You know things arent right when fuckie fuckie, very cheap is the nicest thing anyones said to you.Have a fine drive through the coffee plantations. Off the joyless north-south Highway One the temperature drops, the traffic thins out to almost nothing and the people get all smiley. No tourists.
Wind in hair; low yellow sun; bike purring; ancient jungle cities of stone all around.Cambodian roads are not as bad as everyone makes out. Okay, they are not tarmac, and turn to sludge in the rain, but they still join places up: a vital part of roadness. The trick on a motorbike is not to slow down; stay at the top of potholes and glide man, just glide. The half-built bridges, with gaping holes designed especially to sink your front tyre are a bit of a laugh though. Gliding carefully.
Hundreds of cockroaches live in the wall latrine. Their chosen mode of locomotion is breast stroke.
Where to begin in a country the size of a continent? At the top of course. Tropical Darwin in the monsoon. Soaking. After four drenching days I was collecting two of each species and enough wood to make my ark.
From Beachport I ride to Bordertown. The south is peppered with these literal settlements. A shock to see buildings over three storeys. Therere women with severe blond hair and silver jewellery. In a pleasant Adelaide campsite next to the river I wake at seven to the bad-tempered shrieks of cockatoos. I like it. The warm autumnal days and crisp clear nights are perfect.
A long dark strand slides slowly from under the rim...Bladder full, tank empty. Time to reverse the situation. Ambrose is one of those family run road houses that wont last the decade. A single loo, with the strong smell of piss. A short flush doesnt do it, so, cursing the penny-pinching plumbing installed by the petit bourgeoisie, I press again. A long dark strand slides slowly from under the rim. Disgusting. And then, and then, no it cant be, it articulates and pulls itself up. Jesus. This, as they say, is some clever shit.
I am the little guy chasing the big American dream...A friend lends me his bike for a fortnight in sympathy and I spent a day riding round San Francisco, up and down: phew, a view of the bay over the brow, and then zoom, I am tipped front forwards, engine roaring and brake pads earning every penny. Sizzle sizzle goes the fluid. Fun fun fun.
So that's what heppened to Sheena Easton.The strip is as garish and ridiculous as promised. Nothing is permanent. Faux Venice (no smells), faux Paris (no intellectuals) and faux New York (no Hilary) will have been concreted over in a decade. I wander about the slots and tables. It feels a library, the relaxed quiet concentration. There are some shows, but day-to-day Vegas is dull, unrelenting in its own way.
"It's like a giant vibrator Simon".Flagstaff AZ turns out to be a lovely little college town. It even has a centre. Hook up with a young woman in a Wee Willy Winky nightgown. It contrasts nicely with her dark brown skin. She talks about energies, the spiritual world and how what happens happens in an inexhaustible tone of profound understanding. I take her out for a ride to Sedona and the Airport Mesa. The rocks are stark and jagged surrounding the town, the centre of the universe according to someone famous I have ever heard of. The relaxed cornering descending into the valley was fun.
A friendly contact from the Utah police.In Mount Carmel Junction, UT the waitresses look at me with disgust. I only want some eggs love. What is it? Maybe its my nose. It is bleeding a lot now. It cant take all this high-speed dust/heat/cold that I treat it to constantly. No way Im putting down that visor though. I want to feel this air. And my hair is a bit wild. Mind you, the guy at the motel last night was the same: contempt bordering on hostility. Its like they are only serving me because their dog is being held hostage. It is so untypical of the country.
I meet the Village people and get money off coupons for the local brothels.Next day, the storm follows me for six hours, lightning cracking overhead all the way into Nevada as I search for the loneliest road in the USA. I find it full of Harleys. The riders are amiable enough. In their quest for personal freedom and individuality they all dress the same. It's like meeting the Village People.
Out through Texas, the huge belly of the beast.I spend two days trying to get my bike out of the port.
Greeting from my bling bling world.
Its time to re-learn the international waiter language of elbows-out clucking and the moo-cow first-finger horns. Menus mirror the early aspirations of the proprietor not the food options. Giblets and gizzard? Thatll do nicely. No, Ill give seconds a miss today; je dois garder ma ligne, yes.
Hot wet pain is spreading up my right arm. I am finding it quite intriguing. That car-crash slow-mo is running quarter-time...Near San Miguel de Allende: whach whach whach. Or maybe tatatata. Or maybe more of a dug dug dug. Whatever the noise it was a helluv a thing. A calm sixty miles an hour on a open four lane highway and that smear on my visor becomes a tiny black cloud. Now it looks like it is moving, animated. Decidedly alive. I am right on it and I think, hmm, thats a lot of flies. Close now: no, Im wrong, not flies. That would be a swarm of wasps that.
A pleasant ride and a test of principles.
Paramilitary shootings have doubled in frequency in Guatemala of late. Its election time, with a 24 caret nasty standing for presidente. So I plan on moving sharpish.
Perhaps there's a drinking water fountain. How do I mime that? Piss in an arch?Parched throat. That sinking feeling. I have been in the wrong queue these last thirty minutes. Did the guy really have to sneer so as he sent me away? Was that necessary? Wrong papers. When does paperwork work? I should have changed out of these big motocross boots before a border crossing. What was I thinking? I look a sight, striding about like a geriatric beast of the jungle. Each heel hits ceramic floor with an indelicate thud. And they squeak. Everyone stares. No local currency.
Waiting on the beach for Mr Magoo.Twenty kilometres of dirt, including three river crossings. In the dark. What for? There was none there. We waited. We went back to the car to get food and water. It had a puncture; we fixed it and returned to the beach. We sat for another hour. It was puzzlingly romantic, the six of us staring out to sea wondering if the turtles would lumber in from the sea. Theres a purity in waiting for animals to visit, not knowing if theyll come. It engenders humility. A couple of bored guards swung their shotguns from shoulder to shoulder.
Ahhhgg, fast food...Ahhhgg, fast food...I get up at six and work flat out for three hours on my bike, readjusting the carbs, re-routing the fuel line and other fun stuff, before the heat comes up. Then I arrange for a new rack to be made, supervise that, take a siesta, watch the rain for a while, eat a filet of white fish in garlic with beer on the seafront and go on the net for a while. My first break in a while. Ive got that peaceful easy feeling.
She shakes her sternly with the finality of a nightclub doorman...She shakes her sternly with the finality of a nightclub doorman...The bed is a treat. A foam mattress. The favourite of bed bugs everywhere--they adore the way it absorbs and holds all the juices. The frame has metal bar crosspieces positioned perfectly for maximum discomfort. I have just taken the doors off the wardrobe with my leatherman (there is a special attachment) and slid them underneath to stop the bruising.
"Isn't that Osama bin Laden over there?""Isn't that Osama bin Laden over there?" A perfectly executed diversion tactic. It works a treat. That, and switching the passports for immigration. They examine the ticket and the passport separately. And there is no record of my nationality on the ticket. Easy really. I am sneaking my way into Colombia. Some might say that was unwise Simey boy. But what a rebel.
