There was a lot to do around Fort Portal, we swam in crater lakes, went in search of Columbus Monkeys and ran into a group of brits from an NGO called 'Cricket without boundaries' who coach cricket to kids in Uganda. We took half a day to join them and get involved, it was hours of fun and games with a big group of rowdy children and I loved it. That evening we heard music coming from the hills behind our hostel. Determined to find the party we took a bee line towards the source of the sound. After an hour of trudging through the dark, through banana plantations and people's gardens, we stumbled onto a field full of young Uganadans twisting, grinding and gyrating to home grown hiphop emanating from a large outdoor sound system. It was a free rave put on following the elections and we joined them and danced all night long on that field.

Cricket Without Boundaries

We rode through the foothills of the Rwenzoris, up and down, up and down, up and down. Sweaty, breathless and always hungry but moved by the sensational landscape. We cycled into Queen Elizabeth National Park, there was nobody to stop us. It was an eerie experience, I knew that lions, hyenas, leopards, buffalos, hippos and elephants all lived here, we were riding through their back garden without protection. When we set up camp Ny had a face-off with a hungry warthog and during the night a hippo passed right next to my tent, I could hear it breathing and stomping as it grazed. The next day we decided to save the ten dollars it cost for a nature walk and go off on our own without the mandatory armed guard. Our DIY approach may not have been an altogether sensible escapade but it was free and exhilarating.

A hippo shambles into camp

Nyomi verses warthog

A Flame Tree

We rolled on through Uganda, past papyrus filled swamp, dense jungle with bright green algae filled pools of stagnant water, verdant savannah and then back into the undulating banana and tea plantations which cover great swathes of the country, the occasional flame tree lit up the surroundings. Excited children would quickly encircle us when we stopped to eat, gorping and giggling. We munched on jack fruit and in the evening 'matoke', cooked plantains. After 110 kilometres of hills I was riding down the last one of the day, along a rough clay track two kilometres from Lake Bunyonyi and our campsite. Nyomi was riding just ahead when I spotted a motorcyclist coming towards us. He swerved past Nyomi putting himself directly into my path. I gripped my brakes and skidded as he continued to speed towards me.

He sees me, he'll turn or stop
He sees me, he'll turn or stop
He must see...

It was a head on collision. I was almost stationary on impact, he had hardly applied the brakes. I remember being catapulted off my bike and landing a few metres away on the roadside. The motorbike careered off a near vertical forested verge and the driver was flung over the vehicle. I caught sight of the end of his trajectory, his body arced several metres through the air before smashing into a pine tree and landing a long way down the slope. The crash was followed by the sort of deep silence that always seems to follow sudden accidents. Stunned I tried to work out if I was injured. There was a bloody laceration to my left shin but it looked superficial. My right thigh was painful but I stood up and the leg took my weight. I could hear the driver moaning but his body remained still. A bunch of young Ugandan men appeared and helped to get the driver and bike back onto the road, a task of many hands and much effort. I examined the driver. Unusually he had been wearing a helmet. He was alert but in pain. There was a boggy swelling over his left knee but he could flex it and weight bare. The motorbike had sustained some damage, both wing mirrors and the speed dial were in pieces. Then came the accusations. The surrounding band of local men decided quickly I was to blame despite not one of them having witnessed the crash. Perhaps this was because the driver had come off worse than me, perhaps because I'm a 'mzungu', a white man, and they saw pound signs. Usually the young men who drive boda bodas borrow heavily to cover the cost of the bike and repay the debt over time with money from the fares. I doubted he could cover the cost the damage and he also needed money to get to hospital and for treatment. They never have insurance. In the UK paying money after an accident is to admit liability. In Uganda you just pay up, regardless of who's to blame. If I had not I feared the group of men would quickly transform into an angry mob, so we debated a price and I paid. I don't know why he didn't stop, he had plenty of time to react to me, but obviously things could have been a lot worse for both of us. I was just lucky to get out of there with a few cuts and bruises and a dent in my budget.

