UK to Turkey... oops, still going... India, Australia... RTW?

3 October 2000 - Turkey

I am in Erzerum in Turkey attempting as I write to screw up sufficient courage to cross into Iran! Things have gone pretty well so far with only minor mechanical hassles from the Tenere. Border difficulties in Romania, Bulgaria, and turkey have been non-existent!

31 October 2000 - Gilgit, Pakistan

I am reporting from the bustling metropolis of Peshawar where I have been thawing out after the last few days of subzero shenanigans. Here, for your edification and information , is how you land yourself squarely in the shit in Northern Pakistan....

The border crossing the following day was about what I'd expected only in reverse -the officials on the Pakistani side were moneygrabbing and officious, whilst the Indian officers did not even attempt to ask for bribery or baksheesh, and even refused my offer of a biscuit. Although, to be fair, it was a Pakistani biscuit, and may well have been laced with cyanide, you can't be too careful. However, the processing of our customs documents on the Indian side was the funniest form of spectator sport.

The journey was largely without incident, except for a brief involuntary tour of Delhi international airport, during which I was dangerously close to receiving clearance to take off for Switzerland.

In Jaipur I met up with a party of four German bikers, last seen in Islamabad, on the wrong side of Ramadan; Thomas (comedian), Carmen (strong-arm negotiation), Martin (mechanic and guide) and Frank (philosopher).

Subtly at first, and then with more force, I felt the bike starting to labour and inexorably lose forward momentum. I shifted down a cog and continued, but the drag worsened. Nightmare scenarios of mechanical failure ran through my mind, but glancing over at Olli I could see that he too was in difficulty. Then I looked down, and knew with certainty that we were sinking. The surface here was not as solid as the previous day, and we were making heavy weather through what was rapidly becoming soft salt-topped mud. Oh dear, I thought, or words to that effect...

Thailand: Chiang Mai: It's cold.

I stare slack-jawed into my Ovaltine and listen to the rain dripping listlessly from my cheap plastic rain cape. Nearby stands a lifeless XT600. Her motor is cold, and her once-jaunty mirrors droop pathetically in the downpour.

Where did it all go wrong? What could possibly have happened to this man that he resorts to hot malty beverages? Let us examine the evidence....

The 747 sank heavily into the leaden clouds below, and my spirits sank with it. Rain skittered against the perspex of the window, obscuring my view of the grey anonymous clutter below - London on a wet weekday morning.

If you had asked me, three weeks previously, to predict the circumstances which could possibly induce me to return to Britain, I couldn't have done it without resorting to complex and unlikely scenarios involving strong men with balaclavas and chloroformed handkerchiefs, or possibly teams of wild horses.......

I had grown used to thinking of it in the same way as it was viewed by most of the people I met along the way: A technological marvel, impossibly big and shiny with undreamed of capabilities, no doubt able to achieve twice the speed of sound with a flick of the wrist.

"How much this bike cost in your country?" they would ask in awe, clearly expecting a sum of money more usually associated with moon shots or major hydroelectric projects.

I myself was propelled across the Melacca straits by an ageing high speed ferry, and arrived in the early evening a good few hours before the bike would come chugging slowly across.

At this point, consulting the email notes that Ken had written for me, I would apparently encounter "Friendly customs men".

I had puzzled over this unlikely statement for some time. Obviously this was not what Ken had intended to say. Perhaps he was being ironic. Or feverish. Gone "tropo".

Lake Toba was my next stop - to quote from the guidebook:

"Damau Toba is, like, this big huge lake yeah, in the middle of a ginormous collapsed volcano thing".

(I really must get a better guidebook).

The road into the ancient crater from the west is dramatic, snaking down the wooded slopes of the crater wall, and leads you onto the Western shore of the island of Pulau Samosir - not really an island as it can be reached by a narrow isthmus of land.

The audience turned expectantly towards me, and I didn't feel I could let them down. Up on the pegs, I launched myself at the thing gamely, with predictable results. Something solid in the glutinous muck grabbed pulled and twisted, and over I went. Fortunately, the mud was nice and soft, and I relaxed happily into its gluey embrace as I thumbed the kill switch...

The roads on Nias also provided some amusement - on the East of the island, the asphalt had degraded beyond recognition, and the journey from the port of Gunung Sitoli to Lagundri took around 4 hours.

Continuing my tour of Indonesian volcano lakes, I travelled the short distance from Bukittingi to Lake Maninjau, a smaller version of Lake Toba. I tumbled down the 44 spectacular hairpin bends, running so badly out of control that I ended up in the nearest bar and became trapped under a heavy bottle of Bintang beer. I hate it when that happens....

Finally...Jakarta

Big. Hot. Smoggy. Standard issue loony traffic. All these things I've seen before, but how quickly you forget....

After half a day of stop/start driving with heavy emphasis on the stop, my clutch hand was cramping painfully and I imagined that I could smell my legs broiling on the red hot engine. Another two hours of wrestling through the approach run to a major city was not going to be fun.

The first day's travel from Jakarta to Bandung was agonisingly slow and in desperation I tried to detour round the congestion of the major highways by using the secondary roads marked on my map. This worked well initially, but the asphalt road soon deteriorated into a rough cobbled track, which suddenly fell away down a hill to my right. Caught by surprise, I had no choice but to follow, and the track descended almost like a steep staircase into a village before launching itself up the other side of the valley in similar fashion.

The flight to Sydney dumped me into temperatures which felt subarctic in comparison with the balmy Indonesian climate. After a week of sitting on my ass in Sydney, and a couple of visits to the cargo agent in Port Botany, I had parted with many dollars in port charges, quarantine fees and other mysterious fees, acquired a stack of papers which could be used to wallpaper a moderately sized room, and was still not in possession of the bike.

An over-budget spectacular, set in Brisbane, Queensland, and featuring an international cast:

THE STORY - Connor's Tenere is badly in need of new 4th and 5th gears, to replace the disintegrating and crappily case hardened items installed by the evil Dark lord, MR YAMAHA only 40,000 miles ago when the bike was new. The XT also needs a new camchain, a rebore, a reconditioned shock absorber & spring, new swingarm bearings, a fork service, and has a shattered rear brake caliper with a bent disc.

After leaving Brisbane, I rode South in the company of fellow British overlanders Mark and Clare (Also on XT600's), who were heading for Sydney to catch a slow boat to NZ. I had recently spent a month in NZ myself, sans bike, and cautioned them that large quantities of water were likely to drop continually from the sky, in a way horribly familiar to residents of the UK; but they were still determined to go. We managed to successfully avoid asphalt roads for a large proportion of the trip, by staying a couple of hundred kays inland of the Pacific Highway.

As I came over the crest of the hill, a mist of fine red dust was settling slowly in the baking outback sun. Bits of shattered plastic fairing and the eviscerated contents of Mark's panniers made a chaotic trail through the sand, at the end of which a motorcycle lay on its side at a crazy angle, front end mangled, leaking fuel into the dust. The man himself was flat out at the roadside, a discarded pair of sunglasses and helmet lying nearby. He waved painfully, and I thought: Oh buggerrrrrrrrrr...