central Canberra and rode west to the campsite at Cotter Dam NP where once again it was ….. raining. AAARRRHHHH!!!

Fortunately for us there was a large undercover picnic area where we could make a brew and wait for the rain to ease up before pitching the tents. The following day the sun shone and we had our wet kit strewn all over the ground to dry and wet paperwork pegged to a washing line. Despite weighing everything down with stones and branches we spent the day running around chasing kit and paperwork blown away by the wind.

Canberra

We visited the Indonesian Embassy to get some info for Tim who is planning on riding home that way, visited the Australia Museum and took the free 45min guided tour of the parliament building.

The highlight though was the magnificent War Memorial; a title which does not do it sufficient justice as it contains an immense war museum big enough to house eight aircraft including a Lancaster bomber. We took the 1.5hr tour which although excellent only scratched the surface.

The last part of the tour involved watching a film about the very Lancaster that is in the museum. Footage of squadrons of Lancaster’s taking to the skies has always had an effect on me. Perhaps it’s because it makes me think about my dad’s brother (Uncle Dougie). His Lancaster was recovered after the war having been shot down off the coast of Norway. He was nineteen.

I look at those guys and think of Churchill’s famous words:

“Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”

So taken were we by the museum that we returned the following day. Even after another three hours I still didn’t get to see the lower floor. I guess I’ll have to call in again later in the year.

Melbourne bound…again

Despite being ravaged by a huge bushfire in 2003, Kosiuszko National Park is a great place to visit – especially by motorcycle. Indeed, this was our second visit after circumnavigating the park during our first ride to Melbourne when we also walked the 23km circuit that takes in Australia’s highest point – a mere 2229m. For those of you who think it’s always warm here, this is where in 1994, Australia’s coldest temperature was recorded: -23°C!

We camped in the NP and the following morning descended through the forest of Eucalyptus trees, that look so strange to us foreigners with their shedding bark, into a beautiful river valley and onto a dirt road that took us to the former customs town of Tintaldra. Now a sleepy backwater it was once a major crossing point between New South Wales and Victoria in the days when duty was payable on goods moving between states. Our purpose for being there was to drop off a pair of tyres for Tim to avoid him carrying them around Tasmania. We would be returning there at the end of February when the Tintaldra Hotel would host the Horizons Unlimited Travellers meeting.

The Barry Highway (dirt road!) led us south to Omeo where we picked up the Great Alpine Road to head north-west through some of Australia’s premier skiing country. The view from the summit of Hotham reminded me of Laos where range after range of varying shades of grey mist clad hills stretched to the horizon.

From Myrtleford we rode south past Lake Buffalo towards Lake Buffalo State Forest. We passed fields of felled trees that were stripped and piled up in long lines. I’d never seen anything like it before. The lines looked like some sort of medieval defence.

Nobody tells you about the flies in Australia and they’re a menace. We were slowly getting used to them and had become accustomed to them crawling over us in great numbers so long as they weren’t in our faces. Our campsite on this particular night was the worst we’d encountered and they drove us to distraction. They seem to know when you have both hands full and choose these moments to crawl up your nose and into your ears and eyes. I was doing a bit of urgent maintenance on my bike so not only were my hands full but they were greasy too. As if the regular flies weren’t enough, they were joined by a biting variety and between then had me on the verge of being carted off to the funny farm. The only saving grace of the evening was Tim’s superb lamb curry.

Tasmania

“If the weather is good, go west; if not go east” was the advice I’d been given and good advice it was to. After an eleven hour day crossing (cheapest option) on the ‘Spirit of Tasmania’ ferry we pitched our tents in Narawintapu NP and promptly met a semi-retired outdoor pursuits instructor heading back home to Canberra after spending two weeks kayaking solo around the east coast from Devonport to Hobart. In his early 50’s and sporting a bushmans beard that added to his rugged persona, he told us how one day he felt something smash into the side of his kayak. He looked down and caught a glimpse of a sharks open mouth before it disappeared, unimpressed with its composite lunch. Realising he was taking on water he headed for land where he removed two sharks teeth from the hull before making repairs!

In the NW corner of Tazzi we camped at Stony Point. On the map it looked remote and it seemed so on the approach but as we emerged from the trees so we discovered fifty or so caravans tucked away in the shrub. Many were unoccupied permanent sites complete with external log burning stoves and huge stockpiles of wood. We pitched up by the sea and soon found ourselves invited to join a group of retired locals around their campfire. Despite living just 100km away, the three couples annually set up camp and lived here five months of the year.

This was another variation on the ‘Grey Nomad’ theme (similar to the USA’s ‘Snowbirds’) we had encountered on the mainland. We had met lots of retired and semi-retired folk who spend some, if not all of the year on the road in their caravans, motorhomes or that other (unique to Australia?) phenomenon – the off-road camper trailer. (More next time)

One of the guys had built a wooden airplane thirty years ago and still flew it. Over the years he has flown to Perth on three occasions and crossed the Bass Straits sixteen times. When I asked him what the fuel range was he chuckled and said “Further than my bladder these days!” His quote reminded me of an interview I’d seen with the Dalai Lama on New Zealand TV. The interviewer had asked him about his reincarnation beliefs and whether he could remember any of his previous lives. He replied “When you get my age, difficult remember yesterday!” A witty as well as wise man indeed.

An amusing twist of normality interrupted our socializing when a younger camper shouted at us to keep the noise down. “I’ve got an early start” said the voice from the blackness. A group of retirees getting a bollocking for being too rowdy appealed to me.

Despite the offer to join them for a freshly caught fish supper the following evening, we decided to press on. A crystal clear blue sky on the west coast was there to be taken advantage of and so we rode south to the ‘Western Explorer’.

Originally two logging tracks, one of which penetrated the Arthur Pieman Conservation Area from the north, the other from the south, have been connected and now join Smithton in the north to Zeehan in the south via a sometimes loose, undulating 100km gravel road and a $10 ferry aptly named the ‘Fatman across the Pieman [river]’ – I dare you to say it without putting on a Geordie accent.

We only saw three other vehicles along the Explorer and relished the remoteness of the place. I was soon brought back to earth when we stopped at a lookout point approaching Strahan and the zip failed on my riding jacket. Tasmania was not the place to have the wind whistling through ones jacket I can assure you!

At Macquaire Heads south of Strahan we paid the ‘caretaker’ our $2.50ea camping fee and pitched our tents in the shelter of the shrubbery on the beach. After dinner we lit good size campfire on the beach and watched the Milky Way slowly appear in all its glory in the unpolluted sky – magic. Apparently some of the cleanest air in the world is to found along this coastline

The following morning the tide was out and we could blast along the Ocean Beach on our fully loaded bikes.

South of here is pure wilderness and access is by foot or helicopter only and so we rode east through the Franklin Gordon Wild River NP; a ride that took me back to New Zealand and a realization that you don’t always fully appreciate where you are. Only later on as you re-visit places in your mind do you truly appreciate previous experiences.

‘New Zealand’ gave way to ‘Turkey’ as we emerged from the NP onto the golden central plains. Along the way we stopped roadside to watch a helicopter fighting a bushfire dangerously close to the Tarraleah Power Stations pipelines before the road climbed again and wound its way through the series of concrete canals that interlink the hydro-electric reservoirs.

We spent the night camped at Dunrobin bridge where we swam,washed and did our laundry in Meadowbank Lake. The only other campers were three fisherman who drank so much beer they even had their own A-framed can crusher!

Hobart

Rain in the west forced us to change our plans and so we rode further east to Hobart. After initially being told we could camp at the showground we arrived to find that due to licencing limitations this was the case for ‘Self contained motorhomes and caravans only’. We spoke to the groundsmen who did their best to accommodate us by suggesting they tuck us away in a corner but they couldn’t hide their concern that someone would grass on us and have us moved on. With no other obvious options on the map we headed into town and the Information centre. The only campsites they could suggest were the expensive commercial sites and so we walked up the street to the NP office. On the way we passed a line of parked motorcycles amongst which was an overlanders Suzuki DR 650. The stickers suggested travel through Asia and membership of WIMA (Womens International Motorcycling Association). I had a suspicion as to who the bike belonged to and so left a message on the tankbag.

The NP office produced no obvious camping spots and we realized we’d have to camp further away from town than we’d planned. Heading south alongside the Huon River we found a few campsites but none were free. Eventually we picked up the ‘Arve Forest Drive’ which we followed until we found a lovely picnic area next to a stream complete with undercover table and several fire pits. It also sported a 15 minute circular walk amongst some magnificent fallen trees and giant tree stumps.

There was nothing to say ‘No Camping’ but we decided to wait until dusk before pitching our tents and so set about cooking dinner. It wasn’t long before Rob & Kylie arrived in their VW camper and soon after Derek & Rachel in their 4×4. It transpired that we all had the same idea and so we made one big campfire for all to share. Rachel had more desert than they could eat and soon the rest of us were tucking into pancakes with maple syrup and blueberries. Lovely.

The following morning we said our goodbyes and arranged to meet Rob & Kylie for dinner in Hobart that evening before riding a little further into the forest to see a giant Eucalyptus tree that was 87m tall and weighed in at 405 tonnes!

Hobart is best viewed from the lookout point at Mt.Wellington. We parked next to a Toyota Landcruiser with Italian number plates and spent the next hour or so chatting with the owners Franco & Jenny. Since selling their engineering business in 2000 they have traveled extensively throughout the world in their 4×4. The interior was testament to Jenny’s proud Italian housewife roots and was IMMACULATE. It looked as though it had been driven from a showroom, not just spent 15 months in the Outback.

The viewpoint had excellent mobile phone reception and so I returned the missed call from the following afternoon that I hoped was from the owner of the bike we’d seen in town. A woman’s voice answered the phone and invited us to join her for tea at the house she was staying at, conveniently between the lookout and town.

On arrival we were welcomed by a short grey haired lady who was of course… Linda Bootherstone.

The Legend that is Linda Bootherstone

I’d first heard about Englishwoman Linda during the planning stages of this trip. Danny had noticed some postings on the HUBB (Horizons Unlimited Bulletin Board) regarding a ‘missing’ 59 year old Englishwoman. A short time later a message appeared from Linda to say that all was well and that after getting a puncture somewhere in Pakistan she’d been ‘rescued’ by some locals and had ended up staying with them in their village. Once on the road we met several other overlanders who’d met Linda. It turns out she’d left Spain on one motorcycle and ridden to Germany where she collected her current Suzuki 650 from some friends who’d prepared it for her. She left Germany the year before Danny and I and followed pretty much the same route as us but included Indonesia. She even managed to arrange her 60^th birthday celebrations in India. It all sounds remarkable until you discover that she rode her Triumph to Moscow in 1967 (the year I was born!) and that she rode solo down the western side of Africa on her BMW R50 in 1973, the same year that Ted Simon rode down the east side reporting for The Times, eventually penning the book ‘Jupiters Travels’.