After a couple of days we reached Rwanda, 'the country of a thousand hills'. It was as lush and green as its neighbour and the steep hills here were terraced for farming giving the country an extraordinary look and feel. The children were just as startled to see us and as we rode towards the capital Kigali they ran alongside laughing and asking questions like 'How is Queen Elizabeth?' In Kigali we met up with some Irish mates to celebrate St Paddy's day and set off once again into the wet. In April we will be traveling through Tanzania, a month in which 400mm of rain is expected to fall, eight times that of London.
In the twelve months I've been cycling I know I could have covered more ground and I know I could be closer to Cape Town. Riding through Rwanda and Uganda was a loop I didn't have to do, but I have never wanted to take the shortest or the easiest path. Loops are prettier than straight lines. So far we've met three cyclists aiming to ride the length of Africa in four months, many others are striving to break the world record for cycling around the globe. By setting a time limit you beef up the challenge but sacrifice something more important - the adventure. You may see a lot, but you experience little. The times I have felt most alive have not been on busy highways but on those rough tracks on the very edge of civilization, in those wild places. The times I've most enjoyed have been when I've taken up offers of hospitality from local people, offers which would have to be declined by the speed freaks. It's a shame that we seem to have entered an era of fast and furious expeditions and adventures. Leave speed to the athletes. Explorers and adventurers of the past and present are rarely blessed with special powers or skills, they are often simply able to make the sacrifices needed to live and experience things that others cannot or will not. Take the dusty track, not the highway, or as Ralph Waldo Emerson said 'Do not follow where the path may lead. Go, instead, where there is no path and leave a trail.' Here's to more loops, detours, baron tracks and adventure. Here's to four more years on my bicycle.

Tanzania

“We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give.” - Winston Churchill

I no longer run for cover when the sky blackens, when the thunder booms or when electricity lights up the gloom. It's when the locals head inside that I know we're about to get a soaking. That night in Western Tanzania the road threading through the murk was empty and when the rain began it was more intense and ferocious than I have ever seen. With no cover nearby we plowed on, smothered in green ponchos, grimacing against the deluge. Lightning sparked every second and sheets of rainfall blasted the tarmac. It became impossible to hear anything over the rain's deafening patter and my eyes welled up. Water must be getting in somewhere. A turbulent torrent of water gushed by the road's edge. A pick-up stopped, the driver addressed us in a German accent and offered a lift. The next town was at least twenty five kilometres away he told us. We declined and waved him on. The bombardment continued, water permeated my poncho. I didn't think we'd make the town before dark, equally I couldn't imagine pitching a tent without creating an indoor swimming pool. I blotted out any thoughts of how we'd see through the night, our only task now to cycle and hopefully towards somewhere or something better. The German in the pick-up returned after half an hour. He was giving us another chance to change our minds. He worked for Strabag, a German company building the roads in this part of Tanzania. Their compound was twenty kilometres up ahead. I looked at Nyomi and knew she was getting into that truck before she had said anything. My turn to decide. I shouted to the driver through a crack in the truck window.

'Thanks but I'll be OK'
'Get in. These are extreme conditions. Its very dangerous' he bellowed back
'I'm sorry I can't. I know it's a bit crazy'
'It's very crazy! You are very crazy!'
'Tell me why it's dangerous?'
'The lightning. The trucks. The dark. The bandits. You shouldn't camp here. We close this road at night. Vehicles get hijacked.'
'Nyomi's coming with you. I'll meet you there'
'Your friend is safe with us. I hope you make it. There will be a cup of tea waiting for you when you arrive. Good luck'

He hadn't convinced me. No way bandits would be out in this. I'll pull off the road when a truck comes. The lightning? I'll take my chances. They pulled away and not for the first time I wondered whether pride, ego and blind optimism were leading me down a path I didn't want to be on. But I had one thing to get me through... the thought of that big cup of warm tea. That's all I needed to muster the strength for the twenty five kilometre dash. Soon I was alone and immersed in the deep blackness of nightfall in the African bush, but the rain slowly cleared and forty five minutes later I reached the compound. I had envisioned a small hut, perhaps, I thought, I could sleep on the floor, and I could almost taste the warm milky tea. I entered a very different world to the one of my imagination. The compound appeared to be more like a small town. I saw the German at the gate.

'Hi. Where's Nyomi?'
'Oh she'll probably be in your chalet'
'Our ch... our what?'
'Yeah your chalet. Or if not then maybe at the bar'
'The baaa?'
'The bar. Over there, you see? Between the swimming pool and that tennis court.'

I couldn't be sure how I had met my end but perhaps it was a lightning strike, perhaps it was a speeding truck.

