By Bike To Sydney

To The Fat Ladies House

2012-02-12T22:31:00.000-08:00

2913 kms from Bradninch

Australia

Well, we had a great time staying in the Hunter valley with David and Sophie even though it rained every minute. This is a rolling hill area studded with horse farms, though the coal-mines are spreading like gangrene. Thanks guys for a great time.

The train back to Newcastle, well Hamilton really, was a pleasure and the sun came out as we set of for Lake Maquarie. We camped by the water in Swansea (a little different to its Welsh counterpart) and then rode down the surfywild road to Matcham, a beautiful house in the woods, and a ‘welcome to Sydney’ banner hanging over the door.

We met Chris and Rita over breakfast in Bali, I was looking at a map of Australia as I remember, and hearing Chris’s antipodean twang began pestering with questions about the land downunder. Coincidentally we ended up being neighbors for some days in Samur and they invited us to visit when (and if) we made it through Oz. We spent a great few days being lazy, climbing to the tree house, wrestling alpacas and going to the beach to watch the surf roll in and the experts on their boards. The surf was huge, sadly far too big for beginners like us but fun to watch.

Where the Fat Lady Sings (but it ain't over)

Thanks also Patsy and Julian for good food and good company. We used the time to organize ourselves for NZ, well for the flight anyway, which is always the stressful and boring with the bikes.

Finally we dragged ourselves away from this haven and headed for the big city and the final leg. By Bike to Sydney it has always been and Sydney the goal since you set up and named our blog Derek, and I was too technically retarded to change it. So to Sydney we headed and here we were getting closer with every turn of the pedals.

To avoid a lot of traffic and an unpleasant last day on the road we followed the coast to Manly and hopped on the commuter ferry to Circular key. I am not sure how many boats we have been on since leaving England but I guess over thirty, could be more. This trip was one of the finest. Sydney is a very beautiful city.

We pedaled the few hundred meters to the steps of the opera house and there were Rita and Chris and the Banner. In fact there was a small gathering as Rita, with her exuberant personality had collared a number of passing tourists, largely Chinese, to form a welcoming committee.

Matcham Barbie

We posed in true celebrity style for a photo shoot (Rita juggling four or five cameras) and caused a small amount of interest as people examined our bikes. The photos show us looking a little bewildered and slightly embarrassed but really quite flattered and pleased at such a reception.

Rita is originally from Hong Kong and is a one woman phenomenon. We were taken to a restaurant in Chinatown and had a real feast before she and Chris rushed off to the airport to catch a plane and spend six months in Hong Kong. Very special people.

We stayed in a campsite on the edge of town, had a look round the next day and went to the airport.

Matcham Pier

I put on a good Mr Bean show for the security camera, putting one boxed bike in the lift, (they wouldn’t fit in sideways on the trolley, turning round for the other and letting the door shut. Pressing the button to no avail I got in the other lift and went up expecting alarms to go off as the cameras picked up a huge unattended box. I got to the top, no open lift. Frantically punching the button I intended to go down again when finally a door opened and an Indian floor cleaner came out with both boxes turned upright on a trolley. He handed it to me, shaking his head and went back down again. Finally Anja appeared with the bag trolley not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Never have I felt so stupid.

We are now in Auckland and have spent a great weekend with family there, Wendy, Julia and Michael, and are being well fed and looked after. It is very sad that my uncle John died a few weeks ago. I was looking forward to seeing him.

Today we had a look round Auckland and tomorrow we catch a ferry to the Coromandel peninsular and begin our tour of the Land of the Long White Cloud.

East Coast Australia

2012-02-01T21:17:00.000-08:00

My favorite book has always been Cannery Row by John Steinbeck. It has been since I was a boy and I

Ingo and a clean-shaven Tom

allow myself to read it again every decade, to reacquaint myself with Doc of course but mainly with Mack and the boys. I never expected to meet these hard drinking philosophers in the flesh but when we pulled into a campsite in Poona, they invited us to share their wine and set the world to rights.

Mack and the boys live in an old Shack called the Palace Flophouse and spend their days seeking enough cash to buy enough whisky or wine to see them through the day. Occasionally they reluctantly resort to working to achieve this. Geoff, Ian and Ronnie appeared to have reached this same level of Nirvana, living in caravans and fishing whenever they could or just walking up the beach with the dog. More happy and generous folks one rarely meets. Thanks guys for a great time and thanks Ian for teaching me how to pump yabbies.

Maybe I should take this opportunity to talk about the people we have encountered in Australia which has been a lot, far more than we met in Europe. A gruff down-to-earthness, particularly in the outbackers, only thinly veils a good sense of humor, and and a genuine kindness. So many people ask us if there is anything we need in way of food or water or fresh fruit and vegetables. So many people here are themselves on the move; the Grey Nomads in their giant off-road caravans and Winnabagoes, the Backpackers in little white vans, the migrating workforces in their Utes with a swag bag strapped on the back.

Riding in the rain

People in the towns we pass through stop to ask us how far we have come and are going. They often tell us of good places to visit or to camp and make us feel welcome. Many people are in no hurry and spend some time talking to us; one guy, Jim, with a vacuum repair shop in Ballina, decided he wanted to oil up all the moving parts on our bikes with a special kind of oil he used for bearings. Martin just out of Broadwater found me in a petrol station looking for a spare tube (I won’t bore you with why we needed one), drove me to the next town where he knew a friend of his would have one, and brought me back again to where we were camped by the river.

We reached the Sunshine coast and spent a great few days with Ingo and Karen. Ingo is some kind of second cousin to Anja, though they had never met. Thanks for everething guys and thanks to Guido for taking us sailing.

The Gold Coast

From here we rode south in the rain through Brisbane and on to the Gold Coast where the sun came out again. Surfers Paradise. Bike repairs. Millionaires Playground. Wild Rocky Headlands. Byron Bay. Rainforest and Rain Rain Rain. An old man in a middle-aged landcruiser stops to ask where we are going and why are we on this backroad. “Heading for Coffs harbor” I reply and he shakes his head at the foolishness of foreigners and informs us that the bridge is 30 feet under water at the Bluff. Amused at our wide-eyed disbelief, he told of how he had seen cows stuck 60 feet up trees along here after the rains receded. The radio later reported the river was 10.6m above normal levels so he was no fibber. I could not see if this guys tongue was in his cheek or not but he proudly told us he had worked at the same bench at the same saw-mill for 50 years and had never travelled more than a hundred miles North or South in his whole life. Some traveller had told him as a boy that there was no more beautiful place on earth than the valley where he lived and he had decided there was therefore little point in him leaving it. Would that we all were so wise. He recounted a day in his youth when he went to Coffs harbor and back in the same day and didn’t get back till after midnight. An experience it seemed had never been repeated. We reached coffs harbor that evening despite detours around the floods.

A car coming the other way pulls up and a woman and her daughter roll down the window to talk to two drowning rats on bicycles. “You should make it to the Highway if you hurry but the water is up over the road already, if you don’t make it through come back and stay with us, we are the blue house at the crossroads back a few miles we’ll dry you out and cook you up some dinner”.

Not Photoshop, honest!!

We made it through to the oxymoronic Pacific highway and draped ourselves in fluorescent roadwork warning flags so we could be seen it the rain by the traffic. Third day of rain, camping in the forest with the leeches and giant spiders. Nambucca heads to Kempsey. We are told the backroads we wanted to ride to Port Maquarie would be under water so we should stick to the highway. Damn highway is dangerous especially in the rain but it seems like we have no other choice. Micky and katriona think we do and pull over in their converted school bus. They are going exactly where we wanted to go that day and we weigh up the options; a day on the highway in the rain, shotblasted by trucks or sitting in a warm bus looking out the window. I am reluctant a little not to cycle every inch of the way to Sydney but find saying yes in such situations leads to interesting situations. Anja needs no convincing. We throw the bikes in the bus and get a ride to Lauriton, perhaps the prettiest place on the coast so far, a small town on a creek between a lake and the sea and lying at the foot of the North brother mountain. We stay for a few days to dry out and be fed and entertained by our new friends.

Mickey and Katriona have been on the move for years in one form of vehicle or another and know all the best free park-ups from Tazmania to the tip of Cape York. We ride the bikes down a great dirt track and meet them again at Crowdy Head where we camp on a wild peninsular and Anja fishes from the rocks while I drink and chat with Mick.

Old Gibber Road

With reluctance we ride on south because we now have a deadline. We fly from Sydney to Auckland on the 10^th and have some friends to visit on the way. It is not far now but as with the whole of this coast of Australia, there is so much to see.

From Tuncurry to Tea Tardens past the Great lakes is one of the best days rides on our whole trip. If you are ever this way ride the Old Gibber Track to Mungo Bush and camp on the shore of Myall Lake.

From Nelson Bay the road is busy and the rain starts again. David and Sophie meet us in Stockton, wring us out and stick us in the car. After a great meal is Newcastle they take us back to where they live near Scone in the upper Hunter valley. We met these guys in Nepal one day not far from Kathmandu. They were on a 7 month cycle tour in the Himalayan regions and we spent some time there together. Nice to see them again in their native habitat.

It is still raining, unusual apparently for this area in summer but strange weather seems now to be the norm the world over. Tomorrow we will get the train back to Newcastle and ride down to Matcham to see Chris and Rita who we met in Bali. Then we must involve ourselves with airports, passports and bike-boxes. All the stuff we hate. We are glad happy to be going to New Zealand to string out the journey for a few more months because the idea of stopping and returning to Europe is a bit frightening. We have failed to devise a plan for our future and don’t even know which country we should settle in. Sometimes we joke that we should fly to South America and keep on cycling. We laugh but I think we would both like to do this if we could spend a few months earning some money in Australia or NZ. After almost two years on the road, cycle-tramping has become our way of life and it is hard now to imagine not doing it.

Anja studies the menu

The bikes are a bit worn out. The moving parts I mean. We thought everything would make it a few more thousand kms but were wrong. Anja needed a new chainset back on the Gold Coast which cost a small fortune as everything to do with bicycles is here three times the price it is in Europe. I spent the day yesterday in David’s garage doing some long overdue maintenance with good tools and a bike stand which was a pleasure, so we should be set up for New Zealand, but our rims and even our bullet-proof tyres are looking a bit worn out after almost 27 thousand kms.

So, Sydney almost in sight but I feel not the elation of reaching the finish-line of some arduous ordeal, or even of achieving what we set out to do. The all the way overland idea was given way back in Tehran. What we set out to do was to be out and about in the world on our bicycles, heading a little further east each day and seeing what we could see. Always riding into the unknown. This great feeling we achieved way back in Europe, I think before we even got the ferry to France. The Big Tramp. A lifelong dream made real.

We have encountered a number of things on this trip which I never counted on. A too-close proximity to landslides, floods and fires was not something I expected but neither was the amount of people we have met. I have made more friends in the last two years than in the forty that preceded them. Unpleasant encounters with people is what was talked about, worried about I guess, before we left but we can honestly count these on one hand, pleasant encounters are countless.

It is a wondrous planet that we cling to; I would swap it for no other, but from what we have seen the world over, we are not looking after it properly. We need to maintain it more like Saint Exuperie’s Little Prince who regularly cleaned out his tiny planets volcanoes. Individually we are mostly caring souls but en-masse we are a scourge. The world is wide but it is finite. In Asia the crap is thrown all over the carpet, in the West we shove it under but the end result will be the same. The answer:

EVERYONE RIDE A BIKE…

The Bus

….of course.

2012-01-11T18:59:00.000-08:00

CHRISTMAS IN AUSTRALIA

Up Above Down Under

Last year, lest you have forgotten, diligent reader, we spent Christmas somewhere lost in the damp mists of northern India, and Christmas dinner was a damn good meal eaten alone in a typical small town restaurant. We left full but unrestored.

This year we decided to try and do something a little special, not that we are overly big on this festival but it is a reason to try and make a day stand out from the others. A hard thing to do when so many of our days are outstanding and, with travelling alone in such an unvarying part of the world, difficult to organize. A look on the map showed a National park, The Blackdown Tablelands, a little south of our route and which, with a little planning could coincide with Christmas.

Visiting National Parks by bicycle in the Northern Territories mostly demands at least a few hundred km detour on rough tracks and until now, wanting to keep ahead of the January rains, we had not allowed the time to see any. The Blackdown tablelands designated camp area looked to be about 30kms south of our road and ‘Tablelands’ meant 47000 hectare plateau rising above the plains. Sounded good.

Our Alpine Hut

Reluctantly we left the protection of the Botanical Gardens in Emerald, a park any Capital City would be proud of, and rode a good ride to Blackwater, Queenslands Coal Capital. Here we stocked up on food and serious amounts of water as we were assured that none was available in the park. The bikes were heavily loaded as we pulled out of town hoping to ride the 35kms to the side-road turn off before sundown on the 23rd, zipping up the hill in the morning and having camp set up well before lunchtime on chrisymas eve.

Well, best laid and all that, less than a mile out of Blackwater my freewheel hub decided it had gone far enough and If I was going to ignore its brief but obvious warning groans signifying breaking ratchet teeth, then only I was to blame. When worrying about a slight noise in the first car I ever bought, an older friend at the time had advised that if I was not in a position to do anything about it immediately, it was best to stop worrying and enjoy the ride. Advice I have perhaps taken too much to heart in life.

The Feast

So I had no drive in the back wheel, and a ride back into town revealed no bike shop,( none expected), and practically no-one on the streets to ask for help. I approached all of 7 people, Blackwaters outdoor population, trying to elicit the possible whereabouts of an old bicycle-wheel for parts. I believe most people in Blackwater could fix a 100 ton dump truck before breakfast, but bicycles were pretty much an unheard of machine around these parts.

Back to Anja under the roadside tree. We figured to try and turn the bike into a fixed gear arrangement by locking the cassette with a spare brake cable to the spokes, disconnecting the derailleur and shortening the chain. We were hopeful this would work but the chain kept wandering over the cassette, up and down, no-matter what I tried to do. The sun was setting and we defeatedly pushed back into town. It was lucky we were so close to somewhere with such a breakdown. We always seem to be lucky in this respect.

Strange Land Strange Fella

Figuring to camp in the park, Anja asked a woman in her garden for directions, told of our problem and we found ourselves directed to the Samaritans second hand church shop. Apparently they often had old bikes and might be able to help. They would be closed but they lived right next to the church.

John and Karen were the best kind of Christians. They calmly figured out the best way to help us. Behind the church was the scout-hut and a good place for our tent. We could use the church kitchen and toilets. They had no compatible bike parts but an old mountainbike that had been run over by a car was found under a tree in the yard and a bunch of tools brought out of the garage. Ok, my bike was a nine speed and this one a five speed, the freewheels different, and the best rim the shape of a circular banana but both John and I were confident that something could be done. With the help of a 3 lb hammer I got things straightened out a bit and we were back on the road by 8 am next morning; it looked like Christmas was back on. God bless the Samaritans.

Headwind, Hot, everything seemingly flat actually uphill. Same old story. By early afternoon we had fought our way to the foot of the plateau. It was bigger and further away than it had looked. Before we even started up the 600m, 6 km climb the whole show ground to a halt. One could not really say that we ever travelled ‘light’, but things had got a bit ridiculous. We had 22 litres of water, a spare wheel and a lot of food, not just the festive fare but enough to reach Rockhampton still some hundreds of miles away. I look back and laugh now but it was serious at the time, we could not even push up the hill let alone ride and we knew that if we found no water on the plateau we would have to come pretty much straight down again.

Laughing Monkey Bird (Kookaburrah)

There were lamb chops, green beans and onions, tins of baked beans and Irish stew, bags of biscuits and a big fruit-cake, large tins of peaches (a far finer invention than sliced bread) and a pot of cream, loaves of bread and jars of peanut-butter, marmite and honey, Kilo’s of hot chocolate and milk powder, (far cheaper to buy in bulk here in Australia). We had a kilo block of cheddar and a box of wine, add to this Anja’s bag of stolen mangoes, 3 litres of Applejuice (on special offer), all the other sundries, staples and snacks I have forgotten and you begin to get the picture. We considered turning around but there was no-where else to go.

We ate the mangoes, cached the spare wheel as we were coming back the same way, and as the water was going down fast anyway we managed to drop a few pounds. After Anja changed into her walking boots it looked like we had a chance of getting to the top. The trees got bigger and the undergrowth thicker and small walleroos bounced between the red-sand boulders. Our minds were diverted by the wonders of the place and we forgot about our troubles. At the top the asphalt road ended and a pea gravel track led on to the camp site but we were done for the day and a storm was brewing anyway.

Walking in a Wonderland

By a lookout post that had a view looking back on the flat expanse of Australia over which we had ridden. The air was dusted with bushfire smoke adding an extra hue to the sunset. Carrying fresh meat in Australia is difficult so we decided to have Christmas dinner then and there. It was a splendid feast but we had to pack up quick as a storm approached.

The only place we could get a tent-peg in the ground was in the bottom of a gully so we put up the inner tent in the ladies toilets. Sounds a bit grim but I must add that these were the cleanest, best designed conveniences in the world. We imagined without difficulty that we were in an alpine hut with two ensuite bathrooms and a bike garage.

Pea-gravel is a simple but apt description of the road material. Imagine riding on a steep track made out of frozen peas. One slips backwards on the uphill sections whether riding or pushing but we made it to the campsite by 9 am and did little but eat and drink for the rest of the day though we made a short walk through the woods in the evening to a cliff-face where the stencils of Aboriginal hands were still bright in red-ochre.

Rainbow Waters

Sitting round our fire in the too brief dusk we were visited by Gary, an Aboriginal with a German father and an unusual name. he was a, well I forget the term he used, but a sort of Native guide and bush-tucker expert though he came from some lands to the south. He talked of plants, of stone-tools and the rainmaker that came down from Arnhem land when he was a boy and understood the beauty of a stone axe. I showed him the stone flake, one of many we found one red-orange evening back in the outback when by chance we must have camped in a quarry that could have been either 100 or 50,000 years old.

On Boxing day we followed the frozen pea road over bare-stone creek beds to Rainbow Waters where a waterfall fell from cold brown pools over sandstone ledges then over the edge of the tableland. To the tribe that gathered fern roots and stringbark on these lands before the cattlemen came, this place represented the source of all life, Moonda Gudda. Understandably so, we sat in a cool and tranquil awe for three early hours until the first of the few and intrepid holiday folk arrived.

Take a Break Mate

As we reclaimed our bikes from the trailhead a pick-up (ute) emptied two tough looking miners who mumbled G’days and I overheard one say to the other, “Jeez Bruce, that’s hell of a bike ride”. They didn’t know the half of it. This isolated world was like Tarzans hidden world on the old Johnny Weismuller Saturday morning show. A forest paradise sitting high and sheer sided above the jungle beneath. We had an unforgetable Christmas.

The Tablelands

Moondda Gudda

This tree grows nowhere else.

Bushwalking

Pea-Gravel Road

A Month Outback

2011-12-21T18:50:00.000-08:00

Bush Tucker Time

Not even a road-sign for shade

AUSTRALIA

The see-through towns owned only one heat bent old nag. They were but slivers of ization, middle in a bovine plain. Collections of sheet metal bashed to form houses, water-tanks and wind-vanes and slowly oxidizing museums of cars scattered amongst the weeds. We stopped long enough to scavenge any fallen mangoes, read any information available; “Kayuna, one time home of A.J ‘Banjo’ Patterson of ‘Waltzing Matilda Fame’. Population in 1894 – 184, population in 2004 – 20, projected population for 2014 – 2”, buy a half liter petrol for our stove, fill up with water, pass the time of day with whoever is on the street, often nobody, and move on.

The roadsides are strewn with the plastic peel of high calorie comfort foods and half full bottles of designer drinks in red, green, blue and see through. Four dollar treats we can ill-afford slung from the briefly opened windows of air conditioned cars. Still, we are happy with our campfire dampers, porridge oat biscuits and bore-water. Are we not Anja?...Anja…she is nodding sideways, well, they taste good when we are hungry.