As we chatted over tea on that first meeting so Linda explained that she’d mentioned us to the house owner and that we were welcome to camp in the garden. We were still chatting when Joan, the owner arrived and after more tea and chat the offer to camp in the garden was replaced by the offer to stay in the twin bedded spare room. Very comfortable but I’d forgotten that Tim snores like a bastard!

The following day I visited Hobart’s Salamanca Market (Saturdays only) and wandered around the historical area of Battery Point before returning to Joan’s. My diary entry for the day finishes with “Tim snored so loudly I had to put my earplugs in”.

We’d planned to leave on the Sunday but once again the weather changed our plans and so we stayed another night.

Linda is a BIG folk music fan and plays several instruments including the Penny Whistle, guitar and the Fiddle. The latter of which she’d managed to carry undamaged on her bike all the way from Germany only to have it stolen in Queensland. She also writes her own songs and entertained us with ‘The Overlanders Song’ and ‘Oops…I’ve fallen off again!’ – must have seen Danny and I on the ‘F*#@ing’ Babusa Pass in Pakistan!

Her bikes health though was troubling her and a bike shop had quoted her $1000 to replace the CDI Unit they determined was the root of the intermittent problem. Tim and I were unconvinced and gave her bike a good look over. She told us that whilst she understood a fair bit about motorcycles she was no top mechanic. When organizing a WIMA Rally some years ago one of the ‘workshops’ was for the girls to look over Linda’s bike and list the ten deliberate faults. Unfortunately for Linda the girls returned lists of 20+ faults!

After trimming back the HT leads, tightening the spark plugs and battery terminals we convinced her to come for a ride with us to test it. Her bike ran so well that she decided to join us on the road for a few days when we returned from our visit to Bruny Island.

Bruny Island

We caught the ($11 return) ferry to the island and had a ride around North Bruny before crossing the ‘neck’ to South Bruny Island and the recommended free campsite at Jetty Beach. No sooner had we pitched our tents than the rain started. With no sheltered area to cook under we strung up my tarp between two trees and a few makeshift supports. The rain came down heavier and heavier and soon we were scraping drainage channels away from our tents. Enough water ran off the tarp for us to cook supper and brew tea but soon the flow of water overpowered us and just as we finished cooking so we had to abandon ship. We got a good soaking taking the tarp down but leaving it up would have created a puddle that would have flooded the tents. The rain eventually found the weak point in my ‘new’ tent and I resorted to propping my toiletry bag against the inner door to alter the angel sufficiently that the water ran off and not through the zip.

It was very windy during the night and we awoke to yet more rain. During the brief spells when it wasn’t raining we walked on the beach to stretch our legs and Tim collected enough Mussels to cook for lunch. It was the highlight of a day spent mostly in the tent.

The following day was dry and bright and we explored the rest of the island before catching the ferry back to the mainland. Onboard we could see a storm in the distance and were most disappointed when the ferry turned into the harbor straight into the storm. Turning right out of the port took us away from it and once dry again we stopped for supplies. Of course, when we emerged from the supermarket it was pissing down again.

“Of course you can come and stay” said Joan over the phone and before we knew it we were installed back in the spare room and drinking tea with the girls.

Over the course of the next week Tim, Linda and I squeezed in as much more of Tasmania as we could manage. We rode from Gordon Dam in the west to Freycinet NP in the east. We froze our arse’s off on the central plateau around GreatLlake and strolled along the 8km boardwalk at Cradle Mountain. Of the many campsites along the way the one that sticks in my mind the most was the one at Lake Gardiner. The unofficial campsite was accessed via an unmarked 4km track and had been suggested by a couple we’d met at a lookout point earlier in the day.

After sharing a cup of tea with the owners of the two motorhomes already parked up we collected firewood and set about preparing supper. Steve appeared on his quad bike and introduced himself as the owner of the [beautiful] house that overlooked the lake. After a short chat he shot off and returned with cold Guinness, crackers and dips for everyone before continuing chatting. The following day Linda and I took him up on his offer to visit his house and be shown around his nineteen acres. We sat on his veranda drinking proper coffee and learning about the local history and that of the central plateau we’d crossed to get here.

I hope Steve realizes his dream of ‘almost’ self-sufficient living and if I’m ever lucky enough to find myself back on Tasmania I would certainly pay him a visit.

Leaving the campsite meant saying goodbye to Linda. She’d been great company, singing, playing her penny whistle and steering the conversation into un-chartered territory. I will miss her and judging by the tears, she’ll miss us to. A truly inspirational lady – The Legend that is Linda Bootherstone.

We spent our last night on Tazzi camped by the surf club at Sulphur Creek. From here we rode the 30km to Devonport where we met Dave and Graeme on their BMW GS’s in the queue for the ferry.

Back on the Mainland

Dave had kindly offered to let us camp at his place in Warragul, 100km east of Melbourne but we wanted to be as close to the city as possible as we both had parts to collect that we’d ordered prior to catching the ferry to Tazzi.

I found a place in the camping guide on the northern outskirts of the city that would have been perfect had the place not been deserted and the gates locked when we arrived at 2030. We looked around for somewhere to rough camp but we were still in a fairly urban area and there was nowhere. Tim knocked on the door of the huge house opposite the campsite and after a brief conversation with Abraham, the owner, we pitched our tents on his lawn!

Dave and the gang

“I’m gonna call you two The Twins” Dave proclaimed very early on. It was an introduction to a sense of humor that was just one of his many special qualities.

His wife Leonie and 11yr old daughter Chelsea were equally as welcoming with Chelsea baking cakes for when we arrived.

Dave had a huge well equipped workshop in his garden that we were free to use to carryout all the maintenance we had planned before heading Outback. Now was not the time to use it though as we were only staying for one night en-route back to Tintaldra for the Horizons meeting.

Horizons Unlimited Travelers Meeting – Tintaldra

After pitching our tents by the river we wandered around the few bikes that had arrived before us amongst which were two German registered BMW’s. I got chatting with Werner and told him about the two young German lads we’d met in Pakistan (ZE Germans, Nils & Paul) and mentioned Paul’s accident and the subsequent repair. All of a sudden there was a look of realization on his face and he said “You’re the BMW motherfucker!” – Which is how Nils begins his emails to me. It turns out they’d met in Freemantle (Western Australia) when they arrived from Africa and Nil’s was shipping home to Germany.

Over the weekend we mingled with our fellow travelers, shared information, stories and ideas over a few beers and attended a few presentations made by other travelers.

Two of these in particular stuck in my mind. Adrian Scott, a project manager from Melbourne, had planned his ride from Magadan (Russia) to Istanbul in infinite detail. He even planned where he would be everyday. Once he’d finished planning, he bought a bike and set about getting his motorcycle license as he’d never ridden before. 400km later he put his bike in a crate and set off! This was merely the beginning and his story became funnier and funnier. I would very much like to read his newly published book ‘The Road Gets Better from Here’.

‘Fast’ Guido had everyone staring at his slides in disbelief and looking around the room to see if we were all on Candid Camera. On arriving riverside in Mali, Africa he and the English guy he was traveling with decided to turn their bikes into boats. They arranged some workspace at the wharf and set about building rafts on which they would mount their motorcycles but as neither of them had ever welded before this process took seven weeks, during which time the Englishman got Malaria. One of their tasks was to measure the speed of the river which Guido did by jumping in and floating downstream with his GPS! Eventually they were finished and Guido launched his boat complete with hand a fabricated paddle steamer type wheel that was powered by his KTM motorcycle via two drive chains strung together.

The tears were rolling down my cheeks. It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. They spent an incredible seven weeks on the river during which time they traveled 1500km upstream!

Whilst there I also collected some post I’d had sent to the hotel. This included a new book entitled ‘Adventure Motorcycling’ by Robert Wicks. It was a personalized copy to thank me for my input. The book contains much of what I’ve learnt on this trip, an overview of the trip and 23 of mine and Danny’s photographs. If anyone wants to take a look the ISBN no is: 978 1 84425 435 4 and Amazon are knocking them out for 14 quid.

Phillip Island World Superbike Championship

A night in the bush at Craig’s Hut with our fellow travelers we’d met at the HUBB meeting followed by a night back at Dave’s saw us to Phillip Island.

Arguably one of the best racetracks in the world we had a great weekend with some great racing. What really made it special though were those camped next to us. Gavin, a POME from Adelaide was on his own for the first night but was then joined by Graham and Monica. Gavin’s log burner kept us warm in the chill evening wind and by day they insisted on pouring ridiculous quantities of beer down our necks from 11am onwards. They were great company and really made our weekend.

The campsite itself was very quiet by UK standards. Nothing got burned down or blown up; not what we expected from the Ozzies.

Dave’s proper

This time we had a lot to do and figured it would take us about a week. We’ve been here three!

Part of my service plan was to strip and grease my rear suspension but when I disassembled it I found both the link arms stretched out of round and in need of replacement. A few phone calls later I’d learnt that there were none in the country and that if there were they would cost double what they would in the UK. I called England but even the English dealers would have to order them and so decided the quickest option may be to try and find some used ones. I eventually tracked some down in North Carolina, USA and arranged for them to be sent via UPS (International courier). With no sign of them after five days I emailed the supplier only to be told they’d sent them USPS (US Postal Service). Ten days later they arrived.

The time was not wasted though and I set about many other jobs. My bike has gone through three sets of steering head bearings thus far – a ridiculous amount. BMW have a unique way of adjusting these, unlike any other bike I’ve ever seen and so I set about making my own BMW special tool that now allows me to follow the ‘official’ procedure of torquing the bearing to 25Nm then backing it off through 60° using the two ‘peg-spanner’ type holes in the adjustment nut(?)

With all the maintenance complete I had a few extras to make. These included adding an extra fuel tap to allow me to fill my camp stove without continually disturbing the O-rings in the Quick Release couplings, a GPS isolation switch, a notice board inside my screen where I will write Spanish phrases in the hope it will help drum them into me prior to going to South America in October and two racks that will each carry a 5ltr water bottle.

All of this was aided by Dave’s constant ideas and enthusiasm but hampered by the fact I’d never welded before in my life. If Guido can build a boat though, I was damn sure I could build a water bottle holder!

Graeme was keen to take us on a 3-day ride over our first weekend at Dave’s but with my bike awaiting spares it wasn’t looking good for me. Until Trevor, who would also be attending the weekend’s ride, stepped in with the loan of his XR400. We had a great weekend camping and riding in the High Country and I had a blast hooning around on a lightweight dirtbike even if my arse was numb!

Ever the host, Graham regularly offered to swap bikes with me and I took him up on the offer a few times. I’d never ridden a BMW GS1150 before and was keen to try one. Once I had I saw at once why they have become so popular and over the weekend was mightily impressed with where Graham and Trevor managed to ride them.

Back at Dave’s work continued on the bikes and I repaired the fuel light sender wires that had been chafed off by the seat and made a new seat locator bracket to replace my broken one. I’ve also replaced the paper air filter with a washable foam one for the Outback.

