A two year low budget no GPS motorcycle trip round the world, starting and ending in Harstad, North Norway.
When planning this trip I imagined a visit to Iran as eating dust and living like a refugee. Therefore it is almost embarrassing admitting that I had a Tehran apartment with three bathrooms, a swimming pool, and a private chauffeur named Ali to my disposition. The whole enchilada is explained by family relations in the Iranian branch of Statoil. Oh God, we were lazy. We slept late, ate Iranian pastries till our teeth ached (highly recommended), and we barely sat foot outside the gate, perhaps as a reaction to the prior weeks of motorcycle marathon.
After eating camel stew in Yazd I headed for Kerman, but because of a murder at the hostel I continued further south. Then it happened again, that the bike just stopped as if it was out of fuel. This reoccurring malfunction (usually happening when riding hard) was very annoying, especially when the bike gave up in front of a factory in the countryside. Iranians are very suspicious about foreigners lingering around their factories, and it was no surprise to see those security guards walk out the front gate.
While doing the gravel road to Ziarat, a former mountain resort for colonial Brits, I became increasingly alarmed about two guys in a blue Toyota pickup lingering in my rear view mirror. What did they want from me? Were they robbers? I decided for a shake off, gave the pedal to the metal, and left them behind in a haze of dust. A little later, while stopping for petrol, the slothful diesel Toyota appeared again.
Like most border towns, Taftan is not there to be dazzling. There is no petrol station, so I spent some time bargaining for canister fuel along the main road. Unfortunately the governmental guesthouse was closed for maintenance, so I had to settle for the second best option in town, the hard-to-believe filthy and inhospitable tourist hotel by the roundabout. It was like nothing Id ever experienced before. Like most border towns, Taftan is not there to be dazzling. There is no petrol station, so I spent some time bargaining for canister fuel along the main road.
For a while I thought I was mistaken for a spy suspect, but apparently most overlanders, whether traveling with motorcycle, car or bicycle, experience that the Pakistani police are on to them like mosquitoes on a tent vacation in Finnmark. It is called governmental instructions. Some Europeans even throw stones at them to make them go away. That method would violate with my upbringing, so I decided to sneak out of the Multan hotel and disappear in the morning smog. It worked for about 120km until they realized I was gone and caught up with me.
For the last five border crossing I had been questioned about the motorcycles engine number. No such number is mentioned in the vehicle registration documents, neither in the Carnet papers. So I assumed that I didnt have any, with the customary reply being an accepting OK. But for the Indian custom this qualified as a big problem!!! I had to wait half a day while they figured out how to deal with the situation. It was tiring and boring, a good day wasted, and I arrived Amritsar quite late where the first face I saw was of a Swiss guy that left the border as I entered it.
With a sabotaged rear tire and a remaining 450 kilometers including a crossing of Delhi with its thirteen million drivers and pedestrians, it seemed impossible to reach Agra before sundown. But I had a tire repair kit, and the helpful tire supplier Autovulk in Tromso had given me a fine demonstration how to use it. My recollection of the event was a bit rusty, yet somehow the Metzeler was sealed and fit for fight at 10am.
Varanasi has one major attraction the Ganges River and the rest is a mess. Oh well, the Ganges River is a mess too. A common measure for safe bathing water is that it has less than 500 faecal coliform bacterias per 100ml. Ganges has 1,5 million. No dissolved oxygen exists. The water is septic. By the shore some people pray, some beg, some take a bath, some do laundry, while others set their departed relatives on fire. Suffering animals are everywhere, and in between you see an occasional western youngster seemingly caught in a promise of spiritual enlightenment.
Nations typically measure their success in gross national product. Bhutan is different. They measure their success in gross national happiness. I have no idea how they quantify happiness, but hey, when knowing the suicide rate among the rich youll have to admit that the Bhutanese ideal is inspiring. I had no doubt that I would feel happier in Bhutan (because India sucks). But it is well known that the Bhutanese are very protective of their secluded way of life, and that they limit the numbers of visitors to avoid too much outside influence.
