Africa 2004, Americas 2008

Here's the basic plan...

March 04: Give up job. Borrow money from mortgage people. Done that. Oh yeah - remember to pass bike test. And buy a bike.

Sept 12th 04: Ferry Portsmouth-Cherbourg. Potter across France and a bit of North Spain and head for Lisbon, to meet some pals for a week of sunny lager action at the end of Sept.

Early Oct 04: Widdle about in Portugal & southern Spain for a bit, aiming for Gibraltar. Buy Marmite and PG Tips.

About 15th Oct: Ferry Spain-Morocco. Muck about there for p'raps a month.

When I say I'm doing the trip on a Dominator with a few mods, I don't mean I'm going with a small group of parka-clad scooteristas. Oh no. I mean the Dominator has been fiddled with (by Mr. David Lambeth of A Field, Southern England). This is what it looked like pre-fiddle...

Further thanks must go to Mr Jeffrey MacPherson of Vancouver, or "the 'Couv" as it's known to residents, a large town in a country called Canadia. He was kind enough to get so drunk with me in a selection of Cologne's most happening bars, that we struck on the idea of sailing a hot air balloon across Africa, with two motorcycles strapped to the side. Voila! 9 months later and fantasy has become reality. Except for the balloon. And Jeff.

Nearly... nearly... I've just stuffed 95% of what was left of my worldly goods and chattels into 9 very big black dustbin bags. Now it's for the fine men - and women - of Islington's refuse service to bicker and quarrel over my old pants. I wish them well. The men that is - I no longer care what happens to my pants. Our relationship, stout and true though it was, is over, and there's an end of it.

Here's a picture of what's left:

What just happened here?

It fits. I am stunned.

Carteret, 30 miles south of Cherbourg - 12th Sept 04

Le OUCH! 67 euros for the last hotel room in town. Note to self - arrive earlier in future. On the way down, every single French biker waves. It's what your left arm's for, apparentement. It's day one. One giant leap across the channel for me. Tomorrow I shall witness with my own eyes the glittering splendour that is Mont St Michel. Unless I get lost or something.

Sept 13

Sept 16 04

Blimey - I'm in Spain. And Ow! Ouch! Ooyah! I'm in pain. The pain in Spain falls mainly on the neck. Some sorta trapped nerve or something which no doubt will go away soon. Please.

20th Sept '04. Miranda do Douro, North-east Portugal.

18th Sept '04. Saturday Night.

Young women of Valladolid, I salute you! I can only stand by, mute, and feebly applaud, as my chin hits the pavement *CLANG* and my eyeballs spring out onto my cheekbones *SCHLUP* for the hundredth time tonight.

19th Sept '04.

Sept 17th '04. La Puebla de Argazon.

A roadhouse, somewhere between Vitoria and Burgos.
Christ I feel manly! I've just spent an hour in a dusty truckstop in el centro de nowhere, oiling me chain, pumping up me tyres to near-roadworthy pressure and checking me lubricants. Missus. A great Sopa (soup) de (of) Pescados (fish) for lunch and a very clean, cool room for 32 euros.

23rd Sept 04. Guarda.

How come the Portuguese get satsumas the size of melons and we get crappy, pathetic, shrivelled little affairs? And don't give me that "Mediterranean climate" drivel either - these babies are flown in from Uruguay.

October 6th 2004. Gibraleon.

7th October 2004. Utrera, Andalucia.

I'm not one to moan, but Gibraleon was a little bit of a dead-arse dump.

26th September - 2nd October 2004. Lisbon.

24th Sept 2004. Abrantes.

4th October 2004. Monchique, the Algarve.

I've done 2 days off the drinksh after a week of debauchery in Lisbon. It's 6pm and the sun has got an extremely fetching hat on. I think it might be Super Bock o'clock.

At precisely mid-day today, the dreaded oh-please-don't-let-it-be-true event... a puncture. 90 degree heat, no shade to fix it under, and I'd run out of water. Had I, as the book of how to do this properly suggests, practised puncture-fixing before leaving home? No I had not. I couldn't be arsed.

3rd October 2004. Sines.

I wobble out of Lisbon at 11am and hammer south for a hundred miles. Sines has a quite-nice beach, a port and an oil refinery or something. On the way an American dude comes over to chat by the pumps.
"What is that, man? Did you build it yourself?"
He's ridden across the US on a Harley-Davidson. His "Good luck, man" words of encouragement fill me with good cheer and make me remember what this whole nutty scheme is all about. Thanks man!

8th Oct 04. Ubrique, Andalucia.

Welcome to the Hotel Califooooornia!
Blah blah blah blah-blah,
Tumpty tum te-tum,
BUT YOU CAN NEVER LEEEEEAVE!

Not if you're a fluffy little bambi anyway. In that instance, the hotel management will have you machine-gunned. Your extremities will then be boiled and nailed to the wall, saving money on both ornaments and hat pegs.

10th Oct 04. Jimena de la Frontera.

Sunday morning. Outside the front door, double-size ants are manhandling chunks of vegetation up the path. Inside the front door, a large but not yet double-size man is eating anchovy pate sandwiches for breakfast. Augustus Pablo bumps away in the background thanks to the miracle of the iTrip, which turns the iPod into a miniature radio station.

21 Oct 2004 Rabat.

Oh maaaan. I'm being wafted through Morocco on a breeze of Islamic goodwill, set in motion by a thousand cheery waves fom chirpy schoolkids and gnarled old men. They must be thinking "What's that pasty fool doing here during Ramadan? Doesn't he know the bars are shut and you can't smoke fags until the sun sets?"