Tim too has been flat out preparing his bike for the Outback. As well as the usual maintenance he to has added an extra fuel tap, made brackets to stop his screen flapping about, increased his water carrying capacity etc

We took it in turns to cook in the evenings and attended BBQ’s at Graeme’s, Wayne’s (not Todhunter) and Gary’s – the local MP. Altogether a very social experience and as a result the three weeks have flashed by.

We owe a HUGE ‘Thank You’ to Dave, Leonie & Chelsea. They, like the Todhunters, have played a very special part in our Australian experience and will be friends for life.

Moving on

It’s finally time to leave though and commence our ‘real’ Australian experience – the Outback. For me it’s not a final goodbye to our new friends as I’ll be back here at the end of September to airfreight my bike to Chile.

For those of you who like to follow our progress on a map our planned route is as follows:

Mildura, Broken Hill, Hawker, Leigh Creek (Flinders Ranges), Strezlecki track to Innaminca, Walkers crossing to Birdsville track, Marree, Cooper Pedy, Oodnadatta, Alice Springs, Uluru, Great Central track to Leonora, Kalgoorlie and into the SW corner. After looking around the ancient forests we’ll head up the west coast in the hope of meeting up with Billy (Billy & Trish) in Broome in June.

2^nd Anniversary on the road

As St.Patricks day rolled around again so did my second anniversary on the road. My original plan to spend 2.5yrs riding to Canada has well and truly gone out of the window as I’m running about 2yrs behind schedule!

My 2^nd year has been a great contrast to the first, having spent all barring a month of it in the western world. The lazy days of Asia are but a memory as I’ve swapped guest houses for a tent. Pitching and breaking camp, shopping for food, cooking, washing-up, collecting firewood etc eat a big hole in the day, especially when traveling on consecutive days. The benefit of this of course is getting to stay in a ‘million star hotel’ every night in some stunning locations, share it with the local wildlife (Wallabies, Possums and birds abound) and of course watch the sunrise and sunset. Internet access is minimal once you step off the backpacker/hostel trail and the time difference means phoning the UK between 0600-0900ish Aus time but of course there are no phones where we camp (usually NP’s but also rough camps).

I miss the magic of Asia, the sights, sounds and smells and know that my time there is not complete.

Bike and Kit

I haven’t mentioned too much about this in the past as not everyone is interested but after 2yrs of use I though I’d mention a few things.

I’ve ridden 65,619km (40,775miles) which means my bikes odometer reading is 73,476km (45,657miles). I’ve used 7 rear tyres (inc 2 2^nd hand), 5 fronts (inc 2 2^nd hand), three sets of chain & sprockets plus another 2 fronts, 2 waterpumps, 5 batteries and 3 sets of steering head bearings.

My tent gave up in NSW and I bought a 2^nd hand one from Wayne (Todhunter –cheers Wayne, its excellent!), my sleeping mattress delaminated internally and was replaced under warranty in Sydney, I’ve worn through 3 pairs of flip-flops and my walking shoes are on their last legs. 3 pairs of riding gloves, 2 MP3 players (1x iRiver & 1x Creative) have both failed, as did the zip on my riding suit.

All-in-all not too bad I don’t think but unfortunately as it was all purchased at around the same time, everything has started to fail at the same time!

PHOTO GALLERY -click the Smugmug logo

New Zealand – Australia

Going Solo

With Danny’s saving running low he had no choice but to accept the offer of ‘job sponsorship’, made by one of a group of friends we’d made in Queenstown. ‘Sponsorship’ would grant him a visa extension, a work permit and a guarantee of 40hrs per week work. All being well, Danny will be able to save some money and join me again somewhere in Australia.

My visa however, expired on November 9^th and I had a flight booked to Sydney on the 8^th.

Milford…at last…

With my snowboarding gear packed away, my motorcycle panniers packed and my room emptied I was ready to hit the road again. The weather however, had other ideas and the night before my planned departure it began to snow and continued to do so for 72hrs. During this time more snow fell than had done so all season! The road to Milford (my next chosen destination) was closed through avalanches and so I unloaded my bike, unpacked my snowboarding gear and returned to The Remarkables for another three days (Coronet Peak had already closed for the season).

Finally, on October 8th, I rolled out of OP1 (our affectionate name for 1 O’Learys Paddock) and headed South West, through the orchards of the Upper Clutha Valley to the Catlins Coast at Nugget Point. Here I turned South East to my chosen destination for the day – Curio Bay. There was no avoiding the oncoming storm and soon it was ‘hosing it down’ (Kiwi term). Thankfully I could see the end of it and with the benefit of an empty road and supremely grippy road surface I rode on much faster than I normally would. Soon I was clear of the storm but no sooner had I turned south towards Curio Bay so I got a good soaking in another storm and this time with a good wind to. “Bugger camping” I thought and headed straight for the highly recommended ‘Curio Bay Backpackers’.

The following morning I continued west, picking up the Southern Scenic Route through Invergargill and Reefton before it turned north to run alongside the Fiordlands National Park. I followed it all the way, through Manapouri and onto the Milford Road. I’d met a Scottish couple along the way who informed me the Milford road had been re-opened the previous day.

That night I bush camped at Cascade Creek, one of the last DOC sites on the way to Milford. After dark, I left my tent to water the plants and once my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness (I’d been reading by head torch) I was treated to a spectacular clear sky, seemingly filled with more stars than I could recall seeing since a memorable night in Turkey. I even saw three satellites tracking across the sky before I finally succumbed to the cold and returned to my tent. It was a cold night and in the morning I was unable to fit my tent back in its bag as the frost on the fly sheet was so thick I couldn’t roll it small enough. Instead I strapped it separately to my bike to let it thaw.

Like Ying & Yang there is an opposite of everything and my freezing night was countered by a glorious cloud free day. Avalanche debris lined the roadside as I rode through the Eglington Valley and I passed several ‘Cirques’ to my right, reminiscent of ‘Cirque de Gavarnie’ in the French Pyrenees – only on a slightly smaller scale. Thanks to the recent snowfall, waterfalls abound in the gorge and as I excited the Homer Tunnel such was their number it was as though the sheer rock walls had been hung with pinstriped wallpaper.

So I am told, it was an exceptional day, weather wise and I enjoyed a cruise around Milford Sound in a T-shirt and shorts atop one of the smaller tour boats. Incidentally, Milford SOUND is actually a Fiord but was incorrectly named by the fellow who discovered it.

The Road North

Back on dry land and after a nights camping at Cromwell where I had to peg my tent out to dry in the wind prior to erecting it, I headed for Christchurch (via my favorite NZ pie shop – Dough Boys at Lake Tekapo) and a final night with Caroline and Dave before visiting local man Nigel Marx. As a moderator for the Horizons Unlimited website I gather much of/and share information on, Nigel had replied to one of my postings with the offer of ‘Beer, bed and shed’. I stayed in his now stationary 1950’s caravan (complete with miniature coal fired oven & hob) adjacent to his beautiful 1860’s timber house with its huge garden at the bottom of which were lined up his array of ‘Project bikes’.

We were joined for dinner by Nigel’s friend Nick (emigrated from Somerset) and spent a very pleasant evening eating drinking beer, talking old motorbikes, drinking more beer, talking more old motorbikes, drinking more beer, talking bollocks…

No wonder I find it so difficult to learn new things; my heads full of a load of old shite!

In the morning, together with Nick, we visited another of Nigel’s friends, Neil. Neil was justifiably proud of his private collection of Yamaha Twins and in particular, beautifully restored YDS 2,3,5,6 & 7. The only one he doesn’t have being the YDS 1 which was never imported into NZ and of course the number 4 which the Japanese avoid. For those of you unfamiliar with early Japanese motorcycles, these stem from the early sixties and as such are ‘classics’ in their own right.

Back at Nigel’s he cooked me a cracking breakfast to see me on my way to Picton and the ferry to the North Island.

Leaving the South Island

Having booked the 0800 ferry to Wellington I spent the night in a backpackers to minimize my overnight unpacking. On the ferry I was directed to the bike parking where I expected one of the crew to strap it down as they would crossing the English Channel.  I stood around for ages before a crew member told me I had to go upstairs, “What about strapping my bike down?” I said. A shrug of the shoulders prior to “You can if you want” was his reply. When I asked where the straps were he pointed to several short lengths of rope hanging up and left me to my own devices. After five months in the country how could I have forgotten that customer service has yet to be introduced in New Zealand.

I found the North Island totally different to the South Island from the moment I rolled off the ferry. Firstly there was the volume of traffic, then the strength of the wind: For the first time since Iran my arms ached from fighting to keep my bike on my side of the road! Then there was the graffiti which is almost unheard of on the south island.  I noticed houses and shops with bars on the doors and windows; folk on the south island rarely lock their houses and think nothing of leaving their car running outside whilst they go into a shop. It was like being in a different country.

Regarded as one of the world’s finest Art Deco towns, Napier was my next destination. On the campsite I met Dennis & Lorraine, an English couple in their 50’s who, after a three week trip to NZ last year, had struggled to settle into a routine once back in England. After (very little) discussion, they quit their jobs, flew to NZ and bought a van to have a proper look around. Fair Dinkum!

Dennis & Lorraine, having come from the north were able to pass on their recommendations and I, coming from the south, was able to do the same. Over the next few weeks their recommendations proved to be excellent – thanks guys.

The main thing I wanted to do on the North Island was to walk the ‘Tongariro Crossing’; said to be New Zealand’s greatest one day walk. However, the 18km walk amongst the volcanoes immediately south of Lake Taupo is regularly affected by the weather and both of my attempts to tackle it were thwarted by snow. On my first attempt I was half way to Taupo from Napier when I met some locals traveling the opposite way. They told me they’d spent the weekend in Taupo but were unable to attempt it thanks to recent snow but suggested “Give it a week and you might get lucky”. With this in mind I returned to the coast and followed the Eastern Cape through Gisbourne (NZ’s sunniest town), all the way around to the Bay of Plenty where I turned inland for Rotorua and its surrounding Geothermal reserves.

Dennis & Lorraine had recommended a campsite just north of the town and a fisn ‘n’ chip shop. The campsite owner was great and selected a sheltered spot by the river for me to pitch my tent. That first evening, as I left the fish ‘n’ chip shop so the heavens opened and it hammered down with rain. I ate my dinner in a bus shelter whilst waiting for the rain to let up before I set off on the 1.5km walk back to the campsite. Oh how I got soaked during that walk!

The following day, after visiting Wai-O-Tapu “Geothermal Wonderland”, I was sitting in the camp kitchen eating lunch when the groundsman walked in. I’d decided that with the Labour weekend national holiday approaching I would pack up that afternoon and head south for another attempt at the Tongariro Crossing before it got too busy. I looked out of the window and said “That sky looks to me as though anything could happen”… “Lived here all my life… it’s not going to rain”. Great thought I, I’ll set off this afternoon and with that a holidaying fisherman I’d spoken to a few times walked in. A good job he did to, for 20 minutes after we started chatting it was pissing down! Had I not been chatting with him I’d have been in the middle of packing when the rain came. When I did eventually get down to Tongariro the following day it transpired that the previous days rain had fallen as snow in the mountains and the route was once again blocked.

