After confusing a fuel station full of Morrocans by filling up my own fuel tank and just trying to pay, I hit the autoroute, hoping I wouldn't be too slow for them, as I really wanted to get to Rabat that night to be able to get visa-hunting in the morning.
The autoroute was quiet and there was plenty of traffic slower than me - but it was more expensive than I expected (I got a printed receipt to make sure I wasn't being taken for a chump).
I had the sun on my face and the wind at my back for three straight hours, got many encouraging waves from kids on desolate roadside farmlands and had a fun conversation with an absurdly happy young Moroccan guy over a thé de la menthe at a service station.
I was liking Morocco already, and hadn't actually done anything.
Getting into Rabat proved tiring though - the combination of my sea-soaked, pocket-crumpled google-map and rabats confusing, often missing street markings (not to mention the traffic!) was no fun.
It did make arriving at the hostel a huge relief though, and before I knew it I was being cheered on by the staff in my attempt at trials-riding up the high steps into the hostel (I did lose a point for putting a foot down, Dougie Lampkin I'm not) as they insisted I keep my bike inside.
It's only 10 dirhams (nearly 80p) per night to pay a night watchman, but who am I to argue!
After sorting my things, having a wander and relaxing in the homely atrium at the hostel I was invited to a table for a midnight tajine and everyone ensured I handled my bread correctly and got a good chunk of the meat.
Moroccan friendliness feels very easy to find.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Tarifa (Spain) - Tanger (Morocco)
After failing to wake up for the first ferry of the day to Morocco (and for the first time not being woken by a swipe or pounce from particular, insane, local wild cat), I did make it in good time for the second, after saying goodbye to my friend Max (who is on a trip within a trip, having driven his Mercedes van from Germany to Spain, and is now riding around Spain on his custom Kawasaki Z1000 which he brought inside the van).
The ferry was simple, quick and unremarkable and I chatted on the way with a Senegalese dude on his way home to see his family.
Stopped at Customs in Tanger I had a feeling the guy who approached me in a logo-ed tabard and baseball cap was not a real customs officer. He asked me in three languages for my passport and vehicle registration (I replied "No thanks!" cheerily in three languages each time), but after he and the others identically dressed had left and all the drivers in sight had obediently given up their documents I suddenly wondered if I was actually an idiot; and would ever get out of Moroccan customs.
A while later some real customs officers wandered along in military-style uniforms, and once they had my papers I was gravely told I would have to go upstairs, to see The Police.
When I happily replied "Okay!" and started to follow the guy, it soon became obvious this wasn't really going to happen.
Mind games, or a sense of humour. I couldn't tell which!
Once they came back a while later and began searching all the cars and vans around me, instead of looking at or touching anything of mine I was presented with a single question; demivered with a raised eyebrow - "Avez-vous un pistolet?"
I managed not to laugh, and managed quite a nonchalant "Non", but began to think it was a sense of humour - but I'm still not quite sure...
He waved me off, but before the gate was opened for me, one of the tabard-and-cap crew had come to ask for some baksheesh. I did laugh at him.
I got away what must have been ages before anyone else (I pretended to myself not to recognise any of them while they were overtaking me later on the autoroute) and hadn't paid a penny to enter Morocco. Sweet.
The ferry was simple, quick and unremarkable and I chatted on the way with a Senegalese dude on his way home to see his family.
Stopped at Customs in Tanger I had a feeling the guy who approached me in a logo-ed tabard and baseball cap was not a real customs officer. He asked me in three languages for my passport and vehicle registration (I replied "No thanks!" cheerily in three languages each time), but after he and the others identically dressed had left and all the drivers in sight had obediently given up their documents I suddenly wondered if I was actually an idiot; and would ever get out of Moroccan customs.
A while later some real customs officers wandered along in military-style uniforms, and once they had my papers I was gravely told I would have to go upstairs, to see The Police.
When I happily replied "Okay!" and started to follow the guy, it soon became obvious this wasn't really going to happen.
Mind games, or a sense of humour. I couldn't tell which!
Once they came back a while later and began searching all the cars and vans around me, instead of looking at or touching anything of mine I was presented with a single question; demivered with a raised eyebrow - "Avez-vous un pistolet?"
I managed not to laugh, and managed quite a nonchalant "Non", but began to think it was a sense of humour - but I'm still not quite sure...
He waved me off, but before the gate was opened for me, one of the tabard-and-cap crew had come to ask for some baksheesh. I did laugh at him.