'We can wash your clothes and you can eat in the restaurant over there. Oh and we're having a party tomorrow night. There will be a big barbecue with loads of kebabs and the bar's free. Just help yourself to a beer whenever you want.'

Who's going to tell my poor mum

'We also have table tennis, table football, darts, a gym. Take a break. You guys need it.'

Then I saw a beaming Nyomi. This was real. In the middle of rural Tanzania we had come across the equivalent of Centre Parks. The compound had been built for the multinational team of engineers and it would be grounded after their three year contract was up. We retired to the warmth of our chalet. There's nothing like washing with a cold bucket of cold water every third day to make you appreciate the next warm shower. I grinned at Nyomi.

'Oh my god. Score!'
'Yeah! Shall I put the kettle on?'
We both laughed heartily

Milestones...

We were cutting a diagonal across Tanzania from the Rwandan border, aiming for capital Dodoma, and I was in pain. I had developed a nasty tendonitis of my right wrist, I could feel the swollen tendons crunching beneath the skin. It was the result of the repetitive use of the grip shift on my bike (and not what Nyomi liked to insinuate). Late one night we found ourselves without a spot to camp with a broken stove. We were escorted to a nearby village by some local men where a large family let us use their charcoal burning cooker. The children were dirty, clad in tatty rags and covered in flies. One three year old held a large machete. Nobody in Tanzania seems to think giving a toddler a large sharp pointy thing isn't the brightest idea. They were evidently poor but welcomed us into their community without asking for a thing and without suspicion or a second thought. It was not the last act of kindness we would experience over the next few weeks. The hills gradually transformed into grassy savannah, pastoralists replaced arable farmers and shawls and sticks characteristic of the Masai tribe were visible once again. In Dodoma Nyomi and I parted ways. She wanted a break in Zanzibar, I'd been there eight years ago during an overland trip I had taken through East Africa so we agreed to meet again in one week's time in Mbeya near the Malawian border. Goodbye Nyomi, goodbye tarmac, karibou rural Tanzania and solitude. I probably needed it. My route south was again peppered with strangers helping me out at every turn. One night a group of nuns took me into their convent and fed me pasta and coffee before giving me a bed for the night. A Estonian motorcyclist stopped and invited me to join him and some mates for wine and pizza before again letting me crash. Then a British guy called Mark stopped me on the road to hand me fruit juice and nuts. Later that day I arrived at the campsite I had told him I was planning to stay at and the manager came out to greet me.

'You don't need your tent'
'What?'
'Put it away. You're staying in the lodge tonight. And you're having dinner. And breakfast tomorrow. A friend has you covered'
'Mark?'
'You got it!'

Me and the Sisters of the Holy Family

The Tanzanian sense of humour

Cycling through Malawi feels a bit like I'd imagine it would feel to bung on a santa outfit on Christmas Eve and charge into a room full of excitable five year olds. The feel good factor for riding through one of the most densely populated countries on earth is massive and I think maybe equal in measure only to Rwanda. Our mere presence, the white face and the loaded bicycle, was enough to induce wide smiles in almost everyone who spotted us ride by. I spent so much time reciprocating that by the end of the day my face would ache. Malawi felt like one big village rather than a collection of many and there were more bicycles here than any where else I've been, many transporting hauls of fish or several chickens or up to four people or occasionally a couple of bound and bleating goats. It must be the easiest country in Africa for the cyclist. It's nice and flat along the lake, it's full of campsites, resorts and backpacker hangouts, there are water pumps and boreholes every five or ten kilometres, the main roads are perfect tarmac with hardly any traffic and the helpful Malawians often speak good English. If you have a three week holiday on the cards... go cycling in Malawi. We swung towards the lake and drifted past piles of drying fish, then through woodland and past crops of casava, we tried to avoid the expensive resorts choosing instead to rough camp by schools or hospitals or police stations.

Even in Africa, a musical continent, Malawi stands out. Sound systems blare from every bar and every cafe in every village, women sing to the babies on their backs, men sing when they drink Chibuku, children grab your hand and burst into song and teenagers sing into light bulbs mimicking microphones. To me Malawian women look more stereotypically African than most. Usually one baby will be wrapped by cloth to her front suckling on a breast, another is sometimes wrapped to her back, in one hand she holds a colourful umbrella to protect from the heat of the day and on her head will be some variety of package, anything from a bulky sack of maize, firewood, some food, a full bucket of water or even just a pair of shoes. On one day in Malawi I stopped to fill up my water bottle at a pump. There were some young children playing at their mother's feet when I arrived. They looked up and reacted immediately. One screamed and fled panic stricken into the bush. Three more rushed behind their mothers, their terror filled eyes peeped out at me from behind their mother's kangas. All of them had burst into tears. The mums found all this hysterical but their laughter did nothing to allay the children's fears. We'd seen this reaction once before in Sudan. I was probably the first white person the kids had ever seen.