Nice one Ewan & Charlie…!

“I’ve got to ask you about your bike” said Peter Ghinis as I removed my helmet outside a shop in Tauranga. “I recognize it from The Race to Dakar…chat chat chat…my wife and I are big fans of the Long Way Round, chat chat chat, we toured Europe in a van in 1987, the English were very friendly and helpful, chat, chat, chat… what are your plans?” I didn’t really have any and so accepted Peters offer to stay with him and his family for the weekend. That evening I watched him playing in his band (bloody good they were too) and watched the Moto GP highlights from Phillip Island (bloody shite that was!). The following morning Peter’s wife Shelly cooked us a cracking breakfast before I headed into town to visit an outdoor photography exhibition by French photographer Yann Arthus-Bertrand. Nineteen years worth of work shot all over the world from 4000 hours in helicopters made for the most stunning photographic display I’d ever seen.

I’d never had any interest in seeing Africa but after this display I’m not so sure…

Peter and I watched the Rugby World cup final together on the Sunday morning. Enough said.

Given the fashions back in 1987, looking through Peter & Shelly’s photo album was like viewing the stills from ‘National Lampoon’s European Vacation’. The highlight though was Peter’s moustache that made him look like ‘Magnum PI’ – only without the Ferrari. This was, of course, lost on his daughters Alexa & Georgia who had never heard of Magnum. Peter meanwhile was keeping a low profile

It wasn’t until I got to the end of the album and their visit to Los Angeles that Pete finally admitted it must have been cool to look like Magnum. There was a photograph of one Star on Hollywood Boulevard and that star was of course Tom Sellick.

Peter has unwittingly engrained himself in my memory forever, for when I reach into a freezer for my favorite ‘Magnum’ ice cream, all I can think of is Peter and his great family in Tauranga.

Had it not been for Ewan & Charlie I may never have met the Ghinis family. Cheers guys!

The Coromandel Peninsula

The tarmac stops just north of Colville and a 20km gravel roads leads to the campsites of Port Jackson and Fletcher Bay. I pitched my tent at Port Jackson but got very little sleep as I was kept awake holding onto my tent in constant fear of it blowing away. Watching me try to get it back in its bag the following day would have been pure comedy. It was a beautiful spot to camp though.

Heading south again on the east coast I spent some time at Hot Water Beach where by digging a hole in the sand with an ‘inlet’ for the hot spring water and an ‘inlet’ for the cold seawater it was possible to build a hot tub to my own liking!

At the campsite by the beach just north of Hot Water beach the sparrows would take bread from my fingers whist the thrushes would look on from just a few feet away.

The Far North

I passed through a rather wet Auckland and rode a cracking motorcyclist’s road between Helensville and Wellsford en-route to Matakohe and the splendid Kauri Museum.

Kauri trees are the second largest trees on earth and once covered Northland; that is until the European settlers came and felled the majority of the trees many of which were over 2000years old. The displays of old logging & sawmill machinery, timber, chainsaws old photographs etc was fantastic, but after three hours I just couldn’t absorb any more information! I highly recommend it to anyone traveling in the region.

I passed the giant sand dunes at Omepere on my way to Rawene and the ferry across Hokianga Harbour (a large inlet that bares no resemblance to a harbour!) I rolled off the ferry first and had the road all to myself. All that separated me from the water was the mangroves and my only company was the birds of prey that hovered in the thermals of the cloudless sky. The next 65km were beautiful and the brilliant sunshine highlighted more shades of green that a Dulux paint chart. I wish I could have listed all the different types of trees.

The last 21km to Cape Reigna at the tip of the North Island are gravel and I pitched my tent at the fairly well sheltered DOC site before riding up to the lighthouse for sunset. Checking my odometer I noticed that I’d ridden EXACTLY 30,000 miles from home. It was a lovely evening to watch the sunset over the meeting of the Tasman Sea and the Pacific Ocean.

During the night I could hear something moving around in my tent’s vestibule. Still in my sleeping bag I unzipped my inner tent and turned on my torch only for something to run straight at my face. Thinking it was a rat I instinctively batted it away with the back of my hand. It was only as the spines sank into my skin did I realize it was a hedgehog! Now terrified and curled up in a ball, I gently rolled him out of my tent and went back to sleep.

South for the last time

I took the scenic road through Whangaroa and around the coast to Matauri Bay and the ‘Rainbow Warrior’ memorial before riding into Paihia where I was flagged down by a guy in a beaten up old car.

Michael Bregman had recently returned to NZ after six years in England. He owns a BMW R1100LT and has toured Russia, Ukraine, Kazakstan etc but has sadly returned to NZ due to kidney failure. Hoping to find a suitable donor more quickly than would have been possible in the UK he was disappointed to discover his chances in NZ were exactly the same as they would have been in England.

If a man (or woman!) wants to travel badly enough they will find a way and Michael is no exception. Having sourced a suitable trailer in the USA, he plans to fit his Dialysis machine inside it and tow it around Australia collecting his ‘bags’ along the way. Inspirational words indeed.

Old schoolmate

I rode into Auckland with the same feeling, deep in my stomach, that I’d had riding into Kuala Lumpur. The big city meant air freight and the beginning of the next leg of my journey and I was excited. New Zealand had been good fun but Australia would bring adventure and I couldn’t help remembering:

“Das ist kein urlab; das ist abeteur!”

During my stay in Queenstown I’d received an email from ‘Friends Reunited’ saying that “Several people from your school year have updated their profiles”. When I clicked on the link I recognized all the names but next to that of George Norridge it said ‘Emigrated’.  Wondering where George had gone I clicked on his profile only to discover him in Auckland!

“Always got plenty of room for mates to stay” said Georges return email and so after having a new tyre fitted in Auckland (where I made the mistake of letting the shops ‘mechanic’ fit the tyre because it was included in the price) I turned up Georges work just as everyone was heading off home for the weekend.

Having seen George only once in the last 20 years, it was good to catch up. That Friday evening, joined by another ex-pat, we went out on the town, reminisced, caught up on what/where/who/how of the past 20 years and got hammered. Everything was still spinning when I heard George get up for work the following morning – I’ve no idea how he managed it!

I spent a whole day cleaning my bike for Australian Customs only for it to pour with rain the day I rode to the shipping agent. Covered in road dirt after my trip across the city I asked the people running the truck wash behind the shipping agent if they could give my bike a quick blast over. “I don’t know if we clean bikes – I’ll have to phone the boss” was their response, followed by a phone call and “No, we don’t clean bikes” and so, with no other customers, they returned to doing nothing.

I had to ride another 10km to Manukau to find another jet wash, whereupon I was charged $1 per minute! The only saving grace was that by now the sun had come out and the roads had dried up. Back at the shipping agent all went well apart from a close call in the warehouse when a small but heavy pallet toppled off a forklift when I was pushing my bike past in. I just managed to jump over it and avoid crushing my feet!

Other than that the process was simple. I merely removed the mirrors, strapped my riding gear to the seat and handed her over along with NZ$938. No wooden crate required; just wheel her into a Quantas air cargo container. I was hopeful that after the fiasco of getting our bikes into the country, this would make entering Australia easier.

Once I handed my bike over I could relax. I spent a few days in Auckland city visiting the Sky Tower, took a bus ride out to ‘One Tree Hill’ (U2 – The Joshua Tree) and at night I spent my time with Georges friends Marcel & Gisle and Matt & Lorraine; all of whom made me extremely welcome.

Soon though, it was time to leave. George & Marcel dropped me in the city early in the morning and I caught the bus out to the airport.

AUSTRALIA

“Is that it?… You mean I’m free to go?” I said to the customs inspector as he cleared my bike with a phone call. “Yep. Just pay your cargo fees”.

After all the horror stories I heard about getting a bike into Australia I was pleasantly surprised. From the arrivals hall I’d walked to the Quantas Air Cargo centre with my Airway Bill, they gave me some paperwork to take to the customs house who phoned the Cargo Centre to make an appointment to inspect my bike half an hour later. The customs officer was unsure as to whether Quarantine would need to inspect my bike and decided that once they’d cleared her they would let the system decide whether Quarantine would need to do their own inspection. I met the inspectors who checked the frame number, made a phone call back to their department and gave me clearance there and then! I paid my AU$111 to Quantas and they rolled my bike into the carpark. Having landed at 1120, I rode away at 1445 only to run out of petrol before I reached the first fuel station! Boy did I sweat pushing her that kilometre to get fuel.

First impressions

I’ve only been here for three weeks but already I’ve been overwhelmed by the hospitality of the Australians.

At the Quantas Air Cargo Centre I asked the guy serving me the best way to Manly. Whilst I was sorting my gear out he brought me four pages he’d photocopied from his street map with the route drawn on them.

In Manly I stayed with my best mate’s younger brother, Jonno, and when I asked which was the best SIM card to buy for my phone one of his flat mates, Dion, pulled the SIM card out of his spare phone and gave it to me.

After a weekend in Manly organizing maps etc I headed off into the bush. As I rode into Apsley Falls to camp for the night, the only other campers in the campsite waved. I rode a loop of the campsite (counting  nine Wallabies) and parked up next to the other campers. No sooner had I removed my helmet than I voice shouted over “You want a cold beer…?” I joined Colin & Marjolyn for a beer, then another, then an invitation to join them for dinner. With a few bottles of wine on the table and a roaring campfire we tucked into steaks, fried potatoes and avocado salad – welcome to Australia!

The following morning we shared breakfast and Colin & Marjolyn added their favorites to my list of places to visit in Oz along with their phone number and an invitation to visit.

I took there advice regarding a route out to the coast and after enquiring in a local shop as to the best place to camp I found myself on Illaroo in the Yuraygir NP. No sooner had I pitched up than I was approach by two fishermen. Murray and Noel had recently completed a 12000 km ride across the Savannah Way to Darwin and back via the Outback to Queensland – Noel on a F650! When I said I’d be around for a few days as it was such a nice spot (I was next to the steps that led onto two miles of empty beach) they said I must “Come and have a beer and a feed”. The following morning they arrived with a map to their rented house in the local village and an invitation to join them at 1700. That evening I met Noel’s wife Helen and enjoyed another BBQ, got more info added to my list of places to see and two more invitations to stay; this time in Queensland. Unfortunately, Noel & Helen won’t be at home when I pass through next September as they, along with 200 other Healy Sports Car club members, will be spending 10 weeks in Europe with their Healy.

Heading inland again I spent a few nights at the Warumbungles NP. After I was awoken by the squawking of large white Cockatoo’s and driven insane by the fly’s, I walked the 18km  trail from the campsite over the ridge for some wonderful views. Along the way I passed wallabies lazing around in the shade (they had the right idea), Emu’s and two different species of parrots.