I got away what must have been ages before anyone else (I pretended to myself not to recognise any of them while they were overtaking me later on the autoroute) and hadn't paid a penny to enter Morocco. Sweet.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Spain
Obviously not content with her bellyful of new, fresh oil, my disobedient child of a motorbike decided to spit it out.
I spent the first few days in Spain using gradually more and more liquid gasket to seal the oil filter cover (using too much can be disastrous...), and it turns out subconciously tightening it up tighter and tighter each time...
At the end of one long days ride in some cheesy English-filled town near Benidorm, which I was resenting even being in, the front wheel washed out from underneath me on a small roundabout, and I watched the bike slide to the outside lane, while I unceremoniously landed on my front (left knee first, apparently).
Quickly hobbling over to the bike to hit the killswitch I was very aware that my left knee wasn´t right. But as much as I would have relished in a bit of drama, it runs out I suffered a small graise (thanks go to Kevlar for saving some skin), and my bike a few scratches.
A couple more days riding and the oil leak was continuing, while I had managed to run out of oil, as for days every service station only sold filthy 2-stroke oil (apart from car oil, which disables motorbikes wet clutches).
A hint more liquid gasket on the o-ring one evening (and what must have been a tighter re-assembly than ever) and the next day the leak was worse than ever.
Filthy 2-stroke oil it is.
I found out that evening (after tracking down some good 4-stroke oil) that I had taken the first coil of the thread inside the engine casing off by doing it up too tightly, and without realising.
At this point the chain slider had crumble into so many pieces there was nothing left to glue to hold it together, just most of the top and bottom runners flapping around the swingarm.
On my last day travelling to Tarifa my front brake started squealing like a banshee, so that evening I rolled into a campsite dribbling oil, chain rattling on rear-brake only.
After a week of swimming, reading, walking, watching some amazing sunsets and making some awesome friends (including "Joe", an English lottery winner now "scraping" with a young son on the Costa del Sol) my tyres, chain, chain slider, bearings, brake pads, sprocket and Jelly Babies all turned up (thanks to Betterhandy Ltd.!) and the bike is now sweet.
Morocco it is.
I spent the first few days in Spain using gradually more and more liquid gasket to seal the oil filter cover (using too much can be disastrous...), and it turns out subconciously tightening it up tighter and tighter each time...
At the end of one long days ride in some cheesy English-filled town near Benidorm, which I was resenting even being in, the front wheel washed out from underneath me on a small roundabout, and I watched the bike slide to the outside lane, while I unceremoniously landed on my front (left knee first, apparently).
Quickly hobbling over to the bike to hit the killswitch I was very aware that my left knee wasn´t right. But as much as I would have relished in a bit of drama, it runs out I suffered a small graise (thanks go to Kevlar for saving some skin), and my bike a few scratches.
A couple more days riding and the oil leak was continuing, while I had managed to run out of oil, as for days every service station only sold filthy 2-stroke oil (apart from car oil, which disables motorbikes wet clutches).
A hint more liquid gasket on the o-ring one evening (and what must have been a tighter re-assembly than ever) and the next day the leak was worse than ever.
Filthy 2-stroke oil it is.
I found out that evening (after tracking down some good 4-stroke oil) that I had taken the first coil of the thread inside the engine casing off by doing it up too tightly, and without realising.
At this point the chain slider had crumble into so many pieces there was nothing left to glue to hold it together, just most of the top and bottom runners flapping around the swingarm.
On my last day travelling to Tarifa my front brake started squealing like a banshee, so that evening I rolled into a campsite dribbling oil, chain rattling on rear-brake only.
After a week of swimming, reading, walking, watching some amazing sunsets and making some awesome friends (including "Joe", an English lottery winner now "scraping" with a young son on the Costa del Sol) my tyres, chain, chain slider, bearings, brake pads, sprocket and Jelly Babies all turned up (thanks to Betterhandy Ltd.!) and the bike is now sweet.
Morocco it is.
France
As soon as I passed the borderthe change of pace was all encompassing, and navigation no longer felt like a fight for survival. I even started using my indicators again, once I realised that everyone else was.
I realised I´d been pretty much flogging my poor bike through the whole of Italy, which still has a long way to go.
I bumbled through Cannes, Monaco, Antibes, Nice, Marseille and just knew I had to try and find the youth hostel in Nimes I had been to 8 years before. In my memory it was the best and cheapest hostel from our three-month Euro-Rail trip. But I couldn´t remember why - all I remembered for certain was that it had a ping-pong table and a tumble dryer (which shrank every piece of clothing I owned to half-size).