We have various methods of saving water. After dinner conversation may go like this; ‘Shall I wash the plates and pans tonight or lick ‘em?’…”Nah, we washed ‘em last night, jes’ lick ‘em clean, tilt yer hat back first though”. Sometimes we load up with over a week’s food and 26 liters of water, enough for 2 days; we may even get a wash out of this. Tea and the thought of tea keeps us going. One time when we found our first shade of the day mid-afternoon, we drank six cups of weak tea each, pretty much back to back.

Can't see the bush for the Gum trees

Road-Train hurricanes coming head on stop us in our tracks. They are infrequent but I sometimes lose my hat. Should say helmet as it is law outside of the Northern Territories, but who gives a damn out here. I don it in ‘town’ just to show respect for the law.

We will not miss the stench of rotting kangaroo. So many more dead than alive. They come to the roadside ditches where the grass is sweeter and fail to understand either fences, trucks or headlights. By no means the only indigenous species unable to adapt to modern machine-mans ways.

Australians it seems will go to even greater lengths to avoid getting out of their cars than the Americans.

We leave Tennants Creek strengthened after a break and turn into strong to gale-force winds which we fight for a week to Mount Isa. A Swiss grey nomad whom we meet in some shade asks us where we sleep at night. I look left and right and indicate ‘out there’ with my head. “Is it not too dangerous”? She asks, and we reply “but there is no-one out there”. A confused look in her eye indicates that that, for her, is the problem.

There is no-one out there. In 2000kms of outback we saw one woman on a horse and that was only half a mile from a station. As in parts of Asia one knows there are people there, always, though unseen, one knows that here is no-body. Where we camp, say 500 m from the road you could stay for a year and no-one would know you are there. The only company are the gurgley birds in various colours, the screechy birds, the laughing monkey birds (you don’t want them roosting in a tree above your tent telling jokes about you all night), the punk parrots with yellow mohicans and the insects of course. A giant, majestic Kangaroo may visit inquisitively at dusk or an Emu invite himself for breakfast, but the nearest human is sometimes a hundred miles away. We cut but a thin line through a large continent and know there must be people outdoors somewhere doing tough, leathery cowboy things. We just don’t see them.

Dangers there are though , as we have found out. We are not altogether naïve but have made a few errors in this land with wich we are so unfamiliar, and met with unexpected forces.

One day we rode towards smoke on the horizon, clearly a bushfire on the N. side of the road. The wind blew as ever from the SE. As we got slowly nearer the fire was bigger than we thought and was creating its own cumulus clouds and weather system. We managed to get eventually beyond it only to see another bushfire, smaller but nearer the road. It is not unknown for these fires to have 100km fronts and throw balls of fire the size of cars.

Tired and hungry we called a halt, the sun was sinking and we made camp south of the road. If the wind doesn’t change we will be fine, we convinced ourselves, and planned to keep checking throughout the night. As it got dark though we could see the orange of the fire through the trees, a scary and unexpected sight. We knew we should be no-where in this vicinity.

The wind stilled as usual and the glow seemed to dwindle somewhat. I could have sensed a wind change in my sleep had one occurred. By morning the fire was all but out. The trees seem mostly to survive and in this season the grass grows back quick and green. Probably more foreign cyclists come along to replace those singed every season.

Big Sky Country

Not far from Mt Isa is a beautiful creek lined with green grass and gum trees. The water flows slow and brown and the place is too inviting to ride past on an afternoon hot enough to fade your hat. So the billy is on the fire for tea, the tent has been pitched in the shade and the menu being drawn up for dinner when one of us remembers the crocodile advice. Are we back in Salty territory? Damn, we don’t know. Forgot to ask someone. My logic says no, we are 400kms from the gulf of Carpentaria where the river leads, too far. Also we are too high, 300m or so, nothing called a ‘Salty’ would dare to venture so far and high would it? If I were a crock though, I would be happy in this water; deep and dark and slow where the animals come so obviously down to drink. I decide we are ok. And if I am wrong then it’s a big error but having made the choice I will forget it and sleep well. Anja worries more as night draws on (often my role) till I ask if she wants to move away from the river into the long grass with the snakes. We stay where we are and survive but we now casually ask the yokels about the crocodile situation.

Storms and rain are another problem. Lightning apparently starts most of the bushfires and its easy to believe when you have witnessed the storms here. Camping one night in the bush by a dry creek, dinner was disturbed by rain which turned into a thunderstorm lasting most of the night. The clay like earth absorbed no water at all it seemed and the ground was awash and the creek filling up fast. It appeared to be a tossup whether we would drown from flooding, get struck by lightning or burnt in the ensuing bushfire. We were kneeling on our sleeping mats (recommended safety position, though recommended by whom, neither of us could remember) and praying for the storm to let up. There was lightning all around and no time-gap before the thunder. One strike nearly got us I am sure. It was so close we could smell burnt ozone from in the tent. Finally the worst of it moved off across the plain and we could see no fire, (how does a fire spread with so much water around)? Dawn was upon us and we packed up camp only to find the clay had absorbed just enough water to stick to us like glue. The wheels on the bikes clogged up and we had to shove and carry them back to the road. Hard, work and a pair of hours spent cleaning them up a bit. I am thinner than usual these days and covered in mud, Anja said I looked like a tent peg freshly pulled from the ground. I lost my title of ‘Adventure Tom’ backalong with the leech experience; I guess there are worse names than “Mien schmuztige Hering”.

They are making it up!

We see often inch diameter holes in the ground, tunnels with whispy-web coatings. Backpacker eating spiders we reckon. After leaving a camp where there were many of these dwellings I saw on Anjas back pannier a spider. It was large flat and hairy, had Hazchem written all over it and moved in an intelligent way, if that is possible.

I did a great Dads Army ‘Don’t Panic, Don’t Panic’ impression and nearly made Anja fall from her bike. To regain some respect (from the spider at least), I flicked it skillfully off, Sam Gamgee-wise across the road with my bicycle-pump. We were remarking to each other that that was the damn scariest spider either of us had ever seen by a long, long way when the furry fiend ran back super-fast across the road and back onto the bike. For the next five minutes we played hide and seek with the canny beast until finally it was flicked into the grass.

From snakes we have seen very little, though we always stomp about a bit in the bush to let them know we are coming.

With a headwind every day we were getting worn out. An afternoon on the banks of Chinamans Creek by Cloncurry restored a little strength and spirit but by Winton we needed a full day off. There was a muddy waterhole and we spent the day by it, underneath the shade of a coolabar tree, fixing the bikes, eating and drinking tea and watching the birds.

The pond was no more than 50m across, with a big island in it, a few miles out of town. Damn if a pick-up didn’t bring a speedboat to launch and spend an hour racing from one side to the other. They love a bit of water in the outback. Nice to see grown men having fun. I guess!

STORM CHASED

One afternoon the wind blew our way. We were still in the clay-country and needed hard standing for the tent. Truck lay-bys were the answer, we had them marked on the map and they often had a picnic table and some shade. Reaching easily at 3pm one 50km further that we had planned we left at 4pm with 44km to Longreach. As they say, you’ve got to make your hay when the sun decides to shine. Eight kms down the road the wind turned. We fought it for another 3kms and realized we would be fighting for hours instead of easily cruising into town. This was more like sailing than cycling. Down to 9km\h we did what I have never considered before, we turned back and blew home to where we were an hour or so before where we tied our tent to an insubstantial bush and hoped for another change in wind before morning.

Settling for a fickle crosswind, we set off once more and finally sailed into Longreach on a broad-reach. Great cattle town.

We rode out with the wind behind us again. Riding the same speed as a strong wind, all goes quiet, it is like being still, only the billowing of the long-grass gives away the gale.

I was just remarking on how the gods seemed to have let Turner paint the sky this day when they took away his brushes and gave them to Blake. A black storm was closing in on us from behind and to the North. Sir William was doing his best to reach us with thunderbolts and boiling clouds. With no Emus in sight we were the highest thing we could see so we decided to make a run for it. A 30km run as it turned out, we knew there was shelter in 50. As one Blake’s bearded storm gods took a swipe at us with his hand, we were splattered with turpentine rain but the angry snort from his nostrils blew us out of reach, we were hammering along at 35kmh with lightning splitting the skies behind us.

The dead straight road took a slight bend southwards and the storm tumbled on straight east, unable to turn under its own momentum. The angry artist was ordered to pass along his brushes and, though they didn’t let him paint any hats or pipes or anything daft, it seemed they let Magritte have a go. He did us one of his endless blue skies over green grass with evenly spaced cumulus clouds which seem to have had their bottoms cut off with a knife. Clouds that let you see extending far further than the horizon. Chapeau René.

To end the day all the minor battleship artists were allowed to practice their skies. There were four or five storms to watch at one time.

One evening just outside of Jericho we were surrounded by thousands of flying foxes; large fruit bats that came to drink from the Jordan river. They were not the meter wingspan type we had seen in Java, maybe 18 inches from tip to tip but there were more of them. I reckon a flap of bats that big could eat more mangoes than Anja in a sitting.

The morning of the great spider fight we pulled into a lay-by and found the gravel to be moving. Closer inspection revealed it to be the great woodlouse migration. Millions upon millions swarmed through the grass and along the road and looked, from head height like wildebeest from a helicopter. Where were they going and why?

CHRISTMAS

We have battled the wind as far as Emerald where we swim in the brown river that flows around thick tree trunks in the extensive botanical gardens. These Australian towns have the most wonderful parks.

Today we saw crops and fields, a town that is reasonably busy and all of a sudden things have changed.

Now in Queenslands central highlands, we rode over the hazy-blue Drummond Range, part of the Great Dividing Range, and are only a few days from the coast. The weather is noticeably cooler; we are 20 miles south of the tropics and maybe the coast cools things down. Not sure if we want civilization for Christmas, we may head for a national park with a flagon of wine and some lamb chops and spend a few days with the birds and beasties before rolling down (yeah right) to the beach.

Only 2000kms to Sydney and no idea what to do then. Oh, I forgot, we fly (again) to New Zealand on the 10th Feb.

Merry Christmas everybody, I don’t expect you’ll be hearing from us before then, email is not easy at all to find. Have a good day you all. We shall eat well now the shops are closer than 500 miles apart, might even find some mince pies, they like pies the Ozies it seems, though I doubt they will be home made. I won’t miss brussel sprouts but I do like one of Ma’s homemade mince pies at Christmas.

I seen you before mate!

2011-12-21T18:48:00.000-08:00

Termite Carnac

AUSTRALIA

“I seen you before mate !”

What in the Dreamtime or something? I’m thinking this is fantastic. The first human contact in Australia real and this guy is the genuine article. Black Fella, Spear Chukka, Aboriginal, take your pick, long graying hair and a beard and at first I think he works for the airport somehow because he has a once fluorescent vest on and we are skirting the runway perimeter. Then I notice the large, boney, bare feet and the raggedy shorts.

“I seen you. You came up there, then you didn’t like ‘dat road much so you came over the grass to ‘dis one. I came along up there and then down there and you came along there and here we are.”

“Here we are. So it seems”

“Where you goin’ mate?”

His accent is Australian but thicker, deeper than I have heard before, like thick Claret against a light Beaujolais Neuveau

“Darwin”.

“Yeh, that’s over that way.”

He points out across the bush

“Which road would I take?”

“Ah, go down this road then down the next road, that might get you there.”

“Thanks a lot, eh… Bye”.

He looks a little disappointed, I’m not sure if it is because I am going or because I want to go to Darwin of all places.

“I guess I might see you sometime in the future then”. He says, and really mulls over the possibility.

“I hope so mate, I really do.”

As my new friend lopes across the road and into the bush, Anja pulls up beside me.

“Who was that, she says.”

“That, I believe, was Stone-Age Man.”

Welcome to Australia.

We had met some “real” Australians in the airport. White guys with big bellies, shorts and vests. As I pulled our bikes off the merry-go-round one specimen asked me if we were some of the crazy people intending to ride through the outback. No, I replied we thought we might just have a spin round the park in Darwin and fly back home.

“Ha Ha. Funny. I drive a road train and keep sucking in cyclists, they keep coming and I pass ‘em and they keep getting sucked in.”

“Yeah, look out for road trains.” Pipes up another chap. “But you are far more likely to die of heat stroke this time of year, that and dehydration”

“No no.” says a third man “ They are far more likely to drown in a flood or get blown away by a cyclone, it’s the wet season.” He turns to us. ” It would be better if you came in July.”

We left these optimists to fading shouts of “Look out for the crocs and the snakes” and headed outside to piece together our bikes and ride into town to stay with Brennan, our Couch Surfing host and his ever-changing family of backpackers.

We planned on a day in Darwin, shopping and getting maps and achieved everything we wanted, got some good advice (finally), only to wake up sick on the leaving day. While everyone was sweating and cursing the heat, I was pulling on jumpers and feeling cold, a real fever. Anja was the same but a day later than me.

After four days we wobbled weakly out of Darwin, struggled 64kms down the road and crawled into the bushes to make an early camp.

We were in a meadow of Magnetic Termite Mounds, over 2m high, 1m wide, 15cm thick and all pointing East to West. They were giant menhirs, aligned uncannily like the stone rows at Carnac, facing perhaps a similar equinox. To imagine that ants and men could build monuments in deference to the same deities. This was already the outback proper and would change little for the next 800kms. We began to notice the only variance in landscape being the size shape and colour of the termite mounds, the amount of bark on the gum trees, and the frequency of the crocodile-creeks, (don’t camp to close – fair dinkum; if one gets you, poke it in the eyes – easier said than done I bet; if you go to get water make sure it’s moving and shallow, they like deep holes – useful info).

A familiar sight

Another hard, slow day brought us to a lay-by where we camped next to a young French couple on tour in a car. In the night a jeep pulled up and a bunch of loud young men spilled out, apparently for a nights reveling. Strange place, the nearest town was a hundred miles away. They spoke a strange language neither of us knew what, then a burst of almost English… “It’s the local fellas again, I said to Anja.”

We had been warned, even by the non-bigoted, to be a little wary of this mob. We were at least partially aware now of some of the social problems affecting the Aboriginals in the Northern Territories and some of the results thereof. I figured the best thing was to go and say hello.

Did I sit barefoot in a circle and hear some tales and wisdom from the ancient culture?…not exactly. I sat booted (they were barefoot) in a circle and discussed, inadequately on my part, the merits of Chelsea over Manchester United. I had sworn before we left but was in the end too lazy, to learn the names of a few English league football players, and a few Cricket names. It seems you can just say ‘Wayne Rooney’ or ‘David Beckham’ (a bit out-dated now) and part good friends with strangers from anywhere in the world.

All the boys seemed related somehow and lived in a community beginning with B somewhere south eastish and indeterminably far. “You should visit our town on the Queen’s birthday, we have a big party, it’s quite famous and one year some tourists came”. I was too embarrassed to let on that I had no idea when the, I should say ‘my’, Queens birthday was but if I find out and am in that neck of the woods at the right time I will surely visit. I am a Republican Anarchist with Communist leanings but can think, now, of no better reason for a party in the middle of the outback, than celebrating an English Monarch’s birthday.

Outback Sunset

The Aboriginals have a particular way of talking. They will look the other way and say something fairly casually and not, in words, outstandingly profound but the way they say it carries a surprising weight. We always feel a little honored when any of them take the time to talk to us. Not that they are busy. Busy seems to be a foolish, modern frivolity they have no time for. Another thing is that they always remember your name. Not in a polished, American salesman-type way, you sometimes don’t remember giving your name but on parting they will use it, like the first guy we met, as if they expect to meet you again sometime.

I sit now in the shade by a swimming-pool in a campsite in Tennants Creek. It took eleven or twelve hard days to get here and the same number of nights ‘crawling into the bushes’ as Anja calls it, (actually she says ‘crowling into ze bashes’ and I have no desire to tweak her pronunciation). We have splashed out on a day off in civilization (little c, says I, the Snooty Pomm).

I hope that this blog may have encouraged one or maybe two souls to venture out on two wheels and make a modest cycle-tour. My attitude is that almost anyone can do it. When gym-fit twenty-somethings descend from their taxi’s, buses and 4x4’s and say to us on our bikes, “blimey, I could never do that” I get a bit annoyed and think, “yes you could but you’re too lazy to want to”. I must however point out that Outback Australia in the summer is perhaps not the time and place to begin cycle-touring. The going can be at times a little strenous.

We're no longer afraid of the long straight road

I figured Australia is flat right? Wrong. It’s all uphill. The roads are good and fast are they not? No, they are good but sharp gravel sprinkled on tar makes loud and slow going. I counted on a constant headwind so at least got one thing right. Oh yeah! I almost forgot.. It’s hot.

So we battled for days and days against illness, relentless heat, slow roads and headwind. Riding 10kms then hiding in what shade we could find until we worked up enough courage for another stint. Until now there have been trees but as they were all designed by Dr Zeus the shade they offer is scant at best. ‘Kein A1 shatten’! remarks Anja disappointedly. You can sit in the ‘shade’ with your hat on and somehow your face is still in the sun. Sometimes we pray for our normally beloved orb to sink through its self made, orange horizon-soup to go and bother you guys in the West. The only other fleeting shadow is cast occasionally by a circling fleet of raptors overhead. They sometimes follow us for miles, searching for a sign of weakness. “Keep your shades on Anja, don’t let them see the fatigue in our eyes!” Flies, undeterred by our paltry speed, wander across our savannah dry faces to drink from our billabong eyes. Balls of fur bounce away through the undergrowth and giant lizards hot foot it across the heat-haze highway. The Northern Territories, Top End.

Some days we spend 7 hard hours in the saddle and average 15 kmh. The last day into Tennants Creek the wind veered around, blew from almost behind us and we cruised easily into town averaging 22.5kmh on the clock. Now that is more like it, though with no wind to cool us down it is even hotter. On a cloudy afternoon the thermometer may drop to a cool 40 c in the shade.

We constantly raise hot water-bottles to our cracking lips but can’t seem to ever quench our thirst. Only the thought of lunchtime tea keeps us going at all. Some say you can’t drink the bore-water (boring water we call it). It can be a bit brackish but mostly it’s ok. Can’t afford to be fussy. There are petrol stations every 100kms or so but with a loaf of Mothers Pride costing over 5$ we can’t shop here. We have stocked up on 8 days worth of provisions, we hope, and set out tomorrow for Mt Isa 600 odd kms away with little in between.

So, well, this is the hardest cycling on the trip so far. It’s 45 degrees in the shade if you find any. I once wet my shirt in a creek (deep and still but I was quick) and put it back on. The water was warm but suddenly I was freezing cold, man, this lasted a minuit and a half and then I was dry again. The effect of rapid evaporation at work I guess. An Aboriginal guy we have befriended in TC told me not to do it or I’ll get sick. Well that’s just spoilt my only fun.

This Chap keeps following us!

There was heavy rain around Darwin but we left it behind in Katherine about 700 kms back. Apparently we will find it again in Queensland. El Nino or La Nina (I forget) is playing silly buggers again this year so they are reckoning on more flooding in the East. We will deal with that if and when we encounter it. One hot sweaty night (can one die from dehydration while sleeping?), I was still a little hallucogenic from the fever, fire-flies were putting on a fire show to rival any beach-hippiechick and lightening was constant and all around. We heard a rustling in the trees, louder and nearer it came and then it swept through the tent, a cool strong wind, a draught from the wings of an Angel. We basked a while in its breath and then came the rain. Before long I was outside in my altogether scrabbling in the mud with our faithful little trowel, digging a trench round the tent to divert the worst of the groundwater. As a child I had ‘The Ladybird Book of Camping’ with a cartoon picture on the cover of a happy chap eating his dinner as a torrent was diverted around his camp by carefully excavated trenchwork. This, back then, was my idea of heaven. I guess that night , just south of Katherine, I achieved in a way a long forgotten ambition. The picture though, of me at work, is not one for the cover of a children’s how-to book.