That evening, as I stepped into the shower, my heart sank. I went to remove my St.Christopher only to find it not there – PANIC! Thinking back, I recalled removing it at the top of the trail and placing it on my rucksack whilst I applied more suncream. I also recalled hearing something slide along my rucksack but presuming it was a branch.

By 0700 the following morning I was walking the trail again. I couldn’t do anything about my aching feet but I could avoid the hottest part of the day. I walked quickly to the last place I’d seen it and then searched the next 80yds of trail step by step. On my second sweep I found it – Eureka! And by 1100 I was back at the campsite where I discovered the birds had eaten my yoghurt, honey and bread – the robbing bastards!

My next stop was Hill End NP. A former gold rush town that at its peak in 1870, housed 25,000 people; is now home to just 120. Many of the original buildings have been preserved and some are still run as businesses; including the local hotel/pub. The village green is the campsite which gives it a perfect location.

The first car I spotted as I arrived was that of Gaeton, a French lad I’d met at the previous campsite. He, like me, had brought food for a BBQ based on the gas fired units at the previous site. Here though they were wood fired (bring your own wood) – bugger!

Don and his son Glen saw me looking around the BBQ’s and shouted over “You can come and use ours, we’ve got plenty of wood”. That evening, after we’d all been to the pub, we cooked everything we had and sat around another roaring camp fire.

When Don & Glen left they handed me a piece of paper saying “Here’s my phone number, if I’m not there I’ll beat the bowling club. You’re welcome to stay when you’re passing through”.

I’ve barely had a minute to myself since I’ve been here and its all down to Ozzie hospitality – nice one guy’s; you certainly know how to make a traveler feel welcome.

Two’s Company

Those of you who have read this blog from the beginning will remember Tim Hobin (TNT), the Englishman we met in Pakistan last year. Sadly, Tim and his wife Tracy have separated since we last saw them and with Tracy now living in Greece Tim decided to join me on the Australian leg of my trip.

I picked him up from Sydney airport on November 22^nd and the following day we rode the five hour round trip north to Newcastle to look at a suitable bike we’d found on the web. With the deal done we returned to Sydney for the weekend whilst Wayne registered the bike ready for collection.

On the campsite the following morning we were approached by a Swiss guy looking for Tim. It turns out he’s a riding buddy of Wayne’s and Wayne had sent him round for a chat. By now you know what’s coming next… sure enough, we spent the evening at Ralph’s eating, drinking and putting the world to rights!

When Wayne phoned the following day to say the bike was ready he too invited us to stay, service the bikes, sort Tim’s kit out etc. That was on Monday; it’s now Friday and we’re still at Wayne’s! – Poor bugger’s can’t get rid of us!

Whilst the days have been spent working on the bikes and getting organized the evenings have been spent with Wayne, his wife Chris and daughter Leigh, eating and drinking on their huge covered deck above the workshop.

I’ve serviced my bike and Tim has stripped, greased and checked his new Suzuki DR650 and sorted out packing his kit. Tomorrow (Sat 1stDec) we’ll be ready to hit the road.

Wayne used to own Cundle Flat, a 600 acre farm a few hours north of here and tomorrow the three of us will ride up there and camp.

Having decided to take up exchange teaching posts in Canada next year, this will be Wayne’s last motorcycle trip for some time. It will also be somewhat shorter than the 15000 km Outback trip he undertook on the DR last year.

Christmas

It’s now just two weeks until my sister arrives for our traditional Christmas/ New Year rendezvous. You’ll not hear from me again before the New Year so I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Thanks to all of you who have taken the time to post messages on the notice board – its great to hear from you but who the f*#@ is Fishy!!?

I’d also like to say a special thanks to those of you who have helped me along the way – you know who you are and you’ve all made my journey extra special.

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New Zealand

I’d ridden about 20km along the road to Jackson Point before I spotted the sign saying ‘The Craypot – Closed’. Bollocks! I’d been looking forward to ‘Fush ‘n’ Chups’ before pitching my tent by the sea. It was 130km to Fox Glacier and another ten or so to the campsite at Gillespies Beach and with only two hours of daylight remaining I knew it would be tight, but for some reason I really fancied camping by the sea.

After collecting a few supplies in Fox village I rode directly into the sunset and found the dirt road that wound its way through the forest for 12km to the beach where I pitched my tent under the moonlight.

Despite being an enjoyable day’s ride the last hour had been cold. As the road turned away from the sea and entered the forest so the temperature had plummeted. Quite the opposite of five hours previously when I’d nearly given myself a Hernia trying to pick my bike up after dropping it in the sand at Lake Hawea. Taking some pictures at the waters edge had seemed like a good idea at the time, until I discovered that what looked like packed gravel from a distance was in fact soft sand.

Danny, having seen much of the south island during a visit some years ago, had opted to stay in Queenstown and so I had to pick my bike up alone.

I’d had a route planned for seeing the south island north of Queenstown for some time but every time a suitable ‘window’ in the weather was forecast so something would crop up that required I stayed in town. Most recently it had been our Australian visa applications. They were returned pending chest x-rays (to check for TB) because we’d spent more than three months in Asia. The forms arrived on the Thursday, we got the x-rays done the following Monday, they were then sent to a lab before we could have an appointment with the (Embassy Approved) Radiologist on the Thursday. A week had passed by, the weather had changed and once again I would have to wait to go for a look around. But now, I was sitting under the stars with my stove roaring away, looking across at Mt.Cook illuminated by an almost full moon. It had been worth the wait.

Over the next few days I worked my way up the west coast camping at the very basic DOC (Department of Conservation) sites along the way. The stretch north of Greymouth that passed by the ‘Pancake Rocks’ at Punakaiki was particularly nice and I was amazed some of the houses tucked away in the most unlikely locations.

In Westport I spent the night in a backpackers hostel so I could do some laundry and in the morning was disappointed to discover a pool of water underneath my bike in the woodshed where I’d parked her. I traced the leak to the water pump drain hole; another seal had failed. I thought about the last time I’d replaced it in Rainbow Guesthouse, Leh, North India and realized it was a year ago almost to the day. Even writing this now I find it hard to believe that was a year ago. Although I always carry a spare, I decided to see if I could get it to last until I returned to Queenstown where I could repair it in the relative comfort of the garage. All it would/should mean would be topping up the radiator each morning.

Back in my tent I was determined not to let the sand flies spoil the beauty of the campsite at the foot of the Heaphy Track (as far north as you can drive up the west coast) but it was hard. Despite smearing all exposed skin with insect repellent, by the time I’d finished cooking my tea I had 27 bites on my left hand alone. They even managed to bite me through my trousers and long johns. In fact, there was only one part of me that didn’t get bitten and that’s only because it was so cold!

Celebrity Death Match – Sand Fly vs Mosquito anybody?

After a visit to the infamous Self-acting Incline (regarded as an engineering marvel in its day) in the former mining town of Denniston, I headed inland along the Buller River Valley before turning NE to Motueka and the Abel Tasman NP. Picking up some supplies at the local supermarket I got chatting to a local couple whos sixteen year old son was at sea for the first time on a fishing vessel. He’d emailed halfway through his six week stint in the Southern Ocean to say they had snow on deck. So that’s where it was – it certainly wasn’t on the mountains!

Having turned my nose up at the $20 wanted by a campsite just up the road in Kaiteriteri, I set off over Takaka Hill in search of another. Not realizing how far it was to the next campsite, it had been dark for an hour before I checked in at Pohara Beach. The following morning I tried phoning a few kayaking companies in the hope of arranging a day paddling through the NP but it seemed they’d all shut up shop for the winter; I guess I’ll have to wait until I’m up this way again en-route to the north island in early October. Instead, I rode around Golden Bay and visited Whanganui Beach. A twenty minute walk over the hills from a car park at the end of a 12km dirt road that runs west from Puponga. It’s the most northerly point of the south island and despite being battered by the wind was a gorgeous location.

I returned south over Takaka Hill in daylight and got a room in a backpackers in Nelson. Arriving on a Sunday was perfect and I tucked into an ‘all you can eat’ Sunday Roast at the Victorian Rose in Nelson before watching Bourne Ultimatum at the local cinema.

The following day I continued south through Nelson Lakes NP and spent the night at Hanmer Springs. After eight consecutive days in the saddle I was looking forward to soaking in the hot springs that give the town(?) its name. Encircled by mountains, the nine outdoor pools range in temperature from 28-39°C. Had I realized just what it was like in there prior to going, I’d have taken my camera. As I’d previously witnessed in Queenstown, when the atmospherics are right, a pink/purple glow appears over the mountains for about twenty minutes as the sun sets. That night I watched the glow over the mountains turn into a beautiful sunset and eventually another brilliantly moonlit night; all from the comfort of a 39° spa pool! The heat didn’t last long though as that night I slept in a base layer, fleece, long johns, thick socks and a hat. It was about -5°C in my tent but felt much colder.

I spent the next two nights with Caroline and Dave in Christchurch where I collected some bike parts I’d previously ordered,  arranged for a water pump impeller kit to be delivered overnight and took a ride around the volcanic peninsular of Akaroa.

Heading south towards Queenstown under heavy skies, I was thankful to skirt the two storms I’d been watching on the horizon and once through the first range of mountains I emerged into blue skies and brilliant sunshine. After a brief stop in Tekapo my bike overheated just as I passed the town limit sign. Perhaps my hopes of nursing her back to Queenstown were a little optimistic.

After letting her cool down I topped up the radiator from my waterbottle and continued on my way but the die was now cast and this would prove to be the first of several stops. Each time the temperature light illuminated I would kill the engine, select neutral and coast as far as possible knowing the cold air would cool the engine rapidly. Fortunately in New Zealand you’re never far from a river or stream and so even once I’d emptied my waterbottle it was usually just a case of climbing over a fence and crossing a field to re-fill it. By the time I returned to my bike she was cold enough to remove the radiator cap and top it up.

It took longer than I’d anticipated but with no additional dramas I rolled into Queenstown in daylight. My twelve days back on the road had raced by but now it was time to get back on my snowboard.

Tuesday September 4^th…

…it’s for days like today that I snowboard. After a very poor season for snowfall there was 30cm forecast to fall overnight; the first decent fall for a month.

We were up at 0600, ate breakfast and waiting in the queue for the fist lift up the mountain at 0900. The lifts open one at a time as the ski patrol take care of avalanche control. Finally the lift we’ve been waiting for (Shadow Basin) opens and after a couple of runs we find ourselves alighting the lift just as patrol remove the ‘Closed’ signs from the hiking trail that leads to the top of the chutes above Alta lake. After a ten minute hike we laid the first tracks down the chutes and returned again and again until our legs would no longer carry us. It had been the best day of the season.