One of the many quirks of Malawi is that the young men, especially those in and around the tourist spots, give themselves strange and wonderful English nicknames. I'd hear conversations like this one...

'Hey have you seen Lazer or Fortune?'
'Nah. There's a party tonight though. Chicken & Peas is coming'
'Cool. How about Lucky Coconut?'
'Not sure. He'll probably be hanging out with Happy and Mr Spanner'

I'd like to say something a bit more profound about my experience in this part of Malawi. I'd like to make some comments on the local culture and traditions or perhaps make some observations about the national psyche. I'd like to, but I can't. Once we hit the lake I was introduced to XXX, a scanderlously cheap brand of rum sold in thirty mililitre sachets and after this point Malawi gets a little out of focus. There were defintiely lots of backpackers, I think there were parties and I have heard only rumours of our mock breakdancing, skinny dipping and other antics.


Like most of the capital cities in the sweltering tropics Lilongwe sits in the hills, over a thousand metres up. We climbed up from the lake shore and were riding through a small village when we sighted two figures in the road ahead. They were running towards us, grunting and growling in unison. As they got closer I felt a sudden chill when I caught sight of their wretched and bedraggled appearance. They were clad in muddy rags, their faces were under cloth and completely hidden from view. In each hand they carried machetes which they waved erratically and with vigour. They resembled how the undead might be depicted in a Hollywood blockbuster. Children scattered as they came close. I turned to a local man beside me.

'Whats going on?'
'This is Chewa culture'
'Is it a game?'
He laughed loudly. This wasn't a game.
'They want money' he said

Even the adults around looked genuinely afraid. I have since learnt that these were 'Gule' - young men dressed as ancestral spirits, members of a secret society. Gule are considered to be in ‘animal state’ when they are dressed in such attire, and are not to be approached. If one has the misfortune of passing a Gule on the road, traditional behaviour consists of dropping a few coins for the Gule – never handing them the money directly for fear they will grab you and take you to the cemetery for ritual purposes. Generally, villagers believe it is best to avoid Gule, in their animal or ancestral state, they are unpredictable.

The theme of this post has been hospitality, although really that's been the theme of my entire journey so far. In every country I have passed through there has been at least one act of generosity from a stranger who expects nothing in return. I have never been refused water and only very rarely a place to camp. This month has been a outpouring of hospitality from ex-pats and locals, from men and women, from the young and old, from the rich and poor. When we arrive into Cape Town I know that a lot of people had a hand in getting me there, there will be lots of people to thank.


This week I received an email that had my memory drifting back to a golden evening in the desert of Northern Sudan and another act of kindness. It was the end of a long day. We had covered over 150 km and the light was fading when three quad bikes zoomed past us. They stopped up ahead. It was Val, Jamie and Kris, three young Australians on a mission to break the Guinness World Record for the longest ever journey by quad bike. They invited us to camp with them and waited for us up ahead. We turned off into the sand and spent the evening chatting and sharing food. This week I received the news that in Malawi Val had collided with a vehicle traveling on the wrong side of the road, the car was being pursued by police. He was seriously injured in the crash and airlifted to Johannesburg. Very tragically Val died on the flight. Val, Jamie and Kris were just some of the people who have helped us on our journey and I remember Val's generosity, enthusiasm and passion for adventure. The other member of the 'Quad Squad' will continue in Val's memory.

Kris from 'Quad Squad'

Recently it’s been more about the people than the wildlife, but the next thousand kilometres would flip the script, if I was going to have close encounters with roadside beasts, Botswana, I was assured, would be the venue. Nyomi and I get on well most of the time but we get up together, we eat together, we cycle together, we rest together and now we needed a break from being together. When we squabble it's only ever over trivialities. Classic battles over the last few months have included ‘Stop eating so many aubergines!’, ‘Those better not be your socks in the food pannier!’ and ‘I can’t believe you didn’t eat that chapatti!’