Most nights though are fantastic, the sunset and birdsong are particular to Australia. We could be no-where else. Giant Parrots squawk and pass in frantic clouds, followed by smaller, multi-coloured ‘keets and ‘toos. Spoonybilled storkybirds hoover up frogs from grassy floodwaters and unseen hundreds of greenybeaks chirp and hoot in the gum trees,(one day we might find a bird book). My favorite though are the ‘Naughty-Birds’, Anja calls them ‘Nasty-Birds’ but I like the little fellas. They are cocky and a little like jackdaws but with more colourful and expressive gurgly-chirp voices. They have a magpie’s strut, hang around in sixes or sevens and often pay us a lunchtime visit. They like cheese.

Rarely have we slept so far from other humans. There is often no-one for 60 miles or more in any direction. The stars are indescribable and we think we have finally picked out the Southern Cross. Orion is the only familiar form we can see though I can’t understand what he is doing down here. He lays upside-down, low in the East. The cool hour in the morning is best for cycling, but also best to eat our porridge or camp-flapjacks, drink a mug of coffee and watch the day begin.

Should we have backed out of the outback? Possibly. I ride ‘point’ all the time and just seem to lose more and more weight. Steak and eggs last night and the same tonight (I hope). We can’t seem to drink enough for a healthy coloured urine. Most people we meet tell us we are crazy. The only people outside here are the Aboriginals sitting in the shade in town. This may sound a little weird, even offend some people, but so far, Australia seems to us to be very much an indoor culture. A similar phenomenon seems to exist to that which I noticed years ago in the Southern USA; people have air-conditioned houses, shops and businesses, shuttle between them in air conditioned 4x4’s, and never acclimatize to the heat. I went 12 days without going inside a building; in Tennants Creek I did the shopping, 40 minutes in a frigid, AC. emporium and when I came out it felt 20 degrees hotter than before, I couldn’t believe how Anja could bare to sit outside. There must be some real tough guys working outside at the cattle-stations, doing jobs one can’t do from a pick-up. We just have not seen them. Most Australians seem overweight or at-least unfit (damn, I am going to be unpopular), and struggle to walk from their vehicles across the car-park to the supermarket. The minority, let’s say 10%, look like they could run two marathons back to back before lunch without working up a sweat (given the right synthetic energy supplements and sports drinks of course). It’s all or nothing it seems. Please forgive my frankness any Auzie reading this, you must understand we spent 15 months in Asia and have undergone a kind of culture-shock.

The people we have met have all been friendly and interesting whether oldly native or new. The Northern Territories must be a pretty hard place to live. There seems to either be too little water or too much and there doesn’t appear to be much in the way of soil. No mountains to erode, never any ice to do the eroding, no forests as such to hold what there is. It seems any soil that may form is washed away each year and this has gone on repeatedly for millennia, eons even. When the Stuart Highway drives through a shallow cutting, the clean-cut sections show a basic stratification; cracked red rock with a few millimeters of red gravel on top. The green must somehow cling to this. There is a lot of green right now but I don’t think it lasts even half the year. The trees must have roots that penetrate rocky fissures in search of moisture. Life here looks so thin and fragile, it is only a skim on the surface of what would otherwise look, I fear, very much like Mars.

Bali, Indonesia

2011-11-13T14:40:00.000-08:00

COLLECTING BIKE BOXES

We have spent a week on the island of Bali, an oasis of temples, stone and wood carvings, flowers and decoration in the middle of Islam’s architectural wasteland.

All our gear including the bikes has been scrubbed with a toothbrush in lieu of Australian regulations. I hope we did a good enough job.

Our Air Asia flight leaves tomorrow morning and all going well we should tough down in Darwin early afternoon. We have arranged to stay with a cyclist chap who is a member of Warm Showers, a couch surfing organization for cycle tourists. Then it is a spin across the outback and a roll down the coast to Sydney.

We are nearly there.

Lombok, Gili Inseln, Indonesien

2011-11-05T02:40:00.000-07:00

Du faules Schwein

Da wabern wir also mit den wenigen Unterbrechungen von essen, lesen und schlafen auf der warmen Wasseroberflaeche herum. Unter, neben, ueber uns: smartiebunte Fische, Korallen (tot oder lebendig (viele sogar das)) Moraenen, Schildkroeten, viel, viel Blau und andere absonderliche und unbekannte Lebensformen. So geht das nun schon seit Tagen. Ich kann nicht genug davon bekommen, ein faules Schwein zu sein und Tom ist kurz vorm Inselkoller.

Von Java und unserem besher letzten Vulkan Ijen sind wir zum Faehrhafen nach Bali buchstaeblich runtergerollt und schifften uns auf Bali ein. Wir spurteten in 3 Tagen an der nordlichen Inselseite entlang, um schnell nach Lombok zu kommen. Von Lombok nahmen wir wieder eine kleine Faehre bis zu den Gili Inseln, auf denen es keine Autos und Mopeds gibt. Das erschien nach Java-Bali-Lombok sehr verheissungsvoll. Ausserdem wollte ich unbedingt mal wieder schnorcheln. Und mich ausruhen vor den zu erwarteten Strapazen Australiens.

UNSER AUSBLICK

Wir haben sogar schon einen Ausflug auf die andere Inselseite gemacht (ca. 1,5 km entfernt) um dort die Unterwasserwelt zu bestaunen. Das sieht nicht so anders aus als auf dieser Inselseite: Blau soweit das Auge reicht, knabbernde und scheissende Fischchen, Schildkroeten auf deren Panzer sich das Licht bricht. Tief durchatmende Moraenen in Weiss mit schwarzem Muster, Schwarz mit weissen Puenktchen und einige in zurueckhaltendem Braunton schauen aus ihren Verstecken raus. Hier ein Lionfish (wie ist gleich der deutsche Name??!!) und hier eine rosa, laengliche und gutaussehende Qualle auf dem Weg, unvorsichtigen Touristen eins ueberzubraten. Geschickt umschwimmen wir diese gemeine Kreatur. Tom versucht mit seinen neu erworbenen Freitaucherkenntnissen den Grund des Meeres zu erreichen (2,50m). (Tom sagt an dieser Stelle ich bin gemein und ungerecht, und er wird sich in seinem naechsten Bericht an mir raechen). Es waren 5m und er ohne Flossen! Ich hoffe immer, Tom bekommt kein Blackout, obwohl er mir kurz erklaert hat, was dann zu tun waere: Maske runter, Mund ueber Wasse halten (unser beider idealer Weise) auf die Wangen pusten und leicht! ohrfeigen. Dann sollte das Bewusstsein wieder auftauchen. Ich bin also informiert!

Der Einsiedlerkrebs oder Eine gute Tat

DACHGARTENKREBS

Zwischen den Besuchen der Wassertiere, scharren wir am Strand im Korallenkies. Irgendetwas Interressantes gibt es dort immer zu finden, wie Millionen anderer Strandbesucher bestaetigen werden, denn jeder tut gewissenhaft das gleiche: im Sand scharren. Leider ist selten etwas Essbares dabei. Aber wir versuchen zwanghaft unseren Shivaaugenvorrat (Schneckentueren) wieder aufzufuellen, den wir grad nach Hause versendet haben. (3kg!!!!!!). Schuld daran ist eigentlich meine Schwester, die irgendwann mal erwaehnte, diese waeren sehr wertvoll. Dass hat sich unausloeschlich in mein Hirn gebrannt (obwohl ich mich hin und wieder frage: wie koennen die hier eine Silberkette mit einem Schivaaugenanhaenger von 2cm Durchmesser fuer 12 Euro anbieten)? So robben wir also mit dem Gesicht Richtung Sand ueber den Strand. Und da entdecken wir sie: Einsiedlerkrebse. Aber den armen Kreaturen fehlt das Haeuschen. Sie kruemmen sich und warden fast rot, so als haette man sie beim Nacktbaden erwischt. Schnell werden wir ihnen ein kleines Zuhause suchen. Aehm hier wird doch irgendwo..vielleicht da drueben, nein hier auch nicht…Der Strand ist abgesucht. Kein Schneckenhaus zu finden. Da! Ach, schon besetzt. Ja, da faellt es mir wieder ein: Sorongbedeckte hellhaeutige Frauen laufen mit Plastiktueten bewaffnet auf und ab und sammeln ein, was der Strand an Erinnerungen ans Paradies feilbietet.

Es dauert bestimmt 10 Minuten bis wir ein passendes, abgeknabbertes Schneckenhaus finden. Es wird dankbar entgegengenommen. Mit schlechtem Gewissen denke ich an meine Paradieserinnerungen, die daheim im Regal verstauben.

Drum liebe Leser, last das verdammte Schneckenhaus am Strand liegen, klar!

Abhaengigkeiten

Seit China befinden wir uns im Mangoparadies. Taeglich werden Mangoigel geschnitzt und sorgfaeltigst abgeknabbert und dabei die unterschiedlichen Sorten diskutiert. Ich frage mich ersthaft, ob ich je wieder in einem Land mehr als eine Woche (ueber)leben kann, wo es keine anstaendigen Mangos gibt. Hier auf der Insel werde ich bereits auf eine harte Probe gestellt: ich konnte gerade mal 2 ueberteuerte Exemplare erstehen. Doch da sehe ich ploetzlich Spiderman im Wasser (rote Badekappe, rotes Lycrashirt) und ich bin kurzfristig von meinem Verlangen abgelenkt….

Wir, die Touristen

wollen keine Armbaender und Sarongs vom fliegenden Haendler kaufen. Wollen eine Suesswasserdusche (das Wasser wird per Boot hierher transportiert. Wollen Mangos. Wollen keinen Muell am Strand. Wollen die Schidkroeten retten.....wieso steht dahinten im Wasser ein Schnorchler bauchnabeltief im 5 m tiefen Wasser (genau, dort wo Tom immer seine Freitauchuebungen macht), gruebel, gruebel. Ach ja, es gibt Korallen und der kluge Schnorchler hat Gummischuhe an, damit er sich beim Rein- und Rauslaufen nicht die Fuesse zerschneidet. Praktisch, so kann er auch in 5m Wassertiefe eine Verschnaufspause einlegen. Und so sehen wir teaglich 20 Schnorchler (es ist Nebensaisaon, kaum jemand hier) uebers Riff latschen. Boote schmeissen den Anker und erledigen den Rest. Ich glaube das Pardies muss bald umziehen, damit wir folgen koennen.

Aber auch Tom und ich haben den naechsten Flug bis Darwin gebucht, was nicht unbedingt zur Verbesserung der Welt beitraegt und jetzt muss ich dass mal erwaehnen:

Olaf, ich ziehe den Hut vor Dir, weil du aus moralischen Gruenden nicht fliegst!

The sulphur mines and the Million Star Resort

2011-10-31T04:03:00.000-07:00

From Bondowoso to the Ijen plateau was a good day’s ride and we camped by the trail-head

IJEN DAWN

that lead the last two miles to the crater rim. The stars ripened like fruit before our eyes and now and again dusty men would shuffle past, bowed down under the weight of baskets filled with chunks of what looked like heavy yellow cheese.

Climbing in the dark, well before dawn up the steep path, we realized these were no mountain dairy farmers but sulphur miners working the night shift. As we reached the treeless rim an inkling of daylight revealed an eerie, poisonous landscape thankfully no longer common on our shining blue-green orb.

Down in the crater were blue fires burning holes through a yellow, steaming earth. Beyond lay a large, siren of a lake which invited, with its stark aquamarine, unsuspecting bathers into its beautiful but acid realm. Descending to the fires, dawn hid the blue flames and we could see liquid sulphur spewing, steaming and cooling into slabs. When the wind took the smoke briefly away two balaclavad men rushed in and broke off chunks of the heavy cheddar with

SUFUR MINE

crowbars. Another loaded them carefully, 70kilo’s at a time, into two baskets tied to a bamboo pole. Waiting porters hoisted it onto scarred and deformed shoulders and began their twice daily journey, 90 meters up to the rim and 300 odd meters and 3 kilometres down to the plateau below.

We talked to one young miner, a jolly fellow, though they all somehow had a smile for us and a “Selemat Pagi”. He revealed openly if not proudly that he could earn about 8 Euros a day, and had moved here from the more expensive Bali for this work. Here he could bring up his family in a village beneath the volcano and since his buddy with a moped had joined him he could return home some nights and not have to stay on the mountain.

Anja saw this mine as some Breugelian vision of hell but (though I would maybe rig up some kind of cable car system), I would rather do this that work 12 hours in a factory for half the money. Our man said that a farmworker earns a quarter what he does. 70 kilos is damn heavy though, whatever you get paid.

After returning to camp we ate a leisurely breakfast, cleaned the last of Bromo’s dust from our chains and sprockets, descended the rough old track 2000m to the sea through flowering coffee plantations, caught the ferry to Bali and flopped, dead tired into the nearest house for flopping.

A HARD DAYS NIGHT

We followed the North coast of Bali, stopping now and then to stick our heads into the sea and look at the corals and fish. Here was a slightly disturbing mixture of poor, dry villages with a five star “Spa” resort sucking all available water to lushly green its lawns. $100 a night was not really our style so we stayed in our own private million star resorts just down the coast, (what some folks call camping out).

A few days brought us to the boat to Lombok, the next island so we hopped on the boat hoping to visit the paradise Gili islands. On the boat we met Jorgen, a 75 year old, adventurous chap who, after travelling the world as a young man had settled in Australia. He kept us entertained with tales from his well lived life and strengthened our desire to have a look at Tasmania.

The boat arrived after dark so we shared a room and a fine evening with Jorgen before riding up the coast , slinging the bikes on a small boat with a reluctant motor, and being left on a white sand beach on Gili Meno.

This morning we rose before the sun, donned our masks and snorkels, stepped from our bamboo hut and swam out to see what the reefs looked like. Under the glassy surface the wonderful world once more awaited us. Hawksbill and giant green turtles let us free-dive and swim alongside till we reluctantly had to return for air. I could have caught a ride with one old fella but I figured it would be disrespectful to someone of his venerability. I think though I will finish this “Diary of a spoilt tourist” and see if I can’t find a younger turtle willing to take passengers.

THE DESCENT

THROUGH THE WOODS

GUNUNG MERAPI, BALI FERRY

LOCAL BOATS

THE FLEET RETURNS AT DAWN

OLD PLANTATION WORKER

Hill with a Hole in the Top

2011-10-24T02:13:00.000-07:00

JAVA, INDONESIA

VOLCANO ADVENTURE

BOROBODOR

We reluctantly rolled out of Batu Karas where we could have stayed a month or two, and headed east down the coast to Pangandarang. There was a white sand beach where the monkeys cracked sea-shells on the exposed reef. One could both snorkel and surf here but neither in ideal conditions. Onward to Cilacap where we turned inland and rode to Borobodur, the great Buddhist temple. Impressive. Her we met Kanda, an adventurous Japanese cyclist who had just started his round the world trip in Bali. We spent the morning with him wandering the ruins and left for Prambanan, another temple complex where we sat amongst the ruins to watch the sun set. Before a town called Wonogiri we happened upon a small hotel with a veranda and a view over a lake amongst the hills.

Our goal now was Gunung Bromo, the great volcano. We knew it would be steep and Anja was a little anxious. She insisted I did some internet research to see if anyone else had ever cycled the road we intended to take. The so called ‘Back door to Bromo’.

KENDA

My admittedly reluctant and brief search revealed no guys on bikes crazy enough to take this road except Mr Pumpy, my cycle-blogging hero of old. Good old Mr P. had ridden this road in the opposite direction and described his descent (our ascent) as the most continuously steep and rough road he had, on all his travels come across. The intrepid fellow burnt through a set of brake-blocks and had to get off and walk some of the way.

‘It doesn’t sound too bad’, I reported to Anja and she looked decidedly happier about the 2300m climb ahead of us. We were taken in by Ekko and his family the first night, in a village with the wonderful name of Gubaklakka, so named after the sound the suspension makes on all the motorbikes and Jeeps around these parts. We managed a 6 O’Clock start the next morning and were soon pushing up a not so bad road made from concrete divided into small squares. This gave some purchase to tires, was far better than slipping backwards in the dust, but damn difficult to ride up all the same. Infact, I offer a challenge; if anyone can cycle all the way up this road with a full set of bags I will buy them both a pint and a pickled egg. All you hoard rushing to claim this prize will

hopefully not disturb the beauty and tranquility you will all encounter on this wonderful track.

So up and up we went, demolishing our water and food supplies till we had but a dry packet of noodles left for our intended camp. Suddenly there was a little hut selling aqua and last year’s biscuits, and a surprised old man who informed us that we were now on the crater rim. Bromo is an active, if mildly, volcano within the much larger crater of an older one. This makes for a rather unique landscape. Apparently we had now only to descend the outer wall, cross the ‘Sea of Sand’, climb a few hundred steps and we could peer into the innards of our beloved planet.

It all started off quite green and pretty but the sand got deeper and we had to push. The vegetation slowly died off and as a wind picked up we were struggling across an eerie land of ash which we are still spitting from our mouths and cleaning from our camera. There were cumulus clouds against the opposite wall some miles distant which sat but a few feet from the ground. And we could see steam rising behind a hill on our left.

We had made better time than we thought and as the dust cleared a little we could make out a settlement perched on the steep wall in front of us. Given the weather, terrain and impending darkness we abandoned the camping idea and kept going to Ngadasi, the village we could see.

PRAMBANAN

On getting closer we were met by a man on a motorbike who led us back to his guesthouse and a hot meal by his fire. It had suddenly turned cold. He was keen for us to see the sunrise from a high viewpoint the next morning which was a 3 hour walk or an hour’s motorbike ride away. Hesitatingly he agreed to trust us with his moped and at 3.30 the next morning we left in the dark with a scribbled map into the dark and sandy crater. There was a thin mist on the ground and a sky full of juicy stars above as we floated across the soft and unseen surface of the plain and ascended to the frigid peak to witness a magical sunrise with, surprisingly, a few hundred other people. We never did figure how they had got there or where they had come from. From a more solitary vantage we witnessed the day get underway as we brewed some coffee and ate our bread and cheese.

The climb up Bromo itself was a short and crowded hike through deep ash. The mountain last erupted in January covering the vicinity in a few feet of ash.

PRAMBANAN

This ash had covered the concrete safety railing on Bromo’s rim and as I turned to speak to Anja my forgotten rucksack almost sent someone on their journey to the centre of the earth. There was a steep scarp of ash ending abruptly in a vertical stone-walled hole that presumably went on down and down. The feeling, looking down, somehow surpassed vertigo, from which I suffer. There would be something so utterly final about falling into this abyss that we felt one might be able to accept this fact after the initial panic, and perhaps enjoy the flight. We spent some time in such powerful but futile reflection before returning to the guesthouse, packing our bags and pushing off on our more measured descent down the smooth and winding road to the sea.

What a descent it was, our hard rough climb of the day before was rewarded with 30km pedal-free cycling. First real steep then gradually relaxing gradients until we were cruising at 35 to 40 kmh without even having to brake. The mileposts whizzed by and we removed a scarf or a hat or a coat at every other one until we hit a wall of hot air, black fumes and noise. The North coast road of Java.

It’s a sticky wind that blows no-one dry. Damn, it was hot. It really sapped the strength. Maybe we were still tired from the Bromo climb because we barely crawled up the hill to Bondowoso where I sit and write this.

SOMETIMES STEEP

We are taking a day off to do some ‘housework’, sorting out Australian visas on-line and buying a flight ticket to Darwin. We have less than three weeks left on our visas and though we could extend them and continue down through the islands, we would be lucky to find a yacht willing to take us, and the flights from Timor are exorbitant. I am ready to close the Asian chapter of our trip. I long for open spaces again and somewhere where we will be inconspicuous. We are ready for Australia though it seems not ready for us; apparently they have a thing called the wet season that kicks off in November. Not sure exactly what this means in Australia, probably just a bit of cloud sweat!

KOPI BREAK

Tomorrow we start another volcanic climb up a bumpy road. Well it was over the hill with the hole in the top or round on the dirty main road. My way or the highway I guess! Next installment should be from Bali, hopefully we’ll find some swell for surfing!