Pic – Fresh Tracks

With more snow forecast for Mt.Hutt (5hrs drive north), Andy, Danny and I set off at 0600 the following morning and stopped at Ohau ski fields en-route. The access road was the knarliest we’d encountered and reading the weather reports after the trip I noticed that the road is often closed due to falling debris – try the Karakoram!

The low cloud affecting visibility gradually lifted as the morning went on, allowing us to venture further off-piste. After traversing for some time before walking for five minutes or so, we came to an open powder bowl. Dropping in one at a time, I brought up the rear and was stunned as I hit a buried rock towards the bottom of the bowl; it was like riding into a wall on a bicycle and going over the handlebars. Somewhat dazed, I knelt for a while gathering my senses and was straightening my cricked neck when I heard people shouting “Are you OK?” I replied that I was but soon a skier arrived to check on me. As we rode away together so they were still shouting. It was only as we crested the next rollover that I spotted Danny led on the ground, staring at the sky, screaming “I’ve broken my arse!” He was in agony and it was some time before he could struggle down the mountain and limp into the café.

With Danny opting out of the rest of the days riding, Andy and I headed back up to the ridgeline for a few more runs. Our last run followed a 50 minute hike onto and along the ridgeline. From our drop-in point the chute was blind until we’d crossed the first rollover but having checked it out from below we knew what to expect. It was the best, longest, deepest powder run off the season and (almost) made up for totaling my board earlier in the day.

We spent the night in Methven in readiness for our trip to Mt.Hutt the following day. Danny, checking his arse out in the mirror, was pleased to have something to show for all the pain and his still emerging bruise was about 8in long and shaped like New Zealand! This would prove to be just the beginning – see photos!

I wanted to draw around its outline with a marker pen each day but Danny wouldn’t let me near him. If he had, his arse would have looked like a cross-section of a tree trunk by now.

The off-piste at Mt.Hutt was tracked out by the time we got there but the on-piste was the best we’d had this season so we stayed for two days and enjoyed the novelty of being able to see the ocean from a ski field before returning to Queenstown, collecting some fresh salmon from the salmon farm on the way.

This week had been long awaited. With only four (half) decent snowfalls this winter, records will show this to be a poor (but not the poorest) season and that made this week even more special.

Back in Queenstown…

It was time for some bike maintenance. The abrasive tarmac had finished off my front tyre and my leaking water pump required replacing. As this was likely to be the only chance I’d have to work on my bike at my leisure and in a decent garage, I took the opportunity to go right through her before we set off on the next leg of our journey.

Upon re-assembly I found the radiator leaking and traced it to an unusual fault. The fan is mounted in a plastic housing mounted to the back of the radiator. The housing had warped in the heat of Asia and the high point had rubbed through one of the cooling fins. As I’d been topping the radiator up due to the failed water pump seal, the additional leak had been disguised. The radiator was sent to Christchurch, repaired, flushed, painted and returned in four days for a total bill of NZ$170.

The end is nigh

Spring is truly upon us, the snow is receding rapidly (like us!) and the daytime temperatures are in double figures. The breeze has been warm for the first time this week and the Fernhill Open Golf Championship (us four housemates on the nine hole Frankton course) was played in shorts and T-shirts a few days ago. Our days on the mountain remind me of the summers we rode the glacier in Les Deux Alpes, France – too icy until about 10am followed by a sweet spot of around three hours before it became too slushy and we were surfing across puddles at the base. As each day goes by so the sweet spot ends sooner, but with school holidays starting this weekend they’ll try to keep the mountain open for another week.

Friends have started to move on. First Tom and Gemma headed off on a brief road trip before returning to the UK. They were soon followed by Jenny and today we took our housemate Rob to the airport for his long haul flight home to his final year of university in Hull. Danny and I rolled around laughing when he referred to himself as a mature student – we’d celebrated his 21^st here and it was a night to remember. Ian had written him a list of 21 things he had to achieve during the day and he managed a creditable 17 of them.

We though one of the hardest to achieve would be, ‘Seven ball someone at pool’. Now for the non pool players, ‘seven balling’ someone means clearing the table leaving all seven of your opponents balls un-potted. The forfeit for being ‘seven balled’ is dropping your trousers and running round the table. We strolled into Q-Lounge on the way back from the mountain and racked the balls up where Rob proceeded to seven ball an unsuspecting Rich (English trainee ski instructor) not once but twice in succession! Luckily for Rich he managed a pot in the third game as three in a row means everything off! Richs’ stunned, wordless expression was a picture.

Turning 40

 Two weeks after Rob’s 21^st, I turned 40. I spent it in one of my favorite places – up a mountain, on my snowboard. Sure, there are people there 30 years younger than me, but there are also people 30 years older. Up there age is irrelevant – you’ve just got to want it; so here’s to another 30 years snowboarding!

A weekend to remember

It was four thirty on a Sunday afternoon and the remnants of a Sunday roast were strewn around the cabin. Cruising along at 5 knots with the sun setting on our backs, we headed back to port as the relaxing tunes of ‘Chilled Ibiza’ flowed from the boats tannoy. Having already divvied up the crayfish tally, Captain John was filleting all the cod we’d caught whilst I piloted the boat.

We were in Doubtful Sound where Andy Pedley (who we’d met on an Avalanche Awareness course earlier in the season) had arranged for ten of us to spend the weekend cruising around on a converted cave tour boat. Danny & Liz dived for crayfish whilst the rest of us fished and drank in the scenery along with a few beers. The fishing was good and we caught Blue Cod, Red Cod, Groper, Tarakihi, Wrasse, Sea Perch and Jock Stewarts.

Liz was the star of the show. A 32 year old Canadian, she’d only learnt to dive the previous week but was KEEN as mustard. Onboard, she earned the nickname ‘Cave girl’ thanks to her willingness to get stuck into anything Danny said it was nothing compared to what she was like under the water. As Danny took a while to get used to picking up crayfish (Rock Lobster) thanks to them looking twice their real size under the water, Liz was straight in there, sometimes wrestling two at a time.

Saturday’s rain had cleared to reveal the mountain peaks under blue skies. A pod of dolphins took up position at the bows, changing course only to surface for air and with commercial trips not due to recommence until October we were alone in the Sounds.

Doubtful Sound takes a bit of effort to get to. A 2.5hr drive from Queenstown is followed by a 40 minute boat ride across Lake Manapouri, then a 40 minute bus ride over Wilmot Pass before finally arriving at the Quayside. It had been well worth it though, with everyone still talking about what a great weekend it was for weeks after.

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Thailand – Malaysia

Missing parts…

“…Sorry, sorry, sorry…” gasped Garry the workshop manager at Autobavaria, Malaysia’s largest BMW dealer, as my hands tightened around his throat. Having ridden the 240km from Tana Rata in the Cameron Highlands to collect the parts for Danny’s bike I wasn’t too pleased to hear they hadn’t arrived. Having being promised the parts would arrive today I’d set out early to do the round trip in a day. Without so much as a toothbrush, let alone any ‘non-motorcycle’ clothing, I didn’t much relish the thought of spending a night in KL (Kuala Lumpur) but as always it’s what seems like a problem that turn into the best experiences…

Ko Lanta

We rented a bungalow at ‘Where Else!’ on the beach a few doors away from Maarten & Ilse. Maarten had spent four months there some years ago whilst taking his Dive Masters course and managed to haggle a good deal with the owners.

Maartens’ brother Rick and his fiancée Danielle came to stay for a few weeks and Danny joined them on a four day PADI diving course, Maarten & Ilse joined them for a few days and I for a days snorkeling.

Adams’ first Snorkeling trip…

I had a great day and wrote quite a bit in my diary; here’s a clip…(for those of you who’ve never been)

“…I was surprised by the stinging of the sea lice as they nipped away at me – especially when they chose my lips! Nothing though, was going to distract me from the beauty below. Did you know Star Fish are blue?

As a Moray eel appeared underneath me so I managed to fill my snorkel with water and once I’d cleared it and un-steamed my mask it had gone – bugger!

Floating one way with the current before paddling back, I toured the bay for 1hr15mins. Submerged in this life size tropical fish tank I was once again transported to childhood memories of marveling at the wondrous colours and shapes of the tropical fish at the local pet shop. What is it about SE Asia  that keeps doing this to me?

Before me is laid out a garden, a special garden, a lifetimes work that someone has flooded with up to 3m of water. The mammals have turned into crustaceans; birds into fish and the flowers into anemones, clams and coral. They tend the garden just as the bees and birds do above the water. My gentle movements are either accepted or ignored – I’m not sure which. Lying still, I soak up the details more clearly. Clams open and close, pulsing like hearts, as tiny fish dart in and out, Trumpet fish appear – transparent – almost invisible and as I look closer I see a Stone fish camouflaged atop a coral leaf.

Another Moray eel appears – it’s rare to see a whole one outside its ‘cave’ so I’m told. It’s perhaps 5ft long and I follow it along as it weaves its way under rocks and through the coral.

I find myself surrounded by a shoal of small fish that sparkle like a fishermans’ lure as they’re caught in the sunlight – I never expected to see what a lure would look like from a fish’s perspective! All too soon I heard the horn to signal that the boat was ready to leave. Another 1hr 15mins had vanished…”

I wonder whether it’s your first snorkeling trip that makes you feel like that; or your last? I guess I’ll have to go again to answer that one.

Back on dry land…

I’d picked up a few ‘unputdownable’ novels in Chiang Mai and was content to spend the week exploring the few roads on the island, swim and watch the sun go down supping a cold beer and reading a good book. The week soon passed and having waved goodbye to Rick & Danielle we packed the bikes and along with the hippies,  headed back to the mainland.

Hat Yao Beach

After a 20km detour to avoid the 400Baht National Park entry fee we pitched our tents on the beach under a huge limestone cliff – just before the premature afternoon monsoon rain came. Watching the rain hammer down from inside my tent I began to feel as though I were on a waterbed as the rain ran under my tent, lifting my groundsheet. Putting on my swim shorts I joined the others in digging drainage ditches around the tents using bits of driftwood. The rain fell so hard that even the sand couldn’t soak it up quickly enough. Once the tents were safe and the workload slackened the cold wind and the rain, were rather chilling. Not wanting to risk opening the tents we spent the next hour or so in the sea watching the storm – it was, after all, still 30°C in there!

We spent three days here. In the morning we’d collect driftwood for the fire, swim and play backgammon before two of us would head off to the local market to buy dinner.

The afternoon allowed us to explore the adjacent bays only accessible at low tide before another swim and a game of Frisbee. With an appetite worked up we’d BBQ fresh squid and whole Tuna on the beach as the sun set; all washed down of course with a few Leo beers.

Our first theft

 Our time in Thailand was running out. We only had four days left on our visas and wanted to see the MotoGP from Jerez, Spain, so we rode the pleasant 50km to Trang.

We quickly found a cheap hotel which allowed us to park our bikes inside for the night and took our first hot showers in two weeks.

On the Sunday evening after the GP we loaded the bikes for an early start to Malaysia – only I couldn’t find my GPS.