We parted ways in Livingstone; Ny would ride the Caprivi strip in Namibia whilst I cycled a loop through Botswana. We’d meet again in three weeks’ time. Botswana is a country the size of France with a population of two million, all manner of toothsome fauna and more elephants than you can shake a baobab at (around 150,000 roam around the Botswanan bush). Young men in Zambia on hearing my plan to ride through Botswana alone, uttered a phrase I would hear much too often over the next few weeks, an unsettling question for anyone, especially when it occurs to you that you don't have a good answer.

“But what will you do about all the lions?”

But I had yet to enter Botswana and the bush is not to the only place you can find wildlife in Africa, the border towns are full of it. I warm to most people I meet at the borders as much as I welcome weeping saddle sores. There are all kinds of shady characters, tricksters, crooks, petty thieves, gangsters and opportunists. Their job is to make some money from the unwary, yours is to remain on the ball and not to get stung. The border crossing was a ferry ride across the river. A sign on board gave a list of things you needed to do once debarked, including directions to customs and immigration, it ended with ‘to complete these formalities a guide, ‘agent’ or third party is not required.’ The word ‘not’ had been scratched out, presumably by a moody middleman not wanting the placard to curtail his business. If you need to change money these guys know all the tricks. They give you phoney rates of exchange and usually work in a cartel so everyone has been briefed to tell you the same wacky rate. They use their own calculator and often ‘forget’ a zero, aiming to cheat you by a factor of ten. They hurry and hassle you into changing notes quickly hoping you’ll make a mistake. They sometimes even take your money, claim it’s not authentic, switch it for an actual fake and hand it back to you, pocketing your genuine dollar bills. Changing money at this border was made harder by the fact that the Zambian Kwatcha is the eighth least valuable currency in the world, there are around eight thousand to the pound, and in Zambian terms I was a millionaire. But I’m getting used to African borders and I have developed a strategy to get me through which involves choosing one guy and shouting ‘Everyone else please piss off. I’m dealing with this guy ONLY!’ The ‘please’ is optional. If they are particularly in my face I add ‘you bloodsucking XXXXXX’ (choose from one or more derogatory terms of abuse). It helps to be calm, assertive and always generous with your expletives.

Most people have an out-dated image of Africa where wild animals terrorise villages and jump out at unsuspecting travellers all the time. In fact most big game and any creature that could pose a risk to the livestock has long since been killed or rounded up and left to roam in the national parks, not so in Botswana, a country teaming with beasts. I soon came across a sign with the caution ‘beware of animals’. Couldn’t they be more specific? Did they mean the cutesy, diminutive, cud chewing kind or the sever your jugular and nibble on your spleen variety? I intermittently glanced fearful and expectant into the bush wondering what was about to leap out of the undergrowth, Bambi or Scar? Crouching lions morphed into ant hills as I nervously edged towards them. I jumped at a rustle in the bushes only for a hornbill to emerge and flutter away. A quick-fire nervy internal monologue began in an effort to reassure myself ‘A hornbill! Just a hornbill! That’s an animal! That must be what the sign meant! No lions here, just birds and OH JESUS WHAT’S THAT!’ Just ahead three elephants were stripping the green from a tree. I crossed to the other side and tried to slip by unnoticed but they startled, fortunately they ran away from me and the road. Presumably I had scared them off with my whimpering demeanour and expression of unsullied terror.

A Hornbill

After sixty kilometres I passed the only pedestrian I’d seen all day. I pulled over for a chat. He was a farmer with a rifle slung over his shoulder and this had been his home for many years.

‘I’m surprised you travel in this way’ he muttered, frowning, gesturing towards my bicycle and taking a long stride backward as if it was harbouring a contagious disease.
‘Why?’ was the obvious question.
‘The wild animals here are many. Many, many, many. I never leave home without a gun. Lions live here. I saw some last week’

Why was it only now that I could see the holes in my original plan? Rough camping, alone, in a sparsely populated part of the African bush, in lion country with no weapon aside from the two inch blade on my Leatherman was starting to look like a crap idea. Luckily after one hundred kilometres I came across a campsite. But I knew there were no other campsites or even small villages for the two hundred kilometres after this one so I decided to quiz the owner.