TEN GREEN BOTTLES

DUCK WITH RICE

JAVAN HILLSIDE

ACROSS THE SEA OF SAND

NOT FAR TO GO

BROMO

JUST ANOTHER VOLCANO SUNRISE

BROMO AND SEMARU

NO FINER SPOT FOR BREAKFAST

VIEW TO TH OUTER RIM

THE HOLE IN THE HILL

ROOSTER

MOUNTAIN KITCHEN

ANJA FOUND A FREIND

ADID OUR CYCLING COMPANION

West Java, Indonesia

2011-10-07T00:23:00.000-07:00

Leaving Jakarta

A thousand ships lay at anchor in the Singapore straits. Ugly tankers ploughed low troughs through the floating steel city and tramp ships piled overhigh with containers barely rocked in their wake. Viscous water ganged up with smoky air to banish the horizon and the setting sun from sight and we arrived in TG Panang, Indonesia as darkness settled on this small but busy town on the island of Bintan.

As we looked for breakfast the next morning we found ourselves surrounded by the Lycra clad local mountainbike club. They looked far more out of place than us in the dusty surroundings but were excited at the chance meeting and wanted to drag us off over tropical hill and dale on their Sunday ride. Anja goes nowhere without breakfast so they disappointedly rode off without without us.

20000kms from Devon

The government run ‘Pelni’ ship to Jakarta was built some time ago in Hamburg and I must say the engines still ran pretty smoothly. The rest of the ship though was a stinking rusty hulk where the stench got stronger the deeper one went. Cockroaches did not so much scatter from our path but sidle reluctantly out of the way, confident in their superior numbers. Breakfast lunch and dinner on board was cold rice and a fish-head served in a polystyrene box. Hundreds if not thousands of these were then jettisoned with other waste from the galley porthole into the path of the few following dolphins who I hoped found my largely uneaten fish-heads and profited in some fleeting way from the existence of us greedy and filthy humans. So much for trying to be eco-hippies and not taking the quicker, easier and cheaper option of flying.

Could be Devon

The only other pale-face onboard was Paulo, an interesting Austrian chap who lived on Java and took this horrible boat because he was afraid of flying. He said there was a new boat that left on Wednesdays that was actually quite nice and they didn’t throw the crap overboard. So if you ever go this way take the KM Kulud if possible and not the KM Umsini. Ironically a whole deck of the ship was first-class, quarter-decent and empty, all of the passengers being crammed into steerage. We just had to escape the atom-splitting Karaoke machine strategically placed in the only place with seats (well there was one small bench on the miles of deck to be shared between about 400 passengers but you had to fight for it), so we sneaked down to the deserted first-class deck and got a good nights sleep in one of the ‘lounges’.

Java Morning

We arrived only 5 hours late to a darkened, busy Jakarta dock with no more desire to ride the 16kms into the city. Paulo negotiated a taxi-bus for us and we eventually found a cheap hotel in the backpacker district. We had until now avoided bed-bugs. I guess we had been lucky. No longer. We moved to a different hostel and set out confidently on our bikes to explore the city. An hour later we pulled breathlessly into the gateway of the national museum and remained for hours in this interesting haven of calm, reluctant to return to the fray. Neither of us it seemed had much desire to find the hidden delights of Jakarta. The traffic is bad but the fumes and pollution is awful, somehow unproportional, the worst we have encountered. We left the next morning.

For the next 130kms we wore face-masks but still had sore throats. The cycling was unpleasant and I was, until then, totally uninspired by anything Indonesian. All we saw were millions of people riding round on smoky-foul mopeds throwing crap of all kinds into any possible ditch or river. The strange thing was, people didn’t look that poor. I found myself getting angry with the whole nation. Ignorance is no-longer either an excuse or a reason for this level of pollution, all kinds of media are everywhere and most of the kids seemed to go to school.

Fisherman

We turned left and headed for the south coast figuring the roads would be quieter. The road was on our map and turned out to be a small lane leading into the hills. I didn’t care if we got lost, we could go by compass, anything to escape the damn highway. After a few kms there was no traffic at all and we were back in the world we knew, small villages, kids, chickens and buffalos. Behind us rose a volcano out of the haze and we began to climb. The road forked and forked again but we kept asking for unpronounceable villages that we rarely ever reached. The asphalt lost either its way or its courage and we were left alone, pushing our bikes up a rocky track sunken between two fields. I was reminded of a favourite stretch of Devon green lane and as we stopped for a picnic, sitting on the bank looking out over the remaining tufts of forest to a cloud topped, dry volcano in the fern, I finally felt a wave of happiness flood my spirit. I believe I had imagined the whole world was a city and all the roads were lined with concrete mobile-phone shops which trapped thick purple smoke and bounced amplified, combustive noise repeatedly against strained eardrums. I had awoken from the nightmare.

The Slaughterhouse

Up and up we pushed and crawled until we reached the tea which draped itself like a green blanket over all but the tightest undulation of the hills. These plantations are always a magical topiary garden even when one knows they have replaced the forest. The tarmac had worked its way up from the south to meet us and we cruised down a mobeus’ ribbon in new black asphalt, the only sound the wind in our ears and the suck of our trusty tires on the cambered curves. Bicycles were made for roads such as these. At night we stayed in a remote Losemen, a guesthouse for tired travelers, where we met a man from Jakarta here to buy some land. Iman was his name and he took us next morning into the forest to check out the dwindling water- source which was going to supply his timber crop with sustenance. It had not rained here for five months and the farmers were in trouble. So many times on this trip had we heard the locals complaining of unusual weather be it too hot too wet too dry or cold.

Wild West Java

The road surface deteriorated again and I was left repeating my old maxim that a good track is far better than a bad road. We rode a bad road for the next 200kms along the south coast of Java. On our right side the ocean released its frustration by pounding the coast with huge breakers and the sound followed us way inland when we were, for some unknown , led away from the relatively flat coastal strip and up a mountain only to be brought hurtling down 20% gradients to a place not far from where we were before. We had to let our tires down to half pressure to avoid being rattled apart and against a strong headwind we were struggling to make 70kms a day, camping sometimes under coconut trees with the sound of surf permeating our dreams.

One afternoon we cycled back onto the pages of our out of date guidebook and decided to overnight in a little beach village called Batu Karas. From the town of Cijulang where we accidently met the local antique bicycle club showing of their Dutch and Indian prides of joy, we crossed a pretty bamboo bridge, were met by the local English teacher and taken to the home of a lady called Marti who would rent us a room for what stretched into more than a weeks stay.

We reach the coast

We had stumbled onto one of Indonesia’s famous surf breaks and after watching so many people have such fun pretty much for free, we thought we would have a go. Many people informed us that there was hardly a better place in the world to learn to surf, owing to the sandy bottom and the regular and long right hand break. One could also watch the reigning and former Indonesian long-board champions practicing all day long.

Surfer Chick

After four days of being pounded and tumbled from 6am to 5pm I was cut and bruised, my rashes turned to sores then open wounds and my arms hung so heavy at my sides I could hardly raise my evening beer to my lips. It was all worth it to experience the silence as finally the breaking foam is left behind, the only sound is the ripple of water on the edges of the board and one can trace a line in the steep, curved wall of the wave with a finger while one glides beneath this fickle face. All other concerns disappear while surfing and one can step across the time-curve direct from morning to evening noticing only the waxing and waning tide, while those on the shore take the long way round via afternoon. The first time travellers will be the surfers of light-waves.

Surfer Chic

In this friendly community we soon new most people by first name. There were a few of us foreigners learning to surf, encouraging each other’s achievements and laughing at our failures, the more experienced ones helping the less talented. Being a bit of a loner I felt for the first time in years part of a club, one of the boys. One night we had a fish fry, grilling a massive trevally and eating till we were overfull. Thanks to everyone for a wonderful week: Ian, Jordan and Naiomi, Jake and Jake, Walter and Ilsa joining us on a swim up the green canyon, Mike for so willingly lending your longboard, Marti for cooking so many meals and making us feel at home and all in the Batu Karas surf club for creating the atmosphere that makes it hard for all to leave.

The swell is picking up and Anja is, after so much determination finally getting on her feet. There is time for a couple of hours wave-riding before sundown so I will leave you dear readers, to go and open up once more my thinly scabbed sores and batter again my tender ribs.

Postscript:

Anja has figured it out and is catching almost every wave.

Into Singapore

2011-10-06T23:41:00.000-07:00

In the Botanical Gardens

Happy Face

There are four ways into Singapore from Malaysia, Two roads and two ferries. We were on the west coast so the nearest bridge seemed the obvious option but we were informed that this new motorway bridge was not open to cycles. The next nearest was the causeway crossing from Jolong Badur to Singapore. This is apparently incredibly busy and the roads are unpleasant all the way. We had been invited to visit Ken and Elaine some friends of Dave and Nancy the cyclists we had met near Penang. Ken and Elaine lived in the Joo Chat area on the East side of the city which could be reached by coastal cycle-path from Chandi, the ferry port serving out two other options which were boats from the other side of the peninsular. This sounded more like us though it would take us an extra day to ride round.

After more palm trees but little traffic we arrived in Dusai where we treated ourselves to a 24 hour package holiday in a slightly dated holiday resort on the beach with a swimming pool and all. We got a special rate (it was very cheap) as we were adventurous cyclists and all and joined the other 6 guests in this 120 room, 5 floor, manicured hotel. Next day we ambled down to SG Ringit.

The “bum boat” to Singapore left when a few more passengers turned up, it is supposed to leave when there are 12 but there were only 4 of us and the bikes went on and off easily with the bags still on. All was quiet on the other side and we were alone going through security and immigration. No problem apart from my knife which was seen on the X-ray machine. It is illegal to carry a “weapon” in Singapore and apparently a breach of etiquette not to declare one if you have one. So eventually there were 4 policemen and 1 policewoman and I in the little customs back room having a serious chat about the situation. The knife was photographed and forms were filled out in different colours and superiors were disturbed from important lunches by hasty and whispered telephone calls. Was I worried?... Not at all, the problem Sima and the boys were trying to solve was how I could retain the knife without running a risk of being found with it by some other police down the road and getting into trouble. As we left England some surly and rude officers confiscated my little pocketknife and told me to bugger off if I didn’t want any trouble, here were 5 polite officers taking an hour of their time to find a way that I could keep a sheath knife. And they did.

Raffles

I was expecting not to like Singapore, thinking it was all city and silly rules and regulations but these police and the shaded 25km cycle-path which led us into town through a park on the coast had me enthusing about its virtues. Ken and Elaine lived in an apartment building surrounding a leafy garden and a couple of swimming pools. We ate home-cooked food with good company and Ken, a keen cyclist took us on a two-wheeled tour of the city, seeing all the sights from cycle-paths. When you know your way around, Singapore is a great city on a bicycle. The architecture is impressive, new and old and yes, the place is clean and it seems a lot of the draconian rules have been relaxed; it is possible to jay-walk without being strung up by the toes.

What we found strange was the high number of westerners here, notably young women with toddlers and young men with mobile phones. The old harbour district has been converted into a pleasant if sterile bar and restaurant zone where it seemed antipodeans were on one side of the river swilling 4x, chewing steaks and watching wide-screen ausie-rules while on the other, in front of the rugby, eating fish and chips and downing pints of Guinness were, well, you know who. The place smelt like London.

Orchard Road

Indonesian visas were no problem, in fact, really fast and efficient. Ken rode with us to the ferry port where we caught the boat to the nearby Indonesian island of Batam where a ship apparently would take us to Jakarta.

Thanks Elaine and Ken. It was a pleasure meeting you both, seeing the sights of Singapore and recharging our batteries before braving Jakartan traffic.

Ken and the Marine Plaza

The Art Gallery

If I never see another Palm Oil tree.....

2011-09-07T06:12:00.000-07:00

MALAYSIA

It is almost like being in India, the conversational patterns are similar:

‘Good evening sir my name is Joseph’.

‘Nice name.’

‘Yes I am a Christian; my great grandfather came from India.’

‘From Kerala I suppose?’

‘How did you know?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Are you a Christian too?’

‘No I am a Cyclist.’

‘I have never heard of this. Is your wife a Christian?’

‘No, she’s German.’

‘Ah, a Nazi.’

‘No, a Communist.’

‘An East German then?’

‘How did you know? Two Masala Dosa’s please... and some tea.’

The best thing in Port Dickson

Palm Oil Road

Malaysian Town Planning

Joseph had a large handlebar in hair above his mouth and a twinkle in his eye. I assumed he thought he was humorous as he explained that if the British had not come to Malaysia, bringing the Indians with them the natives would still be,to paraphrase, doing gymnastics in the forest canopy, and not governing one of the most developed nations in Asia. I tried to guide the conversation onto more P.C ground but the popular topic of the French submarine surfaced once more and off we went again.

Apparently the Malaysian government bought for its Navy a submarine from the French for 1 Billion Ringgits (a lot of money) and this was controversial before it was discovered the damn thing wouldn’t sink. A U-Boot that refused to do the U bit. Johnny Frog shrugged his shoulders, handed out a few Breton shirts to senior officials and deposited the check with Credit Agricole. I found it hard to understand all the rumours though I believed them all. One of them has a Mongolian girl, a broker, they say, being blown up by the powers that be. I have begun writing the screen play for Hollywood; it involves a motorcycle chase through a palm oil plantation, a gun fight in Colonial Malacca and in the final scene the submarine finally going down in flames. Joseph is hoping Sarawak and Sabah will help swing the vote in the next election away from the Malay, Muslim led government towards an Indo-Chinese coalition or some such.

Who needs newspapers or the internet when one can learn the latest in an Indian restaurant?

Malacca

I say almost like being in India. Every town here has a ‘Little India’ which Anja describes as ‘India for beginners.’ It is just the same but with more powerful light bulbs and some health and safety regulations which eradicate the tripping over black pigs in dark streets problem, though a part of me misses the little swines. The hotels are run by cleaner versions of the Indian young men who, I was pleased to see, also spend their days sleeping on the guest-beds and appear to be doing every little job for the very first time. Eat with the Indians, sleep with the Chinese. That’s my advice for Malaysia. It has been Ramadan so the Muslim Malay establishments have been mostly shut. Now they are open and the food is great.

Invited For Lunch

We were hailed one day from the roadside and invited to eat with a Malay family all dressed up for Hari Raya Haji (look that up on Wikipedia, it seems to be the big party after the fasting month of Ramadan). I think these folks get my vote for best dressed people so far. The whole day we were waved too and welcomed by young men on motorbikes wearing bright silk shirts, each one a different colour. We left the family laden with Lemang, a sweet rice in a bamboo tube, beef sauce to go with it and a box of cakes.

Malacca

The cycling down to Melaka from Georgetown was flat, hot, busy and largely dull unless you happen to be a palm oil anorak. The highlights are the towns. Taiping was a pleasant place to stop, it claims 31 Malaysian ‘firsts’ including the first museum, the first railway line and the first municipal garden built on the sight of an old tin mine, the latter surprisingly impressive. We stopped in Klang for the night, a great little town 30 odd kms from Kuala Lumpar. A visit to the port informed us that in 3 days a ferry could take us to TG Balai near Medan on Sumatra so we decided to wait and visit by train the Capital.

KL as the locals call it has possibly the world’s finest train station built, if I remember correctly by the British architect Hubbock around 1910. It was however hard to take a decent photograph as the station was hemmed in on all sides by 4 lane flyovers and canalised, uncrossable rivers. On our return after a hard days touristing we had the place in sight but found it almost impossible to reach by foot. Some scate-boardy street-punk types were shinning across a water channel on a pipe-line in order to get there. Anja didn’t fancy this so we spent another 45 minutes dodging fast moving traffic and exploring dark corners under bridges before we managed to arrive. There are some interesting buildings in KL but getting to them was usually a similar, sweaty experience to the above, even though they are really not very far apart. The place reminded me of some American cities which seem to have been designed without humans in mind.

Dave and Nancy

Back at the port, excited about Sumatra, I was informed that we could not go to TG Balai as we did not have passports from any of the countries listed in felt-tip pen on a grubby piece of paper stuck to the wall. Having been assured, all be it from the car park attendant, that all types of westerners took this boat, I was miffed. There was a boat leaving for Dumai, further south, tomorrow if we would care to wait another day. Our first reaction was to do this but in discussion it seemed our hearts were no longer in the Sumatra trip. Patrick and Sara, our new Swiss cycling pals we met in Georgetown, assured us Lake Toba was wonderful, but a French couple we met briefly in Laos said they didn’t enjoy the cycling and advised us to get a boat to Java. I think my problem was that from Dumai we would be heading north again and this is not direction Sydney. We cycled south to Malacca.

Around 11.30 one morning on a busy highway, steaming along in the other direction, were Dave and Nancy, Australian Americans doing pretty much our trip in reverse. They had already cycled 82 kms that day compared to our 12.(We do like to have a second breakfast shortly before lunch and this slows us down a bit)! These were interesting folks we would have liked to cycle with if we could have kept up. A shame they were going the other way. We have just received an email from some friends of theirs in Singapore who have offered to meet us at the border and lead us back to their house. We have eagerly accepted, not least because I have, for some unquantifiable reason, been a little afraid of Singapore. Now I am looking forward to it.

Malacca is magic. We are staying in a beautiful old room in Chinatown, the old Colonial Quarter. There are 16^th Century Chinese temples next to Dutch and English style churches in old streets that remind me of Lisbon. It seems every other “sehenswurdigkeit” (a German word we should adopt so I will start the trend) was built by the Portuguese, improved by the Dutch and then, if not raised to the foundations, was used as a gunpowder store by the British. They say around 1500 one could see up to 2000 ships moored in the natural harbour. Apart from the model at the maritime museum, the only vessel we saw was an amphibious open air tourist bus type contraption that tried to mow us down on the one-way system. Boats are obviously exempt from normal traffic rules. Life has never been better but I do feel I missed the chance for a great eulogy; “Here lies the (flattened) remains of T.H Franklin. He rode over-land to Malacca where he was run over by a boat!”

Klang By Night

2011-09-04T08:25:00.000-07:00

Der Strasse entlang nach Klang

Wo zum Teufel ist Klang??!! Genau!!!

Petronas Tower

Wir sind immer noch in Malaysia. Und der Titel klingt ein vielleicht langweilig aber das Radfahren bis Klang war auch ein bisschen langweilig.

Nachdem wir im Eiltempo Thailand per Faehre von Satun nach Langkawi/ Malaysia verlassen haben, verbrachten wir 3 Tage auf Langkawi, zur Einstimmung sozusagen auf ein neues Land. Und da auf Langkawi das Bier noch billig ist (im Gegensatz zum restlichen Land) bot sich dieser Platz zum An- und Abgewoehnen an.

Die Insel ist sauber, schoen, gruen, zivilisiert, gut bestrandet und dank Ramadan relativ leer. Aber irgendwie haben wir in den letzten 2 Monaten genug gebadet und so zieht es uns schnell wieder auf die Strasse.

Naja, erst mal auf die Faehre zurueck aufs Festland, nach Georgetown (Penang). Die Stadt gefaellt uns auf Anhieb. Ein bunter, kultureller Mix. Und da wir gleich neben “Little India” wohnen, gibt es endlich mal wieder ein koestliches “Masala Dosa”zum Fruehstueck. Dank Regen und eben

Little India KL

erwaehntem “Masala Dosa”, bleiben wir vier Tage. In unserem Guesthouse wohnt auch ein anderes Radlerpaar aus der Schweitz. So gibt es regen Gedanken- und Erfahrungsaustausch. Und wir machen einen Plan, denn Australien ist nicht mehr so weit und Indonesien so gross und steil.