It was our first reminder of why we do things routinely. Normally we have a set way in which we unload the bikes, carry our gear to the room and secure our valuables. However, on this occasion we didn’t follow it. Planning to stay for just one night and with our bikes inside the hotel we didn’t fully unload them. During this time I managed to unlock my GPS and remove it from its mounting, but not lock it away with my other valuables. It wasn’t until we went to load up that I noticed it missing. The following morning (having double checked all our kit several times) we spoke to the hotel manager, offered a reward, made ‘Reward’ posters in the internet café to pin up in the hotel and visited the Police; all to no avail.

Next time someone criticizes you for doing things routinely, remember why you do it – it works.

My ongoing shenanigans with Barclaycard reached an all time low in Trang. Back in November whilst in Nepal, I found my card had been used fraudulently in the UK whilst I was in Asia. Now, some five months later and with the account STILL under investigation, I received a scanned copy of a letter from Mercers debt collection agency stating that unless I paid 50 quid into my account TODAY the bailiffs would be visiting my sisters’ house! When I eventually tracked her down on her mobile phone I found her half way down the stairs with a boxful of belongings, in the middle of moving house! Impeccable timing as always. With neither pen nor paper to hand, she punched my account number into her phone and paid the 50 quid. Bless her.

Little did I know it would take a further six weeks to rectify my account. So much for Rowan Atkinson strutting around Morocco with his rug; if you need assistance from a credit card company whilst abroad – forget it.

Note: The last paragraph is just the tip of the iceberg – it was an unbelievable fiasco!

Oh… and then the drains got blocked at my house in the UK and my current account got blocked – I loved being in Trang; I had a great time!

 MALAYSIA

 Although not officially an International Border, the crossing at **** would save a 190km detour via Hat Yai and allow us to comfortably ride to Penang in a day. The approach through several small villages was pure jungle and when we arrived not only did they let us through but they did so pleasantly and swiftly.

En-route to Georgetown we met Maz at some traffic lights. It turns out he’s a member of the local motorcycle club and after exchanging e-mails we agree to meet up once we’ve found somewhere to stay in Georgetown, Penang. After paying our 2 Ringit each for the ferry (1GBP = 6.8 RM (Ringit)) we easily found Love Lane where the Hippies had reserved a room for us at SD Guesthouse.

We’d only planned to stay for a few days but partly thanks to Maarten & Ilse’s company we ended up staying for 10. Georgetown is about as multi-cultural a town as you can imagine and, on the surface at least Christians, Muslims, Hindu’s and Buddist’s all get along harmoniously; the Middle East would do well to take a look here.

‘Little India’ was our favorite area of town. Here we would sit amongst the familiar aromas of Indian spices, surrounded by blaring Bollywood movies, eating south Indian specialties like banana leaf  Talis and Masala Dosai’s.

Every time we left the guesthouse we saw something different; Architecture, Rickshaws, Trishaws, the ‘Roti man’ selling fresh bread from his Trishaw, mobile tea stalls, religious ceremonies and festivals at Buddist and Hindu temples.

The local museum provided a good insight into the history and founding of Georgetown. Captain Lights’ (who founded Georgetown on behalf of the British East India Company) Last Will & Testament was particularly entertaining; I wonder if his wife(?) “with whom I cohabited for many years” (and bore him four children) was aware of his Chinese mistress (who had a clause incorporating “any children born to her within 9 months of my death”) before the Will was read aloud!? I guess things weren’t so different in the 18^th century.

The heat made us almost nocturnal. Our pokey room was still 31degC at 0100 and so we’d sit up playing games with the Hippies; Backgammon, chess and the backpackers favorite card games ‘Shithead’ and ‘Arsehole’. I unfortunately would leave Georgetown as double Shithead and Arsehole champion!

On one of these evenings we met two Aussie ‘Shielas’. Every evening they’d polish off a full bottle of scotch between them. One was 74 and the other ‘older’. They’d backpacked through Thailand and were on their way to Singapore before returning to Oz. After asking about our trip they merely looked at one another and said “Fair Dinkum.” I nearly fell off my chair. I’d always thought that saying English stereotyping; obviously not.

Cameron Highlands

Heading out of Ipoh into the Cameron Highlands we stumbled across the ‘new’ road. Unlike other Asian countries, the Malaysians have managed to build a road without destroying everything around it. 4^th & 5^th gear corners wound their way through the jungle, gradually gaining altitude as we headed into the highlands.

All was not well though as Danny’s bike started overheating. After letting it cool down we checked the water level but it was ok. We continued on but it soon overheated again. By the time I’d found some shade (an old market stall) in which to work on Danny’s bike and returned to tell him, his bike had cooled enough to follow me there.

I left Danny taking his bike apart whilst I set off in search of some lunch for us both; eventually finding a garden centre serving corn-on-the-cob some 30km up the road.

Danny had discovered one half of the radiator hot and the other cold. Upon removing the output hose from the water pump, we span the engine over only to confirm our worst fears; the water pump drive had failed. This was not repairable at the roadside and would require spare parts.

Our attempts at towing were pure comedy. I’m not sure whether it was the act of towing or the laughter that brought us closest to crashing but either way it was futile. We tried the pushing technique that works well with small bikes but we soon discovered that it too was a no go when you’re trying to push 380kg!

It was late in the afternoon and we decided our best option was for me to ride on to our chosen destination of Tana Rata, book us into a guesthouse and arrange for a truck to return for Danny and his bike. In the meantime, Danny would try to hitch a ride for him and his bike.

After riding the 60km to town I quickly found Daniels Lodge Guesthouse and spoke to Daniel, the owner. After explaining our situation he phoned his brother and I met the pair of them at the edge of town so they could follow me back to Danny.

15km out of town we rounded a corner and I spotted Danny waving furiously from inside a skip on the back of a truck. For the second time that day I nearly fell off laughing. The laughter was not over however as we watched Danny clinging on as the skip was tipped-up and lowered to the floor. The driver spoke no English and so, unable to ask how much he wanted, Danny offered him RM100 but he refused. Translating for us Daniel said that his destination was just 18km further on and he hadn’t gone out of his way – top bloke.

That night we ate Tandoori chicken and Naan – this would become our staple diet over the next eleven days.

Bike Repair

Once apart, the fault with Danny’s bike was obvious. The two nylon water pump drive gears were stripped preventing the pump from turning. Easy enough to repair; the frustration came with trying to order the parts. After a whole afternoon on the phone being passed between importer, dealer and internal departments Danny eventually got the response “You’ve left it a bit late to order parts today”. It was Friday. Monday would be a national holiday and so the parts would be ordered on Tuesday, delivered overnight from BMW’s Asian distribution centre in Johor Bahru and arrive at the dealer (Autobavaria in Shah Alam nr.KL) by 10am Wednesday.

Luckily for us our guesthouse had a large outdoor, undercover seating area with Wi-Fi. It also had a beautiful garden which made spending time there easy and the cooler temperature (our room was 10deg C cooler than in Georgetown) meant we slept well for the first time in weeks.

On the Wednesday morning I set off early for the 240km ride to Shah Alam with the intention of returning the same day. Half way down the mountain I met Steven and Marlouse (www.wereldtrappers.nl); two Dutch cyclists we’d met in our guesthouse in Georgetown. Having cycled from The Netherlands to Kathmandu, they flew to Shainghai and had cycled from there to here. Dutch = Nuts. Cyclists = Nuts. Dutch Cyclists? You get the idea…

I gave them directions to where we were staying and set off once again to Shah Alam. Autobavaria is a huge dealership and one which I found easily. Three stories high it boasted two 3-tonne internal ‘drive-in’ lifts to access the upper floors. On the ground floor alone I counted 28 fully equipped bays complete with hydraulic lifts.

I found Garry, the motorcycle workshop manager, on the third floor but was not prepared for his news; for some reason the parts hadn’t arrived. I was promised faithfully they would arrive the following day and Jeffri, the mechanic, stepped in to offer me accommodation at his house for the night.

I spent the afternoon in the workshop and was just dozing off in a chair when I heard Garry arguing with someone on the phone. He wouldn’t explain exactly what had happened but took me to the spares ordering department where I was told there had been an “abnormal situation” and the reason Danny’s parts hadn’t arrived was because they’d never been ordered! Some sort of system error. “Not acceptable” I told them. “You are BMW and customer service is what BMW customers pay for”. After explaining the urgency of the parts (our Carnets would soon expire) and the distance I’d ridden to collect them I told them I wanted the parts delivered by courier, free of charge to or guesthouse in Tana Rata. After many raised eyebrows and several phone calls they agreed.

Jeffri & Co

Jeffri and five of his mates had shared a house together since their college days six years ago and they all made me welcome. After lending me some clothes four of us went out to eat at a local favorite haunt before heading into KL to drop one of the lads off at the bus station. As capital cities go, KL is fairly small. It does, however, boast one of the worlds most recognizable buildings –  the Petronas Twin Towers. By day they’re impressive but by night, lit up like crystal chandeliers, they are spectacular; even amongst their illuminated high rise backdrop.

The following morning I followed Jefffi from his home in Putra Jaya to the Shah Alam road. Weaving our way through the heavy early morning traffic along with hundreds of moped mounted maniac’s, Jeffri rode smoothly but quickly with me in hot pursuit.

Back in Tana Rata…

Steven and Marlouse had made it to Daniels lodge and with the arrival of Maarten and Ilse the previous Tuesday we were once again six. The evenings returned to Backgammon, Shithead and Arsehole and the beer, being so expensive in Malaysia, was replaced with a cheap bottles of Brandy from the supermarket and cans of coke from the bar.

Over the next few days we walked a few of the local trails and the Hippies and I took a ride through the surrounding hills visiting a tea plantation en-route. Dannys’ parts arrived by courier on the Saturday morning and by the evening his bike was re-assembled and ready to go.

Our unscheduled stop in Tana Rata stretched to eleven days from our intended 2/3 and determined our next move.

We’d planned to ride to ****, follow the coast down to **** and return to the West coast at Malacca before riding north to Port Klang. Unfortunately the shipping agent required our bikes 10 days prior to shipping and our Carnets expired on April 30^th meaning our bikes had clear customs by then. We had no choice but to ride straight to Port Klang.

To Port Klang

As it would be our last decent days ride in Asia we took the scenic route, and weren’t disappointed. Riding through the hills, past tea and rubber plantations the only spoiler was the de-forestation. Not only were there vast vistas of barren, tree felled, rolling hills but the roads had been destroyed by the logging trucks too.

Danny was convinced there was something wrong with his fuel light but realized there wasn’t as he ran out of fuel just as we entered the heavy traffic of a KL ring road. Good timing!

After topping his tank up from mine we discovered the cause of the congestion. A motorcycle had run straight into the back of a Proton saloon car so hard the rear bumper had been pushed level with the rear window to create a ‘V’ shape. We both crossed our legs and grimaced at the thought of plums the size of footballs balls!