It soon became obvious why it was stuck in my mind. The atmosphere. It is one of those places. A lovely, communal, sharing, family vibe, and unusually well integrated with the local community.
I stayed a couple of days, met some awesome people (including Dave, who camped at the hostel for a decade busking in Nimes every day), gave my poor motorbike an oil change and some TLC, and had more than a beer or two...
And after a night camping outside the incredible medieval walled-city of Carcassonne, was off to the last European country of my trip-
I realised I´d been pretty much flogging my poor bike through the whole of Italy, which still has a long way to go.
I bumbled through Cannes, Monaco, Antibes, Nice, Marseille and just knew I had to try and find the youth hostel in Nimes I had been to 8 years before. In my memory it was the best and cheapest hostel from our three-month Euro-Rail trip. But I couldn´t remember why - all I remembered for certain was that it had a ping-pong table and a tumble dryer (which shrank every piece of clothing I owned to half-size).
It soon became obvious why it was stuck in my mind. The atmosphere. It is one of those places. A lovely, communal, sharing, family vibe, and unusually well integrated with the local community.
I stayed a couple of days, met some awesome people (including Dave, who camped at the hostel for a decade busking in Nimes every day), gave my poor motorbike an oil change and some TLC, and had more than a beer or two...
And after a night camping outside the incredible medieval walled-city of Carcassonne, was off to the last European country of my trip-
South Italy
After the first couple of speedy days through the Dolomites I found myself in Verona, my first Italian city, and quickly realised if I didn´t ¨"Go Native" with my riding style I would not get anywhere, so analysed exactly how you bend the rules while staying alive and unnarested. I slowly got more and more used to taking my life into my own hands darting through the traffic like I wouldn´t dare to do in England.
The next day I got to Genova, and the traffic there was infinitely more intense. I ramped up my game and felt a part of the swarm.
The next day I got to Genova, and the traffic there was infinitely more intense. I ramped up my game and felt a part of the swarm.
North Italy
Austrian roads had been lovely - winding and mountainous with picturesque lakes, deer and birds of prey crossing my path. I crossed into Italy via the "Plockenpass". If this road isn´t famous, it should be.
It´s not one of those drop-as-much-altitude-as-possible roads which are just hairpin, straight, hairpin, straight like Top Gear take Ferraris to, but the most intensely compàct set of bends, climbs, drops and hairpins you can imagine.
It felt like it must be going under and over itself again and again. There can´t have been a straight longer than 30 metres for half an hour´s riding.
The bike was perfect for it, I couldn´t have used any more power if I had it. It was quite busy, and soon I found myself passing slow and then well-paced cars in the quest for some clear road. Once really into the spirit of it I even kept up with some real motorbikes. For a bit.
I spent a couple of days riding through the Italian Dolomites, and felt very stupid when I finally twigged that people weren´t talking to me in German because they thought I was German (for a while I also thought I had crossed back into Austria too!), but because there´s a German-spaeking part of Italy, and I was in it.
The superglue had lasted about three days on the chain slider, and when it went this time a small chunk from the middle had broken off. I filled the gap with liquid gasket and tried the last remaining adhesive I hadn´t yet tried, Bostik All-Purpose.
It´s not one of those drop-as-much-altitude-as-possible roads which are just hairpin, straight, hairpin, straight like Top Gear take Ferraris to, but the most intensely compàct set of bends, climbs, drops and hairpins you can imagine.
It felt like it must be going under and over itself again and again. There can´t have been a straight longer than 30 metres for half an hour´s riding.
The bike was perfect for it, I couldn´t have used any more power if I had it. It was quite busy, and soon I found myself passing slow and then well-paced cars in the quest for some clear road. Once really into the spirit of it I even kept up with some real motorbikes. For a bit.
I spent a couple of days riding through the Italian Dolomites, and felt very stupid when I finally twigged that people weren´t talking to me in German because they thought I was German (for a while I also thought I had crossed back into Austria too!), but because there´s a German-spaeking part of Italy, and I was in it.
The superglue had lasted about three days on the chain slider, and when it went this time a small chunk from the middle had broken off. I filled the gap with liquid gasket and tried the last remaining adhesive I hadn´t yet tried, Bostik All-Purpose.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Austria
Is not as expensive as people say. There are no proper budget options, but the cheapest meals, campsites etc. are of a quality you´d pay a lot more for in any other European country I´ve been to.