Tom Buys a New Bike

Plan fuer die naechsten Wochen bzw. Monate:

- an der Westkueste Malaysias bis Klang radeln, von dort mit der Faehre bis Dumai/ Sumatra/ Indonesia (1monatiges Visa on arrival)

- einen Monat Sumatra, den Norden erkunden

- mit der Faehre zurueck nach Melaka/ Malaysia

- radeln bis Singapur

- in Singapur 2monatiges Visum machen fuer Indonesien

- mit der Faehre von Singapur nach Java

- nach 2 Monaten Java, Bali, Lombok (mal sehen wie’s so laeuft) nach Australien (fliegen??!!)

Also radeln wir bis Klang. Die Strasse ist breit, voll mit neuen Autos und schnellen Mopeds und kein Vergnuegen, aber wir kommen relativ schnell voran.

Ich bin, seit wir in Malaysia sind, ein bisschen reisemuede. Das ist meistens so, wenn ich ein Land oder eine Strecke nicht besonders mag. Es gibt bestimmt wunderbare Orte hier und die Leute sind ganz freundlich, aber unsere Strecke ist nicht so spannend (ausgenommen den Staedten, wie zb. Georgetown). Alles ist ziemlich

Chinatown KL

westlich hier, zu viele Strassen, viel zu viele Autos, zu viele Ampeln. Ich vermisse Indien, ich vermisse China, ich vermisse auch Thailand.

3 Tage in Klang

Da wir doch nicht so organisiert sind wie es anhand des og. Planes scheinen mag, muessen wir 3 Tage in Klang bleiben, da die Faehre nach Sumatra erst am Montag geht. So repariert Tom unserer Raeder, ich wasche und repariere Klamotten und kaufe ein bisschen in “Little India”ein, welches es Wohlgenaehrte Inder, Masala Dosa, laute Bollywoodmusik, Saris, Stoffe, Blumen, Raecherstaebchen machen das Warten auf die Faehre sehr angenehm.

Gestern sind wir mit dem Zug nach KL (Kuala Lumpur) gefahren (welches nur 30km von hier entfernt ist) um ein bisschen Touristenarbeit zu leisten. KL empfaengt uns mit einem wunderschoenen Bahnhof. Allerdings wird es schwierig in die Stadt zu laufen. Strassen, Strassen, Strassen, oben, unten, vorne, hinten machen es einem Touristen schwer, die Stadt zu Fuss zu erkunden. Irgendwie finden wir unseren Weg durch die Stadt und haben einen schoenen Tag. Abends sind wir jedoch froh wieder in unserem Klang zu sein. Schnell gehen wir Rotis und Curry essen und fallen muede vom Touristendienst ins Bett.

Hubbock's 1909 Train Station. Kuala Lumpar

Phuket to Panang

2011-08-26T02:02:00.000-07:00

Funny little Chap

Phi Phi Longtails

Skin-Diving Treasure Haul

Jetsom

Low tide Sundown

Phi Phi Ley

Typical Thailand Tourist

THAILAND TO MALAYSIA

We rode out of the rain shortly before crossing the bridge to Phuket, the largest of Thailand’s islands. While cooking breakfast in a National Park campground behind a beach where fairly large waves broke on the shore, a lycra-clad middle-aged Thai couple pulled up on mountain bikes for a chat. It turned out they ran a bicycle shop a few miles away and had all the tools and parts to repair Anja’s bike. After a pit stop at Thalang Bikes we pedalled round this beautiful if over-touristed island stopping here and there and visiting the aquarium.

This place is a real ex-pat enclave complete with its own ‘Falang’ newspaper. This publication made quite interested reading. It seemed the undertow and short sharp waves on which we had warily body-boarded (we found one washed up on the beach) had drowned 3 tourists over the weekend to the frustration of the local lifeguards who post signs, plant flags and do their best to stop all us dumb grockels from being seduced by the warm, aquamarine waters and forgetting that the rollers, tides and currents are the grasping fingers of a hungry and unforgiving ocean. Mixed with the articles on property and investment trends were those that indicated other undercurrents; stand-over men, corruption and land-wars culminating in temple gunfights and being dragged along the bottom were the Burmese migrant workers who die in large numbers in the foundation trenches of the new luxury hotels.

We were glad to get on the ferry to Koh Phi Phi, which, although slowly sinking under the weight of the young party crowd and their back-packs, remains, due to the mountainous terrain and absence of roads, an island paradise. From a cheap guesthouse in the town which is wall to wall dive-shops and German bakeries we would walk each morning a half hour to Long-beach cook breakfast on the white sands and snorkel round Shark Point. I was thrilled to see a couple of Black Tip reef Sharks and came back to the beach to tell Anja where they were. I warned her there was a strong current that ran between two rocks but being the adventurous type she decided to go with the flow and let herself be carried through the gap. She returned in a bit of a state as she was dumped in what she called the “Shark Pool”, a group of about 20 sharks. These fine looking, 1.5m creatures are supposedly harmless but such a first sighting could make anyone panic a little. We procured another snorkel set and thereafter swam out together.

Anja had some designing work to do so we stayed a week on Phi Phi and I spent my days scrambling over the hills and exploring the island, returning to town in the evening to pick the odd drunken, injured Australian up off the pavement and help them back to their hotel.

From Phi Phi we took the ferry to Koh Lanta and cycled down to the South and the beach where we met over 3 years ago. Everything there was closed up for the low season so we had the beach to ourselves but just behind the beach I noticed a German Toyota pick-up with a camper back and as I was taking a Photo for future reference bearded Mark appeared and invited us in for an iced Tea. He and his wife Kristina had driven here 3 years ago from Germany passing through Russia and Korea on the way and had some good stories to tell. Great folks, though the complications involved in driving round the world made me glad we were on bicycles. No paperwork or customs impounding, back shish and weeks of waiting.

Anja’s friend Tatiana was on holiday on Koh Samui off the other coast of Thailand so Anja rushed up with a bus and ferry to see her for a couple of days and I was left on my lonesome. The first time in over 15 months. In the hut next to us was a Canadian called Douglas, a travelling musician who could play any instrument he was handed. I asked if he could play the harmonica (hoping to learn to play my neglected present from Bruno the Hobo we met

Last miles in Thailand

back in France), he laughed and opened with a flourish a case with an array of mouth-organs in every key. “what do you want to play, cross harp, slide harp, straight harp,folk, blues blues, bluegrass or what? I can download all the books and cd’s onto your computer if you like”. I had been looking for a book for over a year. We sat on the porch drinking beers, tapping our feet, puffing and sucking our harps and bringing a bit of Hillbilly to the beach. (well, Doug did. I added some cat with a foot on its tail harmonics to his accomplished playing). “hey shall I download some movies aswell, you don’t have anything on your new computer”. And so we joined the modern traveller fraternity, the plugged in, tuned out generation with 200 films ready to watch on rainy nights in our tent. 21^st Century adventurers!!

We left Lanta with three days left on our visa and over 300kms to Malaysia so we trod on the pedals a bit and decided to take a ferry from Satun to Lankawi, an island on the Malaysian side, thereby avoiding some steep looking mountains which could have slowed us down too much.

Lankawi, Malaysia. As Peninsular Malaysias premier beach resort destination or however it was described in a pamphlet we found, I was expecting an over-developed nightmare. On the contrary, it was pretty wild for the most-part with national parks, marine-reserves etc, and a quiet little harbour town. Cheap it was not. We arrived on Patai Tenga, a most beautiful beach looking out to some unpopulated islands and were immediately greeted by a smooth talking Californian and asked if we would like to rent one of his new “cabanas” for the day. I pointed to our bikes and said that paying to spent the daylight hours somewhere was not really included in our budget. Ah, he said I see, well come and sit in the shade anyway, you don’t have to pay.

Dave and his Sarawaki wife Susan were a great couple with a new business ‘Bookakabana”. We set up our inner tent under one of their kabana’s, watched the most colourful sunset I have ever seen and cooked up dinner on a driftwood table.

Langkawi Sunset

The next day we cycled round the island in the most torrential rain and limped, bedraggled back into Kuah, the port, to dry out in a friendly Motel.

There was a ferry to Georgetown on the historic island of Penang and as the rain seemed set to continue, we took it, and here we are. This has a varied mix of Malays, Indians, Chinese and Caucasians living in ramshackle colonial style streets. There are Hindu temples sandwiched between Chinese temples and Mosques. Little India fades into Chinatown and most people seem to speak four different languages. The Tamil Indians can speak Chinese, the Chinese Tamil and everyone seems proficient in both Malay and English. An interesting town.

We are sitting out yet more rain and are trying to work out the complications that Indonesia poses. We can only get a 60 day visa but it is 5000 km from the top of Sumatra to Papua. The ferries, in places, (the ones we want of course) seem no longer to run, replaced by cheap flights. I hate flying so a route is not easy. The latest plan is to ride south to Malacca, take a boat to Dumai on Sumatra, tour round a bit on a 30 day ‘visa on arrival’, return to Malacca, ride south to Singapore, get a 60 day visa, take a ferry to the Kijang then a ship to somewhere on Java. Then see how far we can ride in the time.

Yachtclub Gatecrash, Langkawi

Maybe we can reach Timor L’est and return on another 30 day visa and figure out how to get to Australia. The only boat option is to find a friendly sailor and the only flights these days are from Bali which means missing out a whole lot of islands or back-tracking a long way. If anyone reading this has any bright ideas we would be glad to hear them.

Captain Lights Boots

Today is Anja’s birthday and tomorrow my Dads big 80^th. Have a good party on Sunday everyone. We are off for a big Indian dinner!

Georgetown

The Sweet Lipped Harlequin and The Isthmus of Kra

2011-07-28T02:14:00.000-07:00

SOUTHERN THAILAND

Tanote Bay

The list went along the lines of: Three Spot dascyllus, Polkadot Nudibranch, Longface Emperor, Yellowstripe Scad, Redbelly Yellowtail Fusilier, Indo-Pacific sergeant, Titan Trigger, Bluespine Unicorn, Blacktip Grouper, Slingjaw Wrasse. It went on with other inspired names and included my favourite; The Harlequin Sweetlip. The guy who named all these fish and sea creatures was obviously awed by their multicoloured beauty and figured he had better come up with some titles to do them justice. This is just a few names of fish encountered, read out from my new scuba-diving logbook which I proudly received after taking a short course in the skills of the underwater art on the Island of Koh Tao (Turtle Island) which lies some 70kms off the east coast of Thailand.

View of the Bay

A more perfect place for diving and snorkelling it is hard to imagine though apparently they exist. The outcrop of Koh Tao is a and unruly pile of igneous boulders smothered by thick forest. The large rounded rock formations are visible where they rise above the trees to a lofty peak or where they are washed clean by the sea, being slowly ground into sand which, mixed with the crunched and ejected coral fragments, once the meals of parrot fish and the like, make up the many beaches. There are tracks that lead to some but not all of these beaches but they are incredibly steep, the hardest we have yet encountered. Both of us would push one bike at a time and would still often slide backwards in the dust. We got a bit lost and ended up not where we wanted to go but where we were obviously supposed to be, Tanote bay, and stayed for a week.

Image from a cyclists nightmare!

Scuba-Diving here is like climbing into the tropical marine fish tank in the pet shop. One is surrounded by mostly indifferent but sometimes inquisitive fish who don’t see us as a predator so will often peer into ones mask from just the other side of the glass. Some little black fellas are territorial and attack if you hang around their rock too long. In fact, to get amongst some of the most interesting creatures neither an air tank or a snorkel is needed, just stick your head beneath the surface in a foot of water and a whole new world is revealed. Anja spent about 10 hours a day snorkelling while I was in front of the blackboard learning theory or underwater trying not to breathe through my nose, panic when my mask filled up with seawater or make some buoyancy error which meant I would suddenly, unintentionally and dangerously shoot towards the surface.

Another rickety old night boat brought us back to Chumphon on the mainland and in the damp early grey we set off to cross the so called Isthmus of Kra. This is not some mythical land from a Conan the barbarian pulp fiction paperback or even a name given to a visible land formation on the planet Mars but the thin strip of land separating the Gulf of Thailand with the Andaman Sea. Where we crossed it is only 60km wide and hilly but not mountainous so we figured things would be pretty much the same on the other coast.

I like reading guidebooks when I arrive somewhere or even after I have left. I know this sounds strange but reading them beforehand kind of well.. guides one along in a way that often leaves me frustrated or annoyed. It takes a lot of the chance out of things. This time however a quick flip through the outdated German guidebook that Anja found somewhere might have saved us from our present situation. That is; sitting in a bungalow surrounded by smelly and mouldy clothes which refuse to dry and looking outside at the most constantly ferocious rain I have ever seen. When we finally opened the relevant page in the book (somehow the pages of places far out of our way make better reading) this is what it said “Ranong ist einer der regenreichsten provinzen in Thailand. Von mitte April bis anfang Dezember ist regenzeit, von juni bis August giesst es in stroemen.” Now that sounds pretty wet even if you don’t speak German.

We rode for four days through constant and heavy monsoon rains and I swear I was dryer when diving. Our top of the range “waterproof” panniers turned out once again, as they did in India to be only showerproof so all of our stuff got wet. I tested the bags by filling them with water and seeing where it ran out. After 16 months of use there are small holes in the front bags and the screws and rivets were no longer tight. A bit of repair helped things quite a bit but the things, although being the best there is would never be fully waterproof.

Mangrove Hut

Tomorrow we head for Phuket and hopefully a good cycleshop whatever the weather. Anjas bottom bracket, ie. the pedal bearing has worn out and unfortunately, being a fancy pants XT part is hard to replace in Asia (bad planning on my part). Special tools are needed to even get the thing off. If we find no suitably equipped bikeshop I fear we will have to go old fashioned and bodge up some special tools in a blacksmiths shop and then hope to find some bearings the right size.

30 seconds before it rained

After 18000kms certain parts on the bikes are coming to the end of their natural lives and needing replacements. I reckon by the time we return the frame itself will be the only original part. Maybe not even that if we have to fly again.

At the Filling Station

Bangkok to the beach

2011-07-24T08:28:00.000-07:00

THAILAND

So you are probably thinking that a bike-ride down the East coast of Thailand would be all smooth flat roads running under palm trees along lonely beaches with the odd pastel fishing boat yawing on the gentle lazuli swell while sheer faced islands float upon the horizon. That perfect camp spots are easy to find on grassy meadows by the sea where the sun can be watched rise and fall and shells as shiny as treasure can be found along with unknown creatures when the short tide reveals its rocky nooks and pools. That the natives wave and smile and welcome you to their country when you meet them collecting molluscs in the early light. If something along these lines is what you imagine this stretch of our journey is like then congratulate yourself because you’re right.

Oh, of course we have encountered a lot of problems too like, um, like, hang on I wrote a list so I wouldn’t forget, where is it now.. ah, here it is : sand, big problem, I love beaches but they are often sandy, sand in the tent, sand in the food, sand grinding always on our chains and cogs; ants, yep, our friendly relationship with the busy little chaps has turned a bit sour in Thailand. Last night (after a few sundowners under a coconut tree, which I guess is a potential problem itself) we both needed a pee in the night. Having seen the amount of snakes squashed on the roads we decided at least to put our sandals on and both got about 3 yards before we started shrieking and scratching. I thought at first it was jelly fish (still a bit sleepy) then remembered there were no air jellyfish. It was red ants, thousands. They had for some reason decided our sandals; left in front of the tent would make ideal foundations for a few new high-rise condominiums in the Formosa style. Back in the small tent a serious ants in the pants dance was performed. These tough little fellas would not let go. In the morning I found a dozen squashed little bodies still clinging with their clenched jaws to my more sensitive parts; Sun, it is hot and it burns and lastly, headwind, all the way from Laos it has been against us, not strong, not constant, but every day and always blowing the wrong way.

I am sure some people manage to find some real thing they don’t like about Thailand, but it can’t be easy. There is the sex tourism angle I guess, can’t say I know enough about it to make a valid comment. We see sometimes in the bigger towns the odd grey haired white guy drinking a coca-cola with a Thai girlfriend half his age, a bit weird but there must be something in it for both of them. We imagine how hard it must be to keep such a relationship going, more with the cultural difference than the age one., I mean, we find it hard what with Anja being foreign and all (and the Sauerkrauts are quite normal really once you get to know them)!!

Leaving Bangkok was relatively simple. The town planners tried to get us lost with a lot of one way systems but they had not counted on us having a handlebar mounted compass (thanks Derek) that, through dead reckoning, brought us always back on course. We had to make a certain allowance for sideways drift in the strong, cross-town motorcycle currents and avoid a few uncharted hazards but soon we were making 12 knots 240 degrees east into a stiff headwind down highway 35, the major and at this point only road leading to the south of the country.

After 85kms of dull but safe cycling we turned south on route 2021 (nearly all roads in Thailand have numbers and milestones every kilometre (can’t yet bring myself to say kilometre stone)) and felt pretty pleased with ourselves as we rode through salt, fish and shrimp farms where long legged birds waded and sifted and 5 foot lizards thrashed about in the mangroves.

We camped again in the grounds of a Buddhist temple where the unflustered monks brought us cold drinks and giant candles. Both the act and the wax lit up our evening. We were shown a block with showers and toilets, a shower after a day in this sticky heat being well, not a godsend I suppose, but let’s say a welcome gift from Sidney Arthur. In the morning we received a visit from the school head teacher as it seemed the shower block belonged to the school. I tried to imagine a similar situation in England: two grubby, sun-faded travellers are found in a small village, sleeping in the school/churchyard and making free use of the facilities. Would the head teacher call the police or insist they come in for coffee and doughnuts? I am not sure what they would do but I don’t imagine the vagabonds would be introduced to the kids and filled with cakes and hot beverages like we were. We wonder if we get specially treated because we are foreign and our skin is a different colour!!

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

2011-06-30T19:04:00.000-07:00

Gab helping the locals

Luang Prabang

A bit up and down at times

Last of the Great Mountains

Some might say cheating'

Hwy 13 Laos

Vientienne

Road to the Blue Lagoon

Making Friends

Lazy Bhudda

"Well look at that" said Anja, stirring me from a deep green slumber and pointing out of the open door of the tent. "There is a monkey sitting on that rock eating some monster fruit".

As my eyes finally focused I located the said ape, a handsome feller, surrounded by the discarded shells of mangostines and 'monster fruit', so called (by us) because it reminds us of Animal, the drummer from the Muppet show.

"Funny" I remarked "because we have a couple of kilos of monster fruit and mangostines too".

"Had" said Anja dryly

"The little monkey"!!

After totting up the score over breakfast it was a landslide to the jungle creatures: them 4, us 0.

"Coffee" I shouted at the howling wall of the woods 20 yards across the campsite grass from our tent.

"You haven’t got hot coffee"

They did, it seemed, have most of our other stuff. How can a bag be water-proof but not ant-proof? Usually, when taking a break by the roadside we enjoy watching the ants cart away our crumbs; they have usually cleaned up before we move on and taken everything below-ground. Two ants working together look like removal men carrying a washing machine; "Left a bit John, now turn it, ok, forward.." Sometimes there is an ant road, two lanes, one way empty and the other way bread transport. There is usually one solitary ant on the wrong side going the wrong way, uninterested in our offerings. A rebel. "Turn around No.2763 and don't give me any of that claptrap about preferring brioche"!!

Today though, there was an ant-autobahn removing everything edible from out of our supposedly closed kitchen bag. A bit much, onto of the monkey stealing our fruit from under the fly-sheet, and the giant big-eared deer taking our rubbish bag from its monkey-safe hiding place. I had to chase it round the clearing in the middle of the monsoon night in nothing but my shreddies until the beast finally dropped it. We did not want it dying from plastic gut syndrome or suchlike.

The flies and mosquitoes and leeches were intent on sucking our blood and even the butterflies kept landing on us and licking our sweat. The grasshoppers had decided they liked camping and were squabbling over who's side of the tent was who's. Anja wandered off for a pee and came back with a large butterfly, a bush-cricket and numerous beetles riding on her hat. The dark face of the forest spat out the occasional bird, reptile or mammal who weighed up our potential worth, calorie-wise, before disappearing back into the underworld to make devious and daring plans for the next heist. I consider myself a fairly outdoor sort of chap but this day I felt like a townie. In fact a townie would probably fair better than me in this environment as he would most likely have watched more 'Bear Grylls' on the telly. Anja asked if I had to survive in the jungle and could take one thing with me what would it be? On reflection I said a good knife or a machete. Her answer to the same question: a camper-van!