‘What wildlife do you have around here?’
‘Everything mate’
‘Lions?’
‘Lots. We hear them almost every night. I’ve seen some cyclists pass this way. So far I’ve not heard of any being attacked’

The inflection on the ‘so far’ made it clear she had decided that lion verses cyclist was imminent. Luckily she told me there were some workmen one hundred kilometres south who were helping build the roads. They had a bush camp and, I hoped, something more useful than a Leatherman if a pride of hungry lions came round for dinner. Maybe I should camp with them. As I walked back to my tent a sound rose out of the bush, ‘uuuuuh-huuumph’ repeated again and again, becoming softer and slowly fading into silence. An unmistakable sound. Lions were calling through the night. I'm camping with them.

Later that night, ensconced inside my tent and sleeping bag, I thought about what she’d said. I was excited about tomorrow. This was a real adventure. I hadn’t felt like this since the struggle through the remote badlands of northern Kenya. Now I was alone, experiences more intense, the world a more intimidating place to roam. This wild region was how I imagined Africa to be. It was the Africa of dense scrub and limitless grassy savannah. It was the Africa untouched by cultivation and human hand. It was the Africa of wild beasts. It was the lonely, exhilarating, terrifying side of the Dark Continent. I was frightened. I was enthralled.

I adopted a new strategy. If lions were around I would be off the road by evening, not nightfall as usual, but the next day I fought against an unyielding headwind. With thirty kilometres to go I passed through a game-proof electric fence surrounding a farm but ten kilometres later I was out the other side, there was a paucity of traffic now and I soon found myself riding through the shadowy bush, this was definitely lion hunting time. Finally I made it to the road camp, they were happy and surprised to have a visitor, I was happy and surprised to have made it. The next day was a free cycling safari. I saw a variety of big and small antelopes, vervet monkeys, warthogs, more elephants and hornbills, various birds of prey, buffalo, ostrich, black-backed jackals and not a sniff of a lion. On a vehicle safari the animals don’t often appear very wild especially when surrounded by twenty tourists, each intent on manoeuvring their expensive zoom lens into the lion’s mug. But this was much better, no tour guide, no glass windows, nobody else around at all. The scrub was so thick that often I didn’t see the wildlife until I was nearly face to face. That was the case with one of the elephants I came across, a huge solitary bull. This time he stood his ground and it was me who did the running away. I have seen some freaky creatures during the last year… scorpions in the Sahara, seven foot crocodiles in Ethiopian lakes, a Giant Crab Spider lurking in an Egyptian toilet, but the next one would beat them all hands down. In the grass by the road I caught a glimpse of something slithering. Something big. Something very big. I realise I may have watched one too many nature programmes with Steve Irwin type presenters bounding around after dangerous reptiles because when I spotted it I wasn’t content to watch from a distance, instead my instinct shouted 'charge into the bush after it!'. The snake was maybe two metres in length and had alternating black and gold bands. Later I ID’d it as a Snouted Cobra, a species which boasts neurotoxic venom and a potentially fatal bite. After this close encounter I saw a lot more snakes, some road kill, others very alive. I counted over ten Puff Adders, the snake responsible for more human deaths in Africa than any other. Twice I came close to what I assumed to be pieces of old car tyre only to find them suddenly move, transform and rise up into a striking pose, I did wide loops around them. For the next few weeks I also did wide loops around pieces of old car tyre. On the way into Nata I met a local guy on a bike, he had a huge dead vulture slumped across the back wheel. Blithely and with obvious pride he announced he had beaten it to death with a piece of wood. He was taking it home for dinner.

Dinner

A Puff Adder

A large Snouted Cobra

A bush baby, caught by a guy in the campsite. It was delicious, especially when we added a couple of kittens and a puppy to the shish kebab.

A dead Honey Badger

Ostrich

 The same dots on my map which in Zambia represented large bustling market towns in Botswana now denoted two dilapidated houses and a petrol station. On my way to Maun a car pulled up, the window came down and an accented voice hailing from the North East of England came forth. ‘Hello pal. Come to Gweta Lodge when you pass through. I’ll buy you a beer’ and with that he was gone. The next day I checked in on the stranger, Terry is a character probably best left to be described in the book, not the blog. He did buy me that beer, in fact one turned into two which turned into four which turned into eight. By the eighth or nineth beer it had been decided, I was sleeping in a cabin in his lodge and eating with the staff. If they had a free seat in a vehicle the next day I could go out to the salt pans, unfortunately there wasn’t room