And the bikers are all too cool for school, merely raising their index finger for just a second as they pass each other - it took me a whole day to notice they were acknowledging my waves at all.
My bike went from being the newest on the road in Czech Rep. "20 years old!?!", to the oldest in Austria "20 years old?!?".
On the first evening I noticed my front chain slider had snapped into two pieces - if it came all the way off my chain would be smashing against the steel swingarm, and would be wrecked in no time...
Big Brother to the rescue.
A few texts later and an aftermarket one from America was winging it´s way to England,I just had to make it last to the South of Spain and get it sent with my tyres to me there...
I left it tied closed, stuck together with instant gasket overnight. It held till the next day, when I opted for superglue...
And the bikers are all too cool for school, merely raising their index finger for just a second as they pass each other - it took me a whole day to notice they were acknowledging my waves at all.
My bike went from being the newest on the road in Czech Rep. "20 years old!?!", to the oldest in Austria "20 years old?!?".
On the first evening I noticed my front chain slider had snapped into two pieces - if it came all the way off my chain would be smashing against the steel swingarm, and would be wrecked in no time...
Big Brother to the rescue.
A few texts later and an aftermarket one from America was winging it´s way to England,I just had to make it last to the South of Spain and get it sent with my tyres to me there...
I left it tied closed, stuck together with instant gasket overnight. It held till the next day, when I opted for superglue...
It´s on. Yet again.
At this point I realised how much money and time I´d spent in Europe, and that the Sahara would soon be down to bearable temperatures.
Bring on the miles.
Note: After this point I´m riding every day, so the cultural and beer-soaked adventures are at a minimum, and I may just be talking about riding and maintaining my bike.
Bring on the miles.
Note: After this point I´m riding every day, so the cultural and beer-soaked adventures are at a minimum, and I may just be talking about riding and maintaining my bike.
Prague
Do not drive on road no. 9 throught the North of the Czech Republic.
Go another way.
Just don´t do it.
That´s all I can say.
I am alive I suppose...
Once in Prague after buying some Kronors and a map I stopped at the first hostel I saw. Turns out I lucked out. Free beer on check-in and they let me put my motorbike in the hallway.
Soon enough I met the lovely Juha and Maija, a polyamarous, bisexual Finnish couple on the return leg of their journey hitch-hiking to Malta and back from Finland. And their beatiful Romanian friend, Oana.
Spent three daysblowing bubbles, eating Vietnamese and talking politics.
Also looked around Prague. A bit.
And we managed to meet up with Gene from Berlin and we all got taught to dance by a huge African guy in a dingy nightclub which was inexplicably, you-had-to-be-there, hilarious.
Leaving Czech Rep. was a lot less stressful than entering as it turned out the no. 9 I took to Prague was actually under construction (No-one had thought to put up signs...). There will, when it´s finished, be a road surface, and won´t be detritous, tools and people all over it. I thought that was just Czech roads.
The traffic was still crazy, but a lot easier to handle under more normal circumstances.
Go another way.
Just don´t do it.
That´s all I can say.
I am alive I suppose...
Once in Prague after buying some Kronors and a map I stopped at the first hostel I saw. Turns out I lucked out. Free beer on check-in and they let me put my motorbike in the hallway.
Soon enough I met the lovely Juha and Maija, a polyamarous, bisexual Finnish couple on the return leg of their journey hitch-hiking to Malta and back from Finland. And their beatiful Romanian friend, Oana.
Spent three daysblowing bubbles, eating Vietnamese and talking politics.
Also looked around Prague. A bit.
And we managed to meet up with Gene from Berlin and we all got taught to dance by a huge African guy in a dingy nightclub which was inexplicably, you-had-to-be-there, hilarious.
Leaving Czech Rep. was a lot less stressful than entering as it turned out the no. 9 I took to Prague was actually under construction (No-one had thought to put up signs...). There will, when it´s finished, be a road surface, and won´t be detritous, tools and people all over it. I thought that was just Czech roads.
The traffic was still crazy, but a lot easier to handle under more normal circumstances.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Berlin
Having finally admitted to myself I had caught bedbugs, and having begun to vehemently hate the lovely man who very nicely gve me a bed for the night I realised I was going to need to find a real metropolis to sort out The Situation.