We had the Kao Yai national park pretty much to ourselves people-wise, it being the wet season and all and we followed a deserted strip of tarmac 65kms through the woods. This is the same mountain range (though different named park) where we cycled up that dirt track a few years back Derek, do you remember? We ran out of water on a super-hot day only to find after 25kms the track, which was marked as a though-road on the map, had not the courage to cross the ridge and descend the other side but stopped dead. We had to return all the way. This time we made it right over and the next day pushed and shoved our way down that crazy road past the airport into Bangkok. At least this time it was daylight.

The ride from Vientiane was a pleasant one down the back roads in a seldom visited part of Thailand. We stayed in a couple of motels, camped, or crawled into the bushes as Anja calls it, and stayed in the grounds of a temple, where it seems you are always welcome. The monks are mostly young and seem like guys doing national service. They are all MP3's and mobiles, loud music, tattoos and Pepsi-cola. Very welcoming and generous.

We rode a few days through a strangely European or American style landscape, with dairy cows grazing in lush meadows and milk-churns waiting collection by the side of the road. Only the sugarcane fields and the pine-apple carts reminded us we were in the tropics. Oh, and the fact that you get sunburnt while it’s raining!!

Sunburn on a rainy day makes my skin peel, peel, peel away.

I must buy a new cassette, cogs and chain for my bike, after 17000kms they are all stretched and worn and finally slipping on the hills. Anjas was treated to a new set in Kathmandu. Our puncture-proof tyres bought in Istanbul are still looking good and have not let one thorn through. Our tubes though, wear out from the inside and need to be replaced sporadically, a problem I have been unable to eradicate even with tape wrapped round the rim. Otherwise, though looking a bit travel worn, our steeds our doing well. Us? Well, I am a bit thin and still have matchstick legs but am otherwise ok. Must drink more. Anja has is troubled by some kind of heat-rash thing on her legs but we are hoping some salt water will help. I have prescribed a week lazing about on a beech somewhere, drinking cocktails from a hollowed out pineapple (with or without little umbrella) and occasionally snorkelling or scuba-diving. Hopefully this medicine has no lasting side-effects!

The Road to Luang Prabang

2011-06-30T18:52:00.000-07:00

Cloud Forest. Yunnan

Another Basket Case

An entimologists Desk

We are safer on our bikes

Did they put them in the tree museum?

Huay Xai Docks

Down the Mekong

Look out for Whirlpools buddy!

Our faouurite tree

Luang Prabang

If you have inadvertently stumbled upon this blog looking for useful information about cycling in China, or anywhere else for that matter, I apologise and suggest you immediately look elsewhere. If you are still reading I will give one piece of advice: do it, it’s a great place for a cycle-ride. Oh, and one little tip is learn to pick out the Chinese character meaning guesthouse. In Sichuan and Yunnan a symbol that looks like a B with a hat on and a squiggle a bit like a lightning strike before it means rooms available. It is usually the last of four or five other symbols. Of course, as in any land one can get by with two words; hello and thank you, but the more language you learn the better. In China the numbers are important because the hand signals for these are different to ours. Getting the hang of the hand signals is helpful. What makes it fun is that pretty much everyone is willing to try and communicate and have a laugh in the process.

I believe the last instalment left us somewhere on the road to Jinghong, the county town of the Xishuangbanna region which though in reality is a large area of densely forested mountains complete with wild elephants and all, on the map is but a pimple on Chinas ample bottom being pinched between the totalitarian thumb of Myanmar and the sued-socialistic forefinger of Laos. Jinghong itself is an unusual town in that it has pretty much no buildings of any architectural merit but is a very attractive and pleasant place to be owing to the proliferation and maturity of the trees lining the roads. In fact it’s hard to see many of the buildings because of all the foliage. If 85% of London could be hidden in the same way it would in my opinion be a vast improvement.

Jinghong lies on the Mekong and although here it is somewhere around 4000km from the sea, the river is wide with fairly large ferries and boats puffing around trying to give an air of harbour importance to the sleepy town. We rode beside the fast flowing river some 30kms before it turned towards Burma and we headed south to Mengla and the border crossing with Laos. On our map highway G213 looked like a motorway but in reality there were two roads, the old and the new. The newer was a typically Chinese two lane modern highway built largely on stilts over the valleys and through tunnels under the hills. Very impressive with the forest all grown back around it. As we have seen often there was little traffic, not enough to warrant such an expensive construction. I was told these roads in the border areas are commissioned by the military. Perhaps like the Interstate network in the USA. A system was wanted to transport troops and equipment to all corners in case of trouble. We took the old road and saw only occasionally the new one. In maybe 200kms we passed through only 2 or 3 small villages and the traffic consisted of a couple of motorbikes carrying bamboo poles or banana plants. As this twisting and turning forgotten highway saw so little use now, it was being claimed back by the jungle. Leaves lay at the edges and creepers were sending tentative tendrils on probing missions across the tarmac. One morning we went up and up through a wet cloud, finally emerging into sun just before a pass and being rewarded with a spectacular view over a mountainous landscape of cotton-wool and forest canopy.

One morning we crossed the border into The Peoples Democratic Republic of Lao. I cycled through Lao about three years ago and enjoyed it thoroughly. Had things changed? I could not be sure but there seemed to be far less trees on the hills and far more shiny Hilux pick-ups on the roads. Economic growth in evidence I guess.

The villages along the road were now bamboo huts on stilts and there were far more kids running around than in China. Also Compared to China there was very little food being grown. Yes there was still Jungle but large scoured and burnt tracts lay unused, baking in the sun. Passing through Luang Nam Tha, we arrived, after a 120km schlep, after dark and in torrential rain, once-more on the banks of the Mekong. The wet season here is, as advertised, occasionally a little damp. From Huay Xai we took a 2 day boat trip down river to Luang prabang.

On boarding we realised we had joined well and truly the backpacker trail. Mostly kids; the English drinking, the Germans reading guidebooks and the Americans claiming the boat was overloaded and dangerous and demanding a second craft. We met some nice folks though, Marco and Marica from Hawaii and Jason and John, Canadian and American. We would meet them a few times as we wound our way through the North part of this long thin country.

Luang Prabang is a sleepy temple town on the Mekong the French Colonial centre of which has now surrendered to the backpacker dollar and is all geared to tourism. It had changed a lot in three years. We stayed a few days and rode out to my favourite waterfall then left for the challenging road through the limestone Kharst mountains to the capital, Vientiane. On the first morning out we met Gab, a Hungarian cyclist on his way to Bannock from Bangkok in aid of World Bicycle Relief, a charity helping rural Africans to build and repair bicycles and use them where they would normally have to walk hours to school etc.

We rode 4 or 5 days with Gab, stopping in Vang Vieng for a day out at the beautiful Blue Lagoon cave. This town has gone a bit crazy and not in an altogether good way. The young tourists here enjoy floating down the river in a tractor tube and drinking a few beers along the way. Fair play. The problem is that they wander shirtless and bikinied through he town after and stop in a 'bucket bar' to get totally drunk and worse so that they forget to dress, and crawl through the streets puking and swearing and wearing a bucket on their heads. The Buddhist locals don't really appreciate this behaviour. What is a Bucket bar? I hear you say. Get this, you get given a plastic bucket of the bucket and spade variety and it is cheaply filled and refilled with hard liquor and ice. Unsurprisingly everyone gets drunk real quick. I like the occasional snifter myself but was shocked, particularly as the majority and the worst perpetrators were the British. Why don't they just go to Newquay? Dammit, why don’t they stay at home!

We finally climbed the last mountain and saw a flat plain stretching before us. Having been amongst the Himalayas and its offspring since Christmas and cycling over 3000 steep km we were glad to see a flat road again. Gab left this morning as he is much faster than us really and has a plane to catch, sad to see him go as he was good company. We have just picked up our Thailand visas and will head for Bangkok in the morning.

Laos is a great place for cycling but somehow we feel a little disappointed. I think it lies in the fact that in this wet season we decided not to follow the network of dirt roads and stick to the tarmac. This left little choice but the tourist trail, in the towns anyway, and the people seem a bit bored of the whole thing. Understandably. They obviously need the money but have to make some large sacrifices and particularly in Vang Vieng I see trouble ahead as the local young men lose patience with the foolish children we keep sending to their town. Infect I was having a few beers with some lads last night, a good bunch, but after I went to bed they carried on till late and ended up getting robbed by a gang armed with Kalashnikovs. The backlash has perhaps begun.

Possibly after so long on the road I am getting a bit bored being a tourist. I no longer desire to visit the temples we pass and have finally had enough of noodle soup! I am happiest when pedalling and look forward to picking up the tempo a bit in Thailand and getting a bit closer to Australia.

Dali, Southwards to Laos border

2011-05-30T00:34:00.000-07:00

In the rice fields bordering Erhai lake it was planting time. The bright green, lush lawns of seedlings were being uprooted, packed into baskets and loaded onto backs, bicycles and tricycles for the short journey to the flooded paddies. Men bunched them into small bundles and threw them at expertly spaced intervals into the shallow water where groups of somehow clean and colourful women would deftly plant them in rows along a double string measure.

Everyone was shin deep in mud and water. Rotovators crossbred with paddle steamers played alongside buffalo, straw-hatted drivers suspended out back on a cast iron tractor seat and splattered from shirt-tail to toe. Young men wade waist deep in the lake collecting green weed. Further East in China there is a drought.

The villages are deserted as everyone is in the fields. Every white painted house is adorned with murals depicting landscapes and wildlife and we have the narrow streets almost to ourselves as we ride along the lake shore toward the distant pagodas of old Dali.

After a surfeit of 'Old China' in Lijang we had little interest in the sights of this pleasant tourist town but we met an entertaining pair, Sharon and Steve a Kiwi and an Englishman who seemed to have perfected the art of backpacking with bicycles.

From the lake we climbed up once more then had a flattish run and spent the night in a great old town called Waishan or something similar. Eating steamed dumplings in a shaded square, we met a man who swore he was a hundred years old. He walked twice daily round the perimeter and spoke at length with those he met, us included.

We were riding through heavily forested mountains, down and up small river valleys and over low passes. Our collection of maps bore little relation to the topography at times but the network of roads was sparse and it was hard to get lost. There are remarkably few roads in these parts and away from those there are must be pretty wild. By foot across country would be the best way to travel. The tribal outfits seemed to change almost daily.

One morning we woke up in the tropics once more. The thermometer rose over 30 degrees and bananas fought with canna for space under the jungle canopy. Unseen armies of cicadas sharpened their scythes all around us and helped the fretting crickets to beat and churn the hot moist air into a soup thick enough to tempt hand-sized butterflies into braving improbable flight. The warm arboreal blanket pulled over the wrinkled, sleeping bodies of the mountains was torn in places by rice or tobacco farms. These tears had scoured away the Earths green skin leaving open and unhealing wounds to bleed the lifeblood of plants into the Devonian-red river. We followed this river for some days as it slid guiltily along the valley floor, laden with silt and the broken dreams of forest trees, drawn, inexorably toward the mighty, indifferent Mekong .

It takes time to travel where there is so much life going on. Anja is always behind. I turn back only to find her crouched over some poor, flattened creature, taking photo's for her future 'road-kill' expo or stuffing hapless Tettigonids ( bush crickets) in her lepidopterists collection box. She spends campsite evenings after noodles and coffee carefully sticking her specimens in a rapidly fattening book. To date she has discovered two new species; one an insect of paradise, a springer with a plume of white feathers, the other, some kind of worm with its own disc-house, found in India, so strange I reckon it rode in on a meteor or stowed away on a space-ship from another planet. We will of course present these discoveries to the Natural History Museum, London, in due course, assuredly to much acclaim from the scientific community. In fact, I think I saw the wormy thing first so it should be named after me: 'Toms Worm' or 'Franklinoptera'. Sounds much better than Anja's Bug or Lesser Spotted Bollmannid....finally an invitation to the entomologists ball.... National Geographic....Blue Peter....John Cravens Newsround..!!! I must be careful though or Anja may publicise my less than heroic antics when I discovered a leech latched onto my foot, happily sucking out my much needed corpuscles.

Traffic has been light this last week. We admired a passing motorcyclists bamboo basketwork safety helmet and were wondering about its pro's and obvious con's when we came round a corner to find said fellow and bike prostrate in the middle of the road. No serious injuries it seemed, lucky he didn't hit his head. We picked his bike up and hundreds of seedlings that had spilt from his over sized basket panniers. I think he had swerved too sharply to avoid a pothole and with so much weight onboard, lost his balance. Further along a truck-driver needed help tilting his cab forwards so that he could get to the engine. Our good deed day.

After a rainy day in a town named Pu er we climbed up into tea-garden mountains. I never considered much the implications of tea drinking but the jungle is being cut down and replaced with plantations both large and small. Its tea or trees it seems. Guess who's winning. 'Hug a tree, don't drink tea'! (sorry Ma). Some clever fellow once said something like 'Science is the faith of man in the ignorance of experts'. I slip this little nugget in here because, though I have most likely mis-quoted and forgotten who said it, I liked it. It can be taken a number of ways. The experts, the biologists, the earth scientists, the climatologists tell us felling all our little planets forests is a bad idea. Advice based on what they do know. Imagine all the consequences they don't know about. Deforestation may not cause any serious problems to life on Earth, we have already done away with so many trees and survived, but I can't help thinking we are making a far bigger mistake than we know, than we can imagine, far worse than the present science indicates. We are going to look pretty foolish when we learn that it was the moving shadows of the trees which pulled the sun each day across the skies. Here they would call me a" Panda Hugger" , sorry to go on so, but a new hole in the rain-forest is the starkest reminder of the follies of man.

In a town who's name we never knew we took a room in a hotel. Guest-houses and hotels are such good value in China. Four or five Euros gets one a clean and bright room with bathroom and hot, mostly solar shower and a big shiny TV. The staff are always friendly and the food really good. On this occasion we were dragged more than invited by a drunken chief of police to his daughters 23rd birthday meal in a private room out back. The food was fantastic, apart from the chickens head picked out of the soup and ceremoniously dumped on Anjas plate. Had to happen sometime. The drinking culture at such an occasion seems to consist of constantly filling someones glass from an endless supply of beer and spirits, standing and randomly picking a victim with whom to clink glasses and down drinks. This goes on and on and seems more important than eating.

We had no common words but had a great evening. I was ready for bed when the youngsters announced we were all off to a Karaoke club. I hate this sort of thing and was already half cut but in the interests of cultural research we said we would tag along. A short walk brought us all to the club. Up some stairs to a dimly lit corridor we were shown into a smallish empty room with a TV screen and singing machine with microphones, about 50 cans of beer were then aligned carefully on a low, long table in front of a bank of sofas facing the screen. Our group was down to about 8, the oldies having ducked out and we were alone in the room. The girls started singing along with videos and dice were produced for the drinking game. Anja sang well with Britney Spears and I mumbled something quietly half a bar behind a youthful Micheal Jackson. As easy as ABC it was not! I figured my best bet for survival was concentrating on the drinking game so I would not have to sing. Rock and a hard place. My head was already spinning from the dinnertime session and the dice were not being kind. Birthday-girl passed out first, the boys seemed to spend more time singing, Anja threw good dice and I seemed pitted against some slip of a super-model girl who was definitely out to win. She did. All that lovely dinner went down the drain.

We stumbled home and had trouble recognising our Hotel. Next day we nursed our heads, ate mostly mangoes and bananas and managed only 30 odd kms uphill through the woods. Cultural immersion sometimes hurts.

A small amendment to the above. The red river we followed, though at one point only a hill away from the Mekong, on closer inspection of our inadequate maps flows into the Black River in N. Vietnam. Here,where we are, it is hot and wet but the middle and lower Yangtze basin, whose upper regions we left a few weeks ago, is suffering a terrible drought. It is the worst in half a century and is effecting almost 40 million people.

To the ‘Gorgeous Leapy Tiger’ & Lijang

2011-05-16T02:31:00.000-07:00

The road from Lu Gu Hu to Lijang turned out unsurprisingly to be a beautiful ride though hard. We started over a mountain where roadworks and a temporary track left us pushing up so steep we were sliding backwards in the dust. This turned to a winding cobbled street up and over a pass. Fabulous road, but it shook all our nuts and bolts loose on the descent. (maybe we had a few loose already).

The houses turned from log to rammed earth and pine-framed, with the odd stone or mud-brick. All of similar, practical and appealing design.
Crossing the big yellow river and climbing up the other side of the valley through nectarine orchards was a day to remember. All our camping spots had been good, but a narrow terrace clinging to the valley side with the river an unguessable distance below, topped them all. As the moon traded places with the sleepy sun we cooked our noodles with the last of our gleaned ognions and ginger. We slept once more with our re-found friends the stars.
Somewhere on this journey we were informed that we were in the most beautiful city on Earth. I forget now where it was. Lijang could boast this if it wanted, and I would not argue. It is these days a tourist town. I would say 'Disneyland' but the 'Fakes' or new-builds after the Earthquake of '96 are built in the style and materials of the originals along the same meandering canals. The details of the woodcarvings and the craftwork in the shops is astounding. Usually I hate this sort of thing. I love this town in the shadow of the Jade Dragon Snowy Mountain.

We took a walk up Tiger Leaping Gorge. The Jainsa River (I’m sure it's the Yang Ze) itself at about 2000m above sea level here, cuts a gorge at the foot of a mountain range so a rock wall rises almost 4000m to unusually shaped craggy and snowy summits. A goat-path winds its way along the opposite hillside which we followed for a couple of days looking down at a small brown river below.

At last we descended impossible trails and ladders to the muddy tumult. Maybe 30 yards across at the narrowest point, small it was not. The rapids were the most ferocious I have ever seen. No happy laughing rafting outfits here. Un-navigable in the extreme. You could toss in a 40 ton truck, fully laden, and it would disintegrate and disappear in seconds. Legend has it a Tiger once leapt across from a flat projecting stone. Legends are great. So is this pace.

Back in Lijang, we head South tomorrow. Non-stop to Laos before our visas run out.

To Lu Gu Hu

2011-05-16T02:23:00.001-07:00

We were making our way the only way we knew how.
'beat all we ever saw 'till we got in trouble with the law and they made us return.
Tibet or not Tibet. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the stings of outrageous misuse of uniform......
Copious snow and confounding officials led us to backtrack a way and try a more southerly route. Anja’s handlebars tired of the journey on a real rough stretch. They were loyal enough to snap at a low speed causing no spill, and submitted to being splinted with wood and string for the short hobble into the nearest town.
A replacement was not to be had but my rummaging around in the back of a few metal workshops produced a stainless pipe of the right diameter. Comically, the boss would not sell it to me for any proffered sum and invited the street in to laugh at my ludicrous idea of replacing handlebar for straight pipe. Foolish foreigners. I had little choice but to ride off, bar in hand to the cackle of laughter and shaking of heads. I got it cut to length in a different shop. If it wasn't back up a big hill I would have rode back to show off my finished handiwork and got the neighbourhood back to eat their words, whatever they were.
We spent some days with a pair of adventurous Spanish cyclists. Alberto and Alicia, who had also been on the road for a year. Rough roads, waiting for landslides to be cleared, talking two wheeled talk and swapping tall tales of high times. An un-awaited pleasure to ride with company. It was sad when we parted ways and Anja and I headed S.West into deep-red, goat-scoured hills and towny dusts which, with gaining altitude turned to leafy rain and pine-needle camps by watery falls.
Once again we were clambering over the garden gate into Eden. This time Eve ruled the roost. Each river cut a deep valley now as we followed ever decreasing flows to passes that divided climates, vegetation, head wear and house-stiles of the natives.
In two days we had descended from chain gangs of trucks wallowing in snow, slush and ruts to harvest time in golden, winnowing valleys. Almost all was reaped by hand and often laid on the road to be threshed by the tyres of passing cars. The next valley grew enough onions for everyone in China. It smelt a sweet pleasant smell and a few found their way into our kitchen bag.
Back in prayer-flag land we came one morning to Lu Gu Hu. A Lake up high. Bluer than blue. Bigger than small with boats dug out from trees. Pined hills, Willowed banks, log and earth built dwellings. Floating islands where princesses preside over one of the last great matriarchal societies. The hats are good too. This will be a hard place to leave.
The only others showing pale faces around this blue and green patch of paradise were Mike and Adam, a cyclist and a hitch-hiker equally enamoured with this part of heaven. A great evening was spent grilling our food over charcoal, drinking beer and chatting until what for us was relatively late. Good luck guys.
Tomorrow we delve into Yunnan. To Lijang, the Leaping Tiger Gorge and other tantalising touristic delicacies. Well, its a few hundred miles of hard terrain but we are promised a road with a friendly surface. The friendliness of the people here seems to run a little deeper.