The high fees of stay in Bhutan might seem like a convenient way to milk visitors for money. But think about it - how does the tiny population sustain its unique identity when wedged in between 1,5 billion Chinese in the north and more than one billion Indians in the south? Thats right, the high fees keeps the low paid Chinese and Indians away. To make this strategy less obvious, the fees apply to all visitors regardless of their origin. And the surplus from those who can afford to visit has provided all citizens of Bhutan with free education and free medical services.
Wow, afternoon sun in my face. For the first time I was traveling west instead of east, and the return to West Bengal improved my overall impression of India. Oh well, not much was needed. The Nepalese border was well hidden behind a grimy bus stand, and I spent the night in a Kakarbhitta guest house where the owner was pale and sweating and had a bad cough. In the backlight I saw a spew of virus-infested spit eject from his tremor ridden lungs. Yes, we cough brrr have a room.
Bangkok. The very name promises certain things. But the food alone is a good enough excuse to stay for weeks. And I did. Seventeen days to be precise. Getting the motorcycle through the airport custom was such an elaborate project that I should have brought a laptop with Tetris to support my boredom while waiting for the formalities to carry on. It was hot as hell, and once in a while they requested me to sign documents which purposes were written in a Thai language so bureaucratic that they couldnt even explain the purposes themselves.
Nobody really saw what happened to Marlon Brando (alias colonel Kurtz) when he was struck on the head by Martin Sheene in Apocalypse Now. We could only assume that he died. However, in Apocalypse Now II (Even More Now) - as we imagine - it becomes clear that the colonel miraculously survived and fled up the Mekong River to heal the gash on his bald head. So we started there, by the Friendship Bridge in Nong Khai, popping malaria pills and planning our search in the jungle of Laos.
Who are David McMillan and Erika Tunick? We had no idea except that they also have traveled through Asia on a motorbike and that we have surpassed each other several times yet never met. The hours apart in Pakistan, India, Nepal and Laos had been so often and mysterious that I started to picture them as a computer nerd in the US having a laugh on our expense. But David and Erika are real (check it out: /sites/default/files/hu6-images/tstories/mcmillan ). After months sharing roads and guest houses with ghost riders we were to meet at Si Phan Don (Four Thousand Islands) in southern Laos.
The reputation of the Laos-Cambodia border is brutal. Were talking remoteness, robberies, landmines, bribes, and a road where even 4x4s get stuck during rainy season. Now, it is still a good idea to start with a full tank and plenty of water. It is also recommended to avoid toilet brakes off road unless you wish to have the crap blown out of you. But a single dollar was all needed to lubricate the border guys, and Chinese contractors have greatly improved the road beyond.
A number of unusual events happened as we left Cambodia. The border crossing took longer than any other, and the kickstarter arm went through the sole of my boot. At sundown it began to rain, more so as we got closer to the capital, and when passing a badly lit roadwork area in the suburbs the growing wind caught a large wooden plate and slammed it into the bike. No injuries. However, these hostile hours could somewhat be explained: The cow-crashers David and Erika were in Bangkok to recover Hey, wait a minute!
The Minsks have many fans. Its difficult to understand why. But then again, it isnt always smart looks and great performance that counts. Oh hell, who am I kidding? Smart looks and great performance is everything. Hanoi to Saigon on Italian machinery - THAT would be something. Did I mention that Balto was made in Italy? Hmm, not quite in the Ducati league but Anyway, I was stuck with something assembled from the crash site of Sputnik 2, and I questioned if it would get me out of the capital Annoy.
Minsks are imported to Vietnam as farm machinery, and is said to be unbeatable when it comes to off road transport. So lets find out if it is as good as they say. A new road was under construction between Nha Trang and Dalat. About 150km of unfinished highway. Indeed, it was so unfinished that I barely made it through. It started with a surfaced freeway. Then the luxury of tarmac ended, and the remains got more and more narrow and bumpy and deteriorated until it was no road at all.
Poor thing, the old Balto barely made it to the door of the dealer. In the showroom was a new set of wheels, and I immediately appreciated the evolution of a newer model it had a slightly lower suspension, and started with the push of a button. I would ship the thingy east where the RTW venture came to a temporary standstill due to mechanical problems. Those worries seemed like a distant cry at the moment I heard the first thump of the virgin machine.