Once in Port Klang we struggled to find cheap accommodation with safe parking and eventually settled in the Comfort Hotel at triple what we were used to paying.

Preparation for Shipping

Our shipping agent took some tracking down thanks to some wrong information regarding the company name. FCL had been confused with FLC which also had an office in Klang but had moved. We eventually tracked down Mike, the owner of FCL, and made arrangements to deliver the bikes to his warehouse for crating. As in Kathmandu, the crates would be pre-built and assembled round the bikes.

Before we could do this though, the bikes had to be cleaned thoroughly knowing they would be rigorously inspected upon arrival in New Zealand. Garry at Autobavaria had offered us the use of their workshop and cleaning facilities FOC and so we spent a day there, cleaning them thoroughly, replacing oil & filters and for me, removing my Ohlins suspension unit.

Danny would be returning to the UK to visit his family whilst the bikes were on-board ship and would be returning our troublesome Ohlins suspension units to the supplier for much needed rebuilds.

We’d been communicating with our suspension supplier since our first failure in India back in September and after almost seven months of ‘discussion’ with them and more recently Ohlins in Sweden they finally agreed to carry out the work and supply the parts FOC.

Luckily for me, Garry had an old suspension unit that had been replaced under warranty and gave it to me to temporarily replace my Ohlins unit.

With the bikes now ready to be crated we met Mike and followed him to his warehouse where once again we drained the fuel, disconnected the batteries and removed the front wheels and screens. This time the crates were ‘open’ and so everything was wrapped in cardboard and clingfilm. It was the last time we would see the bikes in Asia.

Having decided to return to Eastern Europe to look for land on which to build a guesthouse, Maarten & Ilse arrived in town and we joined them for one final night of card playing. It was a successful night for the British with both crowns being returned to the Netherlands in the hands of ‘King Shithead’ and ‘Queen Arsehole’!

Kuala Lumpur

Our backpacks had barely touched the floor before we were picked up having stuck our thumbs out for a ride into KL. We even got dropped off in Chinatown, our chosen destination. We soon found our way to Kameleon Travellers Lodge nr.Pudu bus station and settled into a small but cheap room.

I called Kimi, a local girl we’d met at the Asian Bike Tour in Georgetown and met up with her and her mates for a night in the Hard Rock café with live band etc. We rolled in at 3am and were awoken by the Hippies who’d managed to get their bike shipped and had hitched into the city to join us for one last evening of MotoGP before going our separate ways for the last time.

Kimi called on the Sunday morning and invited us to a ‘picnic’ in the jungle. It transpired that her brother-in-law owned several ‘bungalows’ surrounding a pool in the jungle, one of which was used by Farid, Kimi’s best friend and organizer of the Asian Bike Tour. The ‘picnic’ turned out to be a huge BBQ with endless food. When Farid and his wife had finished feeding us we joined a second family two bungalows away who insisted we join them. Their table of local Malaysian cuisine was laid out like a banquet and we ate until we couldn’t manage “Just one more waffer thin mint monsier?”

Finding such a location so close to the city was a real surprise and the hospitality, as we’d come to appreciate in Muslim countries, was second to none. Thanks guys for making us so welcome.

That evening, having ‘booked’ the TV in the guesthouse for the MotoGP, we settled down with the Hippies and a few beers for our last night together. It was the Turkish GP and it seemed odd that it was a year ago we’d watched it live on our way through. This time it was Tim & Tracey’s turn as they called in on their way home.

The following day we said a final sad goodbye to Maarten & Ilse. They’d been great company and we miss them immensely. Danny set off to the airport for a three week trip to England to visit friends and family whilst I headed across the city for the first of a four day course on Adobe Photoshop at the Digital Skilz Centre.

Surprise Surprise!

You should have seen the look on my best mate Jez’s face when I sat down next to him at his 40^th birthday party in Andover and exclaimed “this better be worth it!”

 It had always been the intention for us to meet up in Australia for his birthday but various factors prevented this from happening. With the bikes on a ship to Christchurch for 25 days and my course in Malaysia finishing the day before the party, the timing was perfect. Flying Emirates via Dubai, I managed to arrive in the UK without telling a soul.

I spent 10 days in the UK and Jersey visiting as many (but not all) friends as I could before heading down under where I arrived on May 10^th.

NEW ZEALAND

‘Ordinary’ isn’t a word most would associate with NZ but after a year in the Middle East and Asia ‘ordinary’ it was. It’s not a slur on NZ; anywhere ‘western’ would have invoked the same feeling. Asia is a tough act to follow.

Danny wasn’t due to arrive for another eight days but I had plenty to do in the meantime. I tracked down and bought a van which we’ll use through the winter to get to and from the ski fields. Both being snowboarders, we’d sent all our gear prior to leaving the UK.

I met up with Ian Feather, an English lad we’d met in Cambodia and again in Laos and over a few beers agreed we’d all try to rent a house to share for the season.

Ian left for Queenstown whilst I drove over Arthurs Pass to the west coast at Greymouth then south passing Franz Joseph and Fox glaciers before crossing the Haast Pass and rolling into Wanaka. Friends from home (now resident in Wanaka) Carol & Art kindly put me up for the weekend. It had been pretty chilly sleeping in the van (especially on Arthurs Pass) and an electric blanket, not to mention the hot shower, were a very welcome treat.

Danny had arrived and made his way down to his friends Jane & Sam’s in Luggate, 10km from Wanaka. I picked him up and we headed down to Queenstown to commence the search for accommodation. It took two weeks of visiting and re-visiting agencies, viewing properties, arranging bank statements, references etc before we finally got somewhere to live. Competition for properties was fierce as we witnessed when twenty two people turned up to view the property we now live in.

Being accepted for our house was great news. Not only was the number of suitable properties reducing rapidly but we’d finally been kicked out of the car park at the supermarket where we’d been sleeping alternate nights. Being woken up in the middle of the night by a security guard and having to drive 20km before we could go back to sleep was no fun!

The Bikes

Finally, we got confirmation that the bikes had arrived in Christchurch. They were a week late and had cost us a lot more than expected thanks to them being taken off the ship in Auckland, not Christchurch. We’d been under the impression that the vessel would arrive in Auckland and unload relevant cargo before continuing to Christchurch where we’d receive our bikes, unpack and dispose of the crates before clearing customs; this was not the case.

It transpires that the initial MAF (Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries) inspection takes place at the port of entry and any decision on fumigation is made there. With MAF deciding the bikes required fumigating before being forwarded to Christchurch, the shipping agent hired a trucking company to take them to the fumigators. Total bill NZ$715; plus port & handling fees of NZ$475 and a second MAF inspection in Christchurch of NZ$75. Add all that to the RM4800 we’d paid in Malaysia and it cost a total of GBP1200 to ship the two bikes.

Lesson learnt. ONLY ship to the ‘Original Port of Entry’. Check this with the shipping agent and receive your bikes there. We’d have saved somewhere in the region of  NZ$400 had we known.

During the 500km drive from Queenstown to Christchurch we phoned MAF to book an appointment for the following day, only to be told that an inspection wouldn’t be necessary.

We spent the night in Christchurch with friends Caroline & Dave (Here’s an abstract for you: Caroline is my best mate’s, ex-fiances, twin sister’s best friend! You couldn’t make it up!) The following day we breezed through customs and arrived at the shipping agent by lunchtime. When they phoned MAF the response was “of course we want to inspect but we can’t do it until tomorrow”. Thanks.

Caroline & Dave kindly put us up for another night and at 0730 the following morning we returned to the shipping agent.

As it turned out the MAF guy was realistic in his expectations. Having heard several ‘horror’ stories regarding inspections both here and in Australia this was a great relief.

By 1130 we’d unpacked both bikes, made Danny’s bike road ready, put mine and all the kit in the van and had breakfast at a nearby café. Next stop was the Brass Monkeys Motorcycle Rally 60km NE of Alexandra in Central Otago.

Brass Monkeys Motorcycle Rally

It’s all in the name – Prepare for the cold and be colder was what we’d been told.

As we approached the campsite so we saw fires ablaze across the hillside like medieval beacons; only these beacons were surrounded by bikers drinking piss. With its reputation for being cold, the organizers dump large piles of firewood around the campsite for campers to help themselves to and so fires littered the place.

Come Saturday morning the only thing more persistent than the rain was the constant stream of arrivals. What amazed us the most was the amount of riders arriving on dirt bikes having ridden hundreds of kilometers cross country to get there. Many of these were on motocross bikes and when we asked them about being ‘road legal’ they looked at us as though we had two heads.

That evening the mother of all bonfires was lit. 30m long and 5m high, the timber must have been marinated in petrol as burnt with an intensity neither of us had ever seen. The crowd, soaked from a days’ rain, smoldered as they listened to the band and drank yet more beer.

We won the prize for the furthest traveled but really the award should have gone to Yorkshireman Ian Coates. We met the 64 year old the following morning when he came to introduce himself. He left the UK almost eight years ago having told his wife he was going for a ride for two months! During that time he’s ridden 190,000km on his Africa Twin and his wife has visited him four times. He says they have a good marriage as they’ve only had four rows in eight years!

Queenstown

Two days after returning from the rally we moved into our house. Ian returned from his trip to Nelson and a week later his mate Rob joined us to split the rent four ways.

For a place with a climate similar to that of Scotland, Kiwi building ideas take some fathoming out. No central heating, no double glazing, no cavity walls and tin roofs. The TV is full of adverts exclaiming “…fed up with condensation…you need a heat pump…” – no you don’t – you just need to build your houses properly! For a country that claims to be environmentally friendly we are dumbfounded by the quantity of timber that is burnt trying to heat these properties. When we get up in the morning, its 4.5°C in our living room. It takes six hours of log burning to make double figures!

Winter riding

We’ve got various trips we’d like to undertake over the winter but they’ll be determined by the weather. Up to about 90km/h the wind chill is acceptable but anything faster soon chills you to the bone. The sun moves low through the northern sky and so whilst North/South roads  retain some heat and light the East/West roads through the mountains not only remain cold but often icy. Some of these roads won’t see the sun until the summer and will remain permanently frozen until then. We were told at the rally that riding conditions improve from August but the weather changes every day here so we’ll just have to wait and see.

First snow

Our snowboarding gear finally arrived on Monday 18^th June – just in time for the heavy snowfalls that all but paralyzed much of the south island that week.

Coronet Peak had been open for about a week, essentially on manmade snow but with a light covering of the real stuff. On the Thursday 25cm of snow fell in the 3hrs we were there. Deciding to head off before conditions got too bad we fitted our snow chains and set off down the mountain but the usual half hour journey took us almost two hours. Along the way we picked up six more people who had either spun off the road or been forced to abandon their cars through either lack of, or broken snow chains. There were many accidents along the way including a van similar to ours upside down at the bottom of a 10m bank. We hadn’t seen this many accidents in a day since riding from Multan to Peshawar in Pakistan!

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