South from Chengdu

2011-05-16T02:17:00.000-07:00

Our trip seems to have got itself divided into chapters; until Iran, the Indian subcontinent including Nepal and now with yet another flight we begin the S.E Asia section starting in Chengdu, China. The 'direct' flight to Chengdu made a short stopover in Lhasa much to our frustration and we saw Tibet out of the window.
We knew not what we would find in Chinas 5th largest city of 15 million people but as we hurtled down uncrowded modern motorways and broad boulevards in an unofficial taxi (he was willing to hang our bikes out the back), we were surprised at the lack of people about. Perhaps we had got used to the mass of bodies in India. The Chinese seemed to have somewhere to be other than on the streets and those that where appeared to have a destination. The traffic flowed easily and most people rode bicycles or electric scooters in the designated, tree lined and separate non combustion lanes. I was impressed and figured most European cities could learn a thing or to from Chengdu. It was very quiet. If rather dull.
Temples, gardens and monasteries were visited then we headed out of town. Well, we tried but lost after about 10km in an area of fly-overs and motorways, realised we could not pronounce anything that anyone could understand so we scuttled back into town and bought a map with names written in Mandarin. After lunch it seemed a bit late to set off so we stayed another night, feeling a bit like failures and realising we had had an easy run with languages up till now. Still, next day we escaped the city without a wrong turn and headed south on the most boring road yet. It was a concrete dual-carriageway, well made and not at all busy but straight and dull with only the odd bleak socialistic tower block town built around a forlorn quadrangle to add any interest. The overcast skies and acid drizzle that stung our eyes didn't lighten our spirits either.
After 80km we saw a brown sign with English subtitles saying turn right for Pingle old Town its only 10km. Right being west and our general direction we figured it was time to get lost on some back roads and maybe see a bit of China. After a hundred meters we realised we had made a good decision. Here we were at last and it was all more Chinese than we could have asked for.

The road wound through undulating hills which were all garden. From the tended shrubs of the roadside verges through the drippy green vegetable patches where not an inch of ground was wasted, to the topiary tea plantations on the slopes. All this was broken up by spinneys and copses and clumps of the most wonderful trees. I figured when in Germany that perhaps the perfect group of trees toward the corner of a field was birch, oak and larch or pine in a ratio of 6.2.1 respectively. I will have to revise this when I find out the names of all these new trees. Over the next few days I would realise that this country knows the value of trees. They are planted along the roads, by the factories and power stations, Oranges, willows, larches, Chinese pines, cherries, almonds and a thousand I know not what they are. They grow over broad beans and peas and lush oriental grasses. They are bonsai ed and trained in the public parks and planted on rocky islets in fishponds which is only a mirror, a smaller version of, as we were to see, the natural landscape of gorges, forested mountains and rivers.

Pingle old Town was theme park China. Willow pattern plates of my childhood mealtimes come to life. All wooden houses, pointy roofs, hanging lanterns and candles floating down the river after dark. I loved it. We found a little old guesthouse run by a smiling old couple and went out for the most god-awful meal I have ever eaten. Chicken seeped, steeped, marinated and cooked in a spice that not only tastes awful but makes your whole mouth go numb.(why the Chinese have a problem pronouncing L's)? I have since been struggling to avoid it.
The thing is, although we have some lists of stuff written in Chinese to show people, really we just look hungry and eat what we are given. Often it is great and always good value.

Once again we had inadequate maps where most of the roads are not shown so asking directions was not easy. We were working mainly by compass, probably the best method of the true cycle-tramp. Another brown sign said Langou Bamboo for rest and the narrow road was again heading generally west so we paid a meagre entrance fee and felt we were being good tourists by seeing another 'Sehenswurdikeit', having been a bit lazy on the sightseeing front in both Kathmandu and Chengdu. If not all the cities we have passed through.
The Bamboo forest was astounding. Not a planted few acres of show specimens as I have seen in Europe but whole mountain ranges of tree high varieties. The natural landscape of the region and habitat of, yep, the old Giant Panda.
We wound our way alone up through this bright green jungle, hoping the road would not end before the final mountain ridge. Getting off to push for the first time since Turkey we finally reached the Fish Cliff Pass where the Red army famously held off the evil forces of Imperialism. Before us we could see a bamboo and vegetable valley stretching of into the green tinged haze. Black tiled roofs with turned up ends sat on top of tree clad hills which lay isolated in a see of spinach, yellow rape and broad bean. Skidding down a steep little track into this paradise made me realise that this is what this trip is all about. Not the great achievement of heroically riding to Australia solely by pedal-power but just being out and about in the world on a bicycle. For moments like this, of which we have had so many, where it just feels damn good to be alive. Often it is just brewing coffee in the early morning bird-song or seeing something you never knew could exist or marvelling at the natural beauty of the planet we live on. We have seen so much along the way, of how man can make a mess of the world (although Anja looks on the bright side with her motto 'pollution can be pretty'), it was enlightening to see an environment where agriculture and wilderness looked in harmony. This landscape seemed to fulfill all tree-hugging eco-hippy adjectives. I don't know what the Giant Panda's problem is. I think it must be fussy.
So we bumbled about on the quiet paths and roads of this landscape which became increasingly mountainous until we were riding over high ridges and plunging through deep cut gorges and visiting Buddhist temples set in cherry and almond gardens until we were finally spat out into the real world once again. Namely the city of Ya'an and the start of the Sichuan-Tibet highway, the road to Lhasa and beyond. We would follow it some 650km to Litang then cut south to Yunnan and into Laos. It all looks straight forward on a large scale map but we knew the road rose up to the Tibetan plateau, a title that could delude one into thinking that once up it is flat. We would have to cross many passes well over 4000m. At least the road surface started out pretty good.
It began busy, too many trucks but as there is pretty much only one road heading west I figured with each town we passed the traffic would thin out. It did pretty fast though a number of trucks and land cruisers remained. We stayed in a town whose name we never knew in the 'Business Hotel' a communist architectural monstrosity for some reason painted pastel yellow and blue. It looked both bad and expensive but what the hell, it was getting dark and raining and as yet no camp spots were available. An archway under the building between a hairdressers and a supermarket led to a surprise, another Chinese garden and the back of the hotel which, in stark contrast to the front was traditional, smart and looked way out of our price range. 10 Euros saw us into the poshest hotel room we had seen and with breakfast thrown in. Gallons of hot water (all hydro-electric so don't worry) and a big TV with an English language news channel. We could hardly believe it. Hotels in China are good value. Things must have changed here recently because I was led to believe it was hard to find accommodation. OK. its not always easy to know what a guest-house looks like not being able to read a damn thing but once located they are clean and cheap. Hows 5 Euros for bed dinner and breakfast?
I was also told the Chinese are a hard generally unfriendly bunch. Not in Sichuan, (no-one has gone "hey look funny round-eyes" and stretched with finger and thumb their eye-lids top and bottom. Not yet anyway Ricky!). People are willing to be helpful, are friendly and polite. They wave or give us the thumbs up from their car windows. As I was sweating up a long hill a teenage girl leaned out of a passing car, took a photo of me and shouted 'you're so cool'. Understandably, I like it here.

The reason I am rambling on so is that Anja has a bad headache and needs a day to acclimatise and I have little to do. We are ostensibly in Tibet. Culturally and geographically if not in the political 'autonomous zone'. Its all Yaks and prayer flags again and a bit like Scotland with different houses and darker people. We camped in some beautiful spots in the narrow valleys on the way up. Good to be in the tent again. The bamboo turned again to flowering rhododendron and the most wonderful mixed forest (I'm going on about the trees again) with the odd flame of a magnolia burning alone high up on a crag. On the second great hill, 70 odd km going up! we met with a group of Chinese cyclists. All in their early twenties and had got together over the Internet and were cycling to Lhasa. It seems this is China's great cycling road and many groups were underway, some riding the 4000km from Beijing. They all have flash mountain bikes and widely differing levels of fitness. The team we met had a super fit man who seemed to be made of elastic and a girl who had never really cycled before. She was great fun and spoke good English, would laugh at her slowness and would always arrive hanging onto a truck or having charmed her way into the back of a pick-up. I was impressed by the lack of macho-ness in these young people, they were out to have fun and help each other along.

The first big pass was no real problem. 4295m, but it seemed our walking in Tibet had got us a bit used to the heights. I just found I was going real slow. I could see the hill was not steep but just could not pick up my pace any. Anja seemed unaffected and the difference in our speeds was narrowed down to almost nothing as we reached the top. We had (sadly) left behind the last of the trees and were up in the snow again. The views were fantastic but the landscape ahead looked a little barren and foreboding. Still, finding a spot for the tent should be easier. Tomorrow comes the second pass. We are not covering much ground in a day and I only hope we make it to Laos before our visas run out!

One hears a lot about China's controversial dam building projects. We have followed a number of river valleys from small to medium sized and seen a lot of hydro projects. Often they are one after the other silently and cleanly pumping current into the grid. I don't see the problem. Yes the eco-system of the river is buggered up but the problems are localised and when mans time on earth is up the dams will break and the fish will return.(if there are any left). We are all helping in China's rapid economic development by buying all the cheap plastic un-necessities that it produces, surely hydro-electric is a better solution to its hunger for power than coal or as we are once more reminded; the nuclear option. China, I suspect, has no interest in petty restrictions in emissions and 'environmental' targets set by self interested democratic pseudo-politicians in the west. Particularly when they have no intention of following them themselves. It has 1.3 billion people to look after. I am going to go out on a limb here and predict that while all our wonderful democratic leaders and their cronies are bickering and worrying about re-election and keeping in with the lobbyists pending retirement, China will get dirtier but re-emerge in 20 years as a nation with some functioning and effective solutions to the great environmental problems. Democracy is of course the best political system there is and though it can prevent great mistakes being made it can also hinder great advances. It seems that here that when the government decides to do something they get on and do it and damn quick. Great if you decide to do the right thing. Lets hope.
There is an image I will not forget: as we were passing through a 20km section of valley to be flooded, a house was being attacked from two sides by diggers and an old man was poking the rubble of his ruined home with his walnut walking stick. Whole villages and communities were being destroyed and the old fella will probably be packed off to a high rise on the edge of Kangding. Sad. But China has no time for the whims of a few communities, the nation needs power. The greater good is more important and today I tend to agree. Tomorrow I may not. I just hope they give him a new vegetable plot.
Ok. enough moralising and speculating. Its snowing outside and another army convoy is grinding past taking troops and supplies to and from the military posts strung along the road. The people here are Tibetan (Qiang) and we are told recently there have been protests against central control. Understandable as they are a different race to the Han, live in a different climate, speak a different language and eat different food. More importantly, they wear different hats. There is also the Tibetan Buddhism thing to consider. They all look pretty wild. Mountain men and women. Its always a pleasure when a real fierce looking character waves and smiles from the saddle of a horse or motorbike. I wonder whether all Tibetans wish for the return of the Dalai Lama or, a couple of generations since the occupation the young folks see some benefits being part of a developing China. Its a long way from almost anywhere in Tibet to Lhasa and I bet most Tibetans have never been there. They all seem attached to their traditions though. There is a lot of building going on in this village and all in the traditional style; stone walls tapering towards the third floor where a quarter of the flat roof is missing creating a corner 'terrace' up high. These houses look real solid and are big with numerous highly decorated windows. Quite impressive and unique. In fact, apart from a few villages near the Tibetan border in Nepal, the mud houses on the Terai and a few villages in lowland Sichuan I have not been much impressed by any new-build dwellings since.. since... probably Austria!

Dinner was good last night, rice in a wooden bucket and some fried greens and bacon bits. Tasty. I hope we get the same this evening. We seem to have left behind bland noodle-soup country and entered a land of more palatable fodder. Though Sichuan is the culinary capital of China we didn't seem to eat in the right sort of establishments. We did get a great meal when we ate with the cycle group one night. All sitting round the same table helping yourself to various communal dishes seems to be the prefer ed way of dining here and we benefited with amongst others a great pork fat and sweet rice concoction. Ideal mountain cycling food. They make some great stuffed dumplings as well but I cannot figure out what they are called. Communication is hard. People even count numbers on their fingers differently and want us to write things down as if not being able to speak mandarin is merely a handicap. Still most people are patient and have a sense of humour and where I used to be terrified of not being understood or understanding I now quite enjoy our daily interactions.

Though we are only cutting through the bottom corner of this massive land I must say I like it. Cycling here is a real pleasure. There is always something new to see (off the main roads anyway). Maybe the whole backpacker train-bus deal is not so easy. Going city to city with excursions on a coach, buying tickets and haggling with taxi-drivers, that could be stressful. One is spared all that on a bicycle. The worst we have to deal with are the exhaust fumes of the occasional buses and trucks. Could do with vehicle emission controls here.

It is now the next day, the 22nd April. Exactly 1 year ago we left your front door in Bradninch Ma. I expected that after a year on the road we would be almost if not already in Australia. Instead we are snowed in somewhere in China. A foot of snow fell last night and all the cyclists in town decided it was too dangerous to head up and over the next mountain. I reckon it would have been OK as a few trucks began to roll and clear the road but it is a long way to the next settlement and we would have looked a bit silly if we went against local advice and froze to death before the pass. We'll set off early tomorrow if the weather doesn't worsen.
We all made the best of it, tied plastic bags around our boots and had a snowball war with our new pals. Some of them had never seen snow before. Even the natives are chucking the odd snowball at each other, the town is a slushy mess but quite lively. The hills blend into the white of the sky and the birds are finding it hard to land. They wonder what's happened to spring. They are not the only ones.

2011-04-13T07:10:00.000-07:00

To China

China, erster Eindruck

Der Flug läuft reibungslos, das Gepäck und die Räder kommen unbeschadet an.
Erst fliegen wir an den Riesenbergen vorbei, dann unter uns das tibetanische Hochland in Braun, Weiß, Blau. Keine andere Farbe zu sehen. Nur Berge, Berge, Täler, Berge, eigentlich bis zu unserer Landung das gleiche Bild.
Schade, dass wir nicht radeln konnten.

"Kulturschock China", so hieß doch das Buch im Regal. Und dieser trifft es uns auch. Im Flieger gähnen uns die endlosen Straßenschluchten zwischen grauen Hochhäusern an. Chengdu scheint nach Kathmandu riesig, hoch bebaut, organisiert, sauber, zivilisiert. Klapprige, mit Elektromotoren nachgerüstete Fahrräder (alle mit zu niedrigen Satteln) ziehen lautlos mit Frauen mit Dauerwelle und modischem Mäntelchen und Hackenschuh an uns vorüber. Auf Hochglanz polierte deutsche, große Wagen, ruhiger Verkehr. Nicht so viele Menschen wie erwartet. Alle freundlich. Wir sehen einen pink gefärbten Pudel. Einladende Suppenküchen. Andrang in "Rieseneßhallen". Gepflegte, asiatisch anmutende Parks mit Obstblüte und betoniertem Wege. Enten auf angelegtem Kunstteich. Ein paar Tempel mit Pagodendächern. Neumodische Pagodendächer auf Wohnhäusern. Begrünte Dächer. Ultramarinblaue Dachziegel. Verpackungsschlachten im Supermarkt. Würstchen- und Fleischparadis. 5 freundliche Serviskaräfte verfolgen uns und auf unser versucht chinesisch ausgesprochens "Tsing Tao" werden wir zum verpackten Trockenfleisch geführt (naja, besser als in Pantomime dargestelltem "Honig" zum Tamponregal gebracht zu werden). Fleischmarkt (oder Zoohandlung?).
Wir besuchen einen Tempel. Es gleicht dort einem Volksfest. Nippesstände. Fantastisch! In jedem gibt es etwas anderes, ausgesprochen hübsches, fantasievolles, asiatisches, verspieltes. Überhaupt: alles kindlich, verspielt. Junge Mädchen und Frauen in Kinderkleidchen. Süß. Wunderhübsche Mädchengesichter. Eßstände. Eßstände. Eßstände. Einer sieht besser aus als der andere. Es wird entsprehend viel gegessen. Glasklarer Jasmintee. Tee nur aus Blüten. Schriftzeichen. Leuchtreklame. Räucherstäbchen.
Man verzeihe mir den ausgesprochen Gedanken der mir kam: irgedwie eine Mischung aus "amerikanisch" und deutschem Weihnachtsmarkt. Absolut faszinierend.
Doch Chengdu ist eine chinesische Großstadt. Was wir aus dem Flieger gesehen haben, und wohin wir morgen ziehen werden, ist etwas anderes: wilde, weite Bergwelt.