My down-filled sleeping bag needs specialist detergent and an adjustable, industrial dryer and my gore-tex bivi-bag requires different specialist detergent and I knew I had to wash all my clothes (and boots) at the same time.
So after a night in a normal Dutch campsite (just to make sure they exist!) and a couple of nights wild camping across North Germany I arrived in Berlin with totally ravaged ankles, legs and arms.
A day of Camping shop trawling and laundrette lingering later and I was rid of The Pestilence. And my sleeping bag was fluffier and comfier than ever.
The next day I met a lovely American girl called Genevieve and followed an insightful, cultural walking tour with getting hideously drunk till 5am.
Met plenty of awesome people in the hostel I stayed in and followed the cultural-history-by-day, debauchery-by-night pattern for a few more days...
My down-filled sleeping bag needs specialist detergent and an adjustable, industrial dryer and my gore-tex bivi-bag requires different specialist detergent and I knew I had to wash all my clothes (and boots) at the same time.
So after a night in a normal Dutch campsite (just to make sure they exist!) and a couple of nights wild camping across North Germany I arrived in Berlin with totally ravaged ankles, legs and arms.
A day of Camping shop trawling and laundrette lingering later and I was rid of The Pestilence. And my sleeping bag was fluffier and comfier than ever.
The next day I met a lovely American girl called Genevieve and followed an insightful, cultural walking tour with getting hideously drunk till 5am.
Met plenty of awesome people in the hostel I stayed in and followed the cultural-history-by-day, debauchery-by-night pattern for a few more days...
Friday, October 14, 2011
Terschelling
After crossing the 32km ford between Ijsselmeer and the North Sea, with a coffee-break at the thought-provokingly named monument "Monument", I rolled into the port at Harlingen amd got the "fully booked" 1.15 to Terschelling.
Turns out there is only one tarmacced, signed and painted road and to get anywhere not laying on the road along the south coast of the island you have to get a bit dirty. Awesome.
So I spent the next three days razzing around the totally unsigned maze of sand, dirt and mud tracks through dunes and forests, interspersed with long walks and confused looks from the cycling dutch holiday-makers.
There are perfect, smooth tarmac cycle paths alongside the rutted sand/mud roads which powered vehicles aren´t allowed on.
Each day I was trying to blissfully ignore my feet becoming more and more itchy after every night in my sleeping bag...
On my last night there was the craziest thunderstorm I have ever experienced, it lasted two hours, and, once going properly the sound of thunder was a constant roar and the sky was lit from every direction, more than it was dark.
Turns out there is only one tarmacced, signed and painted road and to get anywhere not laying on the road along the south coast of the island you have to get a bit dirty. Awesome.
So I spent the next three days razzing around the totally unsigned maze of sand, dirt and mud tracks through dunes and forests, interspersed with long walks and confused looks from the cycling dutch holiday-makers.
There are perfect, smooth tarmac cycle paths alongside the rutted sand/mud roads which powered vehicles aren´t allowed on.
Each day I was trying to blissfully ignore my feet becoming more and more itchy after every night in my sleeping bag...
On my last night there was the craziest thunderstorm I have ever experienced, it lasted two hours, and, once going properly the sound of thunder was a constant roar and the sky was lit from every direction, more than it was dark.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Weird-ingwerf
I left Amsterdam a bit late, so thought it best to sleep somewhere before heading across the 32km ford to get to the port town Harlingen where the ferry to Terschelling leaves from.
I stopped at a campsite just outside a small town called Weiringwerf, and after one of the strangest conversations of my life ended up paying 0.95 cents to a huge man with two even huger dogs to stay in an abandoned static caravan in what turned out to be a closed down campsite. Bonus.
I hung out my clothes to dry, spread my map across the table and made a fire outside. There were no sheets - that´s fine I thought, I´ll just use my sleeping bag. This turned out to be A Bad Move.
As I left in the morning(surrounded by construction vehicles and workers) I vaguely noticed having itchy feet...
I stopped at a campsite just outside a small town called Weiringwerf, and after one of the strangest conversations of my life ended up paying 0.95 cents to a huge man with two even huger dogs to stay in an abandoned static caravan in what turned out to be a closed down campsite. Bonus.
I hung out my clothes to dry, spread my map across the table and made a fire outside. There were no sheets - that´s fine I thought, I´ll just use my sleeping bag. This turned out to be A Bad Move.
As I left in the morning(surrounded by construction vehicles and workers) I vaguely noticed having itchy feet...
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