2011-04-13T07:06:00.000-07:00

Kathmandu - Annapurna

Nepal, du wirst mir fehlen
Wie ihr ja bestimmt aus Toms Berichten raus lesen konntet: wir hatten großartige drei Monate in Nepal. Die Landschaft ist atemberaubend schön, die Bewohner sehr freundlich, ehrlich und immer hilfsbereit. Auch der Mindestabstand zwischen Menschen ist annähernd so groß wie in der europäischen Kultur, das ist ein angenehmer Aspekt nach drei Monaten in Indien.
Ja, ich war stinkend faul was die Fütterung unseres Blogs betraf, deshalb hier eine Zusammenfassung:

Mit der Überquerung der Grenze von Indien nach Nepal in Mahenadranagar (im Westen Nepals) war plötzlich alles anders: kaum Verkehr, fast nur Fahrräder und kaum LKW`s, keine 50 Leute umfassenden Menschentrauben um uns und unsere Räder herum beim Bananenkauf und Teeimbiss. Aufatmen: die Luft ist besser.
Ich will Indien keinesfalls schlecht machen, es ist nur einfacher und entspannter für mich als Europäer.
Wir radeln die flache, leere Straße des Westterai`s entlang, links und rechts die zauberhaftesten, sauberen, ganz einfachen Dörfer mit Hütten aus Stroh und Lehm mit einem kleinen, liebevollen Gemüsegärtchen drumrum. Und es gibt Blumen, nicht nur im Tempel, auch am Haus und im Garten. Wälder. Wir sehen kaum Plastikmüll (das wird sich erst in und um Kathmandu ändern). Und endlich können wir mal wieder abseits der Straße das Zelt aufbauen.
Unser erstes größeres Ziel ist der Bardia Nationalpark. Wir stapfen mit 2 netten Jungs namens Baba und Krishna durch den Dschungel um einen Blick auf kleines und großes Getier zu erhaschen. Das könnten Tiger, Elefanten, Rhinos, Hirsche, Affen usw. sein. Spuren und Dung der besagten Gattungen (mal wieder von sehr beeindruckendem Ausmaß) können wir zuhauf finden. Und Dank der sehr begabten Spurenleser, die uns führen, köennen wir tatsächlich Mama Rhino und ihr Minikalb aufspüren. Ich werde auf einen Baum gehieft (Tom schafft es natürlich allein), meine Armmuskeln scheinen sich extrem rückgebildet zu haben, und von hier oben können wir die 2 Tiere beobachten. Und dann sonnt sich da noch eine stattliche Python auf einem (anderen!) Baum. Hirsch und Affe wir auch noch vorstellig, doch mit diesen lustigen Gesellen haben wir schon Bekanntschaft gemacht.
Wir genießen für ein paar Tage unser schönes Lehmhüttchen im Park, abends gibt es Lagerfeuer, es ist nachts nämlich recht frisch. Die Sonne zeigt sich seit Rishikesh kaum, es bleibt diesig und dunstig.
Wir fahren weiter bis Buthwal und nun gehts bergauf. Doch alles halb so wild, die Straße ist zwar stetig, aber mit einer gut fahrbaren Steigung, nichts im Vergleich zur schweißtreibenden Schwarzmeerküste in der Türkei. Und die Temperaturen sind ideal zum Fahren.
Nach ein paar Tagen erreichen wir Pokhara, hier, wo ich schon seit Jahren einmal hinwollte, denn die Stadt ist Ausgangspunkt für den "Annapurna Rundweg". Entgegen die Postkarten und Poster, die uns von allen Seiten anspringen, sehen wir keine einzige weiße Bergspitze. Wir vermuten, Photoshop hat Einzug gehalten. Ein paar Tage lang wird eingekauft: Wanderstöcke, Thermounterwäsche, Handschuhe, Fleecejacke, eine neue Hose für Tom (Verschleißerscheinungen nach Monaten intensiver Nutzung), eine Wanderkarte usw.. Paradisisch die Autdoorläden. Es gibt einfach alles zu äußerst erfreulichen Preisen. Leider (in diesem Falle) sind wir nicht mit leerem Rucksack hergeflogen und können nun mit vollen Rucksäcken wieder heimfliegen.
Wir sprechen mit ein paar Leuten die hier leben, und man erkärt uns für verrückt, den ganzen Rundweg gehen zu wollen. Zu kallt, zu viel Schnee, der sagenumwogene Thorung La Paß ( 5400m) könnte geschlossen sein, ihr könntet euch verlaufen, erfrieren, falsche Jahreszeit! Was, ohne Führer? Ihr seid ja wahnsinnig. Und dann die Höhenkrankheit! Wir wurden also über jedwede Gefahr (und die scheint überall zu lauern) mit schauerlichen Beispielen aus ferner und naher Vergangenheit aufgeklärt. Ich kaufe schnell noch eine dicke Daunenjacke.
Am vorherigen Morgen des geplanten Aufbruchstages (wir wissen immer noch nicht ob wir die ganze Runde "drehen" sollen oder ob wir nur einen Teil davon gehen), treffe ich einen Deutschen, der seit Jahren in Finthorn/ Schottland lebt und regelmäßig nach Nepal kommt und auch als Bergführer für seine Freunde und Bekannten fungiert. Eine wunderbare, fast schicksalshafte Begegnung könnte man meinen, er rückt alles ins rechte Licht und bestärkt unsere Entscheidung, den ganzen Weg zu gehen.
Früh am morgen setzen wir uns in den Bus und beginnen den Weg nahe Pokhara. Die Busfahrt wird schon ein Erlebnis, ich habe wirklich nicht geglaubt, das ein Auto, geschweige denn ein klappriger TATAbus, eine solche unasphaltierte Straße überhaupt fahren könnte. Schlaglöcher, riesig und Mitte Wade tief, Haarnadelkurven, mitten im Wald. Ziegen und Menschen verhalten sich zivilisiert. Als der Bus auf einen reißenden Fluß zusteuert ( ich sitze in der ersten Reihe, quasi neben dem Fahrer), ...nein er wird doch nicht, unmöglich... Der Fahrer klopft 3mal auf sein Riesenlenkrad ....! Ich erstarre zur Salzsäule als wir den ca 70 cm tiefen, 70 m breiten, blauen Gebirgsfluß flußaufwärts überqueren. Hut ab, ein exellenter Busfahrer, ich bin schwer beeindruckt, wir kippen nicht um and Mensch, Maus, Kartoffelsack und Ziege überleben.
Und am zweiten Wandertag ist es soweit, wir sehen sie zum ersten Mal in unserem Leben, die weißen Gipfel des Himalayas. Das Dach der Welt.
Wir werden fantastische drei Wochen in den Bergen verbringen. Das Wetter könnte nicht besser sein, die Berge nicht schöner, die Leute nicht freundlicher. Interressante Wandergeselle kreuzen unseren Weg, neben Eselkarawanen, die allerlei Krempel und Nahrung die Berge hochschleppen. Die Esel sind ausgesprochen gutaussehend, haben immer einen kleinen bunten, dreieckigen geknüpften Teppich vor der Eselstirn mit bunten Trotteln links und rechts baumelnd und noch einen Teppich auf dem Rücken (als Schutz vorm Durchscheuern, nehme ich mal an) denn sie schleppen bis zu 50 kg pro Tier.
Doch nicht nur der arme Esel muß ran. Was mich in Nepal bis fast zur Erschütterung beeindruckt, sind die menschlichen Träger. Man sieht sie überall. In den Bergen, in der Stadt, als Begleitung der Bergtouristen oder als Versorger füer abgelegene Bergdörfer. 50- 60 kg beträgt die durchschnittliche Last. Je schwerer, desto mehr Geld ist zu verdienen ( nein, viel ist es auf keinen Fall). So sieht man sie die Berge hochlaufen, in dünner Luft, mit 3 Riesenrucksäcken, Holzplatten, Baumstämmen, Eierkörben, Glasscheiben,Wellblechdaechern usw.. Schwer tragen gehört zum Leben, wie es mir scheint. Das Kleinkind trägt das Baby, Männer, Frauen, Kinder schleppen riesige Bündel aus Feuerholz, Grünfutter, Kiefernnadeln, totem Laub. Auch die Oma ohne Zähne rennt mit besagter Fracht die Berge rauf und runter. Ein hartes Leben. Selten Strom, (eis)kaltes Wasser. Und doch scheinen die Menschen zufrieden in den Bergen. Wir sehen schöne, lächelnde, vom Wetter gegerbte Gesichter. Immer ein freundliches "Namaste".
Wenn die Waldgrenze erreicht ist, kann nur noch mit trockenem Yakkot geheizt werden. Holz ist überall ein rares Gut, vor allen Dingen nach dem Eintreffen von Touristenscharen in den letzten Jahren, die aber dem Land und einem Teil der Bevölkerung Bares einbringen. Das Für und Wider, wiie üerall.

DER Thorung La Paß (es soll der höchste Paß der Welt sein??) wird kein Problem für uns. Wir brechen um 3 Uhr in der Frühe auf und folgen einer Gruppe netter Franzosen, die mit Nepalis unterwegs sind. Um 7 haben wir den höchsten Punkt unseres bisherigen Lebens erreicht, die Sonne geht gerade auf. Die Sicht ist bestens, kaum Wind, trotzdem arschkalt. Schnell Handschuhe aus, ein paar Fotos, Hanschuhe schleunigst wieder an. Meine Temperaturanzeige an der Uhr streikt. Beim 1600m Abstiegt bleibt der gefürchtete Gegenwind aus, strahlender Himmel, Sonnenschein. Im Dorf Muktinath angekommen, ziehen wir aus, was wir können, der Unterschied zwischen Paß und hier beträgt wahrscheinlich fast 30- 40 Grad. Endlich mal wieder Haarewaschen, bisher konnte ich mich nicht überwinden, denn Eiseimer dafür freizuhacken. Auf dieser Seite der Berge ist es erheblich wärmer und "moderner". Es gibt eine unasphaltierte Straße. Meistens können wir aber auf kleinen Wegen wandern.
Verzaubert von unserem Ausflug in die Bergwelt kehren wir nach 21 Tagen zurück nach Pokhara.
Was mir an dieser Bergwanderung besonders gefallen hat, ist die Vielfalt, der man begegnet. Man kommt der Kultur sehr nahe, zieht ständig an Gebehtsfähnchen und Tschorten vorbei, sieht die Menschenbei bei ihren alltäglichen Tätigkeiten, man durchläuft veschiedenste Vegetationszonen.
Wir genießen noch einige Tage das touristische "Lassiparadis" Pokhara, bevor wir nach Kathmandu aufbrechen. Entgegen der schlechten Vorhersagen, ist die Strecke landschaftlich schön und verkehrstechnisch erträglich. Wir treffen Sophie und David, 2 australische Radler und verbringen ein bißchen Zeit zusammen.

Kathmandu
Drei Wochen machen wir eigentlich nicht viel außer Lesen, Kochen, Essen, Schlafen. Der ein odere andere Tempel wird besucht.
Es heißt, Tibet (wir wollen über Tibet nach China) öffnet erst wieder Anfang April, also Warten und Tee trinken. Und wo kann man beides besser als hier. Die meisten Leute, die wir gesprochen haben, schimpfen auf Kathmandu: laut dreckig, zu viele Leute. Wir fanden die Stadt toll. Wir haben ein bißchen abseits vom Touristen- und Geschäftsrummel in einem ganz süßen Appartment gewohnt und konnten selbst kochen. Eine gute Abwechslung nach monatelangem Auswärtsessen. Unweit unseres Appartementes gibt es fantastische Gemüsemärkte, was für eine Freude dort einzukaufen. Überall Tempel und Tempelchen, Gompas, Blumen, Obst: ein quirliges Straßenleben. Ich fand es wunderbar und die Stadt ist mir ans Herz gewachsen.
Mal abgesehen von den Flüssen und der Luft, finde ich Kathmandu recht sauber (nach 3 Monaten Indien!!) Die Flüsse allerdings sind unbeschreiblich. Eine Müllhalde. Wahrscheinlich die Schlimmste die ich je gesehen habe.
Wir buchen eine Tour nach Lhasa mit dem Bus, man darf offensichtlich nicht ohne organisierte Tour nach Tibet. Man versichert uns, eine Visumsverlängerung, einmal in China angekommen, ist kein Problem.

Mit diesem Plan geht es noch mal für zwei Wochen in die Berge: Langtang und und Gosainkund. Wieder zwei gradiose Wochen. Die Wanderung hat einen ganz anderen, als der Annapurna Rundweg.

Als wir zurückkommen, heisst es, Tibet bleibt vorläufig geschlossen. Wir entscheiden uns, nach China zu fliegen, Nepal ist ja wunderbar, aber irgendwann wollen wir weiter. So beantragen wir unser China- Visum (kein Problem) und buchen unseren Flug nach Chengdu. Wir spielen letzte zwei Wochen "zu Hause" in Kathmandu, Tom bringt die Räder dank eines super Radladens mit allen erdenklichen Radteilen auf Vordermann, viele verschlissene Teile werden nach fast 13000 km ausgetauscht.

Ich bin sehr traurig, als wir mit unseren bepackten Rädern zum Flughafen radeln. Ich hoffe auf ein Wiedersehen mit Nepal, den Bergen, mit Kathmandu und mit einigen liebgewonnenen Gesichtern.

Ich habe es schon oft gedacht, das ist vielleicht das Schwerste am Reisen: immer wieder Abschied nehmen.

Valley of the Lost Yak. Langtang

2011-03-31T01:56:00.000-07:00

Into the valley of the lost yak strode we, once more tward the 5000 contour. Our backs were sore and our windsacks full of mica-dust from a day-long ride on a bus. Two days walk saw us into the hills where a gale pinned us down in a hut. The air was thick with flying tin roofs so we tied ours down with stones and rope and lashed the ridge to the cold iron stove. A feverish storm was racking my guts as I shivered and puked under a foot pile of blankets, praying the roof would hold. Every house in the strung out village had a man ontop hastily banging in nails. The triangle here is not generally used in building so squares are parallelograms and everything moves in a wind. Half the next village had lost some roof we saw as we carried on up the valley.
Above Kanjin gumpa is a page from a scool geography book. Glaciers, cirques, morains and drumlins. The mountains are moving. The great plate of India is still thrusting its way into China forcing up the Himalaya and Tibet. There is more than political tension at the borders. Erosion here is tangeable, you can hear it in the crack of ice and rock. It sounds like distant guns. You can see it as scree tumbles down from the cliffs above and the evidence of fresh landslides is clear. The noises here only accentuate the silence; the rush of thin air over a Golgen Eagles wing and the dying groan of a glacier who knows its glory days are numbered.
We lived on rice and lentils and noodles cooked up on our petrol stove. Porridge for breakfast. We were cast away with Swiss family Robinson and set off one morning with an up beat Down Under pair, Mark and Jenny, to the frozen lakes of the Gosainkund. Another storm once more up high left a covering of snow. I have never before experienced hail falling hard between the swirling flakes of a blizzard nor thunder, lightning and snow together. In sunny weather and good company we set off next morning through the ever deepening snow cover which was luckily frozen hard. A cold night at the lakes then over the Laurebina pass and down again in search of trees.
All seems fine on a clear blue day but some years ago an Aussie young man lost his way on this very trail and was not seen for 43 days. He turned troglodite and was finally found still sucking the wrapper of his single Mars bar, no doubt contemplating his demise.
Another weeks walk took us through ever warmer hills back to Kathmandu through the Helambu. Red Panda territory, small bamboo and Rhododendron. Maybe they saw us but we saw none of them.
Most goods are carried up here on the backs of porters. A normal load is 50kgs 60 or more is common. We saw a man some days from a road with 6 full sheets of plywood suspended as usual from his forehead. Nepalis are not big but pound for pound the porters must be some of the strongest guys in the world.

We expected to leave for Tibet on the 2nd April but returned to find that travel permits were not being issued yet to through travellers. Days running round embassies and offices revealed a confused picture. It seemed that possibly in 3 weeks we could go to Tibet on a bus and take the train to N. China but no-one could say if or where we could convert this 15 or maybe 20 day permit into a chinese visa. The travel agents said yes but knew not where, the Embassy officials laughed and said maybe but they doubted it, and all internet forums and suchlike said it was definately not possible. We could get a chinese visa in Kathmandu but it would be ripped out on entering Tibet.
I was not too concerned about outstaying Tibet permit but it seemed that we would be left in China without a visa and with only a few days to get to Hong Kong or Laos thousands of km away. Not easy on a bicycle.
Sadly we cut our losses and decided to fly once more. This time to Chengdu in China. We will then head west and south into the wilds of Sichuan and Yunnan.

It seems our trip has turned into one of many chapters instead of a continuos cycle. We are dissapointed but wanted to ride through India and walk in Nepal which made things awkward. Fingers crossed we get a China visa on the 6th and fly on the 7th. What can go wrong. Anja is utilising the time to design some clothes for her old company and I am pootling round the town on my bike googling at all the shiny equipment in the hundreds of outdoor shops.

We have been now 6 months on the subcontinent and have seen a sight or two. I am jealous of Anja having some work to do and am looking forward to the last leg south (thats downhill right?) towards Australia.

2011-03-05T04:38:00.000-08:00

We are stuck in Visa limbo-land trying to way to cycle into Tibet. There are worse places to wait than this city of a thousand temples. Our well lit 2nd floor apartment gives on to a small but busy square, and we already know the daily routine therein. We also have our own.
I venture out early to buy bread and milk for breakfast and often sneak in a cup of tea on the street somewhere. We eat at a small table in a window watching the passers by. At 8 o'clock the music store opens its doors and the sounds of chanting monks, sitar and wooden flute, after being reluctantly cooped up for the night, are let out to flutter around the square and explore its many nooks. This Nepali music is not unpleasant but is alike sounding and a little monotonous. Sometimes it seems the city has its own theme tune played on a continuous loop.
The egg-man crosses the quadrangle diagonally at 8.30. eight trays of eggs stacked in a cube hang from each end of a bamboo pole set obliquely accross his shoulders. He moves a little crabwise, the bamboo flexing with each step, and disappears down an alley. The early beggars and hash-hawkers shuffle into view, old men pass their hands over the octagonal shrine as they go out of their way to pass it clockwise. A stooped and bearded man pours oil over a buddha statuette which is surrounded by a railing with a potted plant in each corner. Siddhartha has his own little haven.
The first dreadlocked tourists appear as the cafes open their doors; the Penny Lane Cafe, The Snowman and Little Wings, hangers on from the hippy era when Janis, Jimmy and the like reputedly stayed around here. Hence the name: Freak Street.
Today is a public holiday and the children stop the light traffic with ropes strung across the narrow streets, amicably demanding coins as a toll. A Kathmandu congestion charge. The smarter class of Saddhus, orange clad and bearded with shiny stainless pails walk slowly by in pairs. On the edge of the city a Hindu festival is underway at the temple complex of Pashupathinath. We are told half a million pilgrims have decended.
Not being so keen on large crowds, we visited the temples yesterday. The place was already busy, warming up for the major event. We cycled out with Sophie and David our new cycling friends from Australia. On the way we stopped at the giant buddhist stupa at Boda, a tranquil circle flanked with fine and almost European houses with the great white pudding suet pudding stupa in the centre. Monks drank tea in the surrounding cafes. The simplicity of the prayer wheels and flags is appealing to me. In stark contrast was the Hindu Pashuphathinath down the road.
I thought we had escaped the Saddhus when we pulled out of Rishikesh. Not so. (If you keen only on what I have heard called "culturally sensitive travel writing" please skip the next paragraphs).
The place was a seething mass of dreadlocked dope-smoking bearded half naked and painted "holy-men" begging, bartering and trying to dob a dab of red stuff on my forehead. After paying a hefty sum as a non-Hindu to enter the place i felt unabliged to partake of the flower-buying, red-dottind scams. Nor pay to take a photo of some guy smoking a chillum. I guess the paradox of giving up all material goods means most of your time is concerned with re-aquiring the simple basics.
We reached the sacred rubbish dump that was once a river running through the "Ghats", stone stepped banks that lead down to the meagre flow of rancid waste. Here rows of dead are burn on wooden pyres. The thick smoke mingling with deafening music and stench made an atmosphere one could cut up with a knife and keep in a tin. Lepers and otherwise stricken folks lined the avenues. They had come here in the hope of healing and I guess some help from the throng of pilgrims. The temple-carvings and shrines dipped with black oil, fat and vivid powders. The scabby-arsed monkeys ate chana and rice from plates.
If I must, in a fuure re-encarnation return as a religious man, please lord, let me be a buddhist not a hindu.
Returning to Thamel, the shopping and tourist enclave, a maze of small streets, shrines and alleys, we drank Tibetan hot beer then went to the chic "New Orleans Cafe" with live music and coctails. Anja and I returned to our district through darkened, closed up and largely empty streets of a city under powercut.
There is not enough electricity to go round in Nepal, a country with enormous hydro-electric potential, so load sharing power cuts are the norm. Somedays the lights dont go on at all. Running a business here is hard.

We keep running into old freinds from the hiking trai in this small and friendly city centre. I admit, although I am anxious to cycle forwards I am enjoying this lazy time in Kathmandu. It is also good to cook our own food for a change and thereby lower our fat and salt intake a little. We should soon know if we can proceed to Tibet by cycle in April or not. One advantage is that it will be warmer then and we may be able to leave behind a few kilos of clothing.
Although there is little street lighting, Kathmandu is one of the most modern, western orientated cities we have seen for a long time. Particularly as far as shops and goods go. We have not seen such a variety of modern goods since Tehran. There is here a few bike shops the like of which we saw last in Vienna.

A doubled over porter under a giant bound up parcel crosses the square below, his load supported by his forehead. The vegetable man stops, puts down his laden pole and sells a bundle of fresh leaves to a man and his son. The sun has left the uneven paving slabs and the afternoon shadow is pushing the sunshine rapidly up to the gardens, washing-lines and building sites of the roofscape. Soon it will be dark and unless we are scheduled for electricity tonight, only the headlights of motorcycles will fleetingly light up Buddhas little enclosure and make long shadows from the passers by. The shops will shut up one by one and a last, slightly self-conscious tourist will step through the shadows into the feint light of the corner store, buy two bottles of beer, then return whence he came, a candle lit window above. The last night-walkers will fade away and the street dogs will creep out into their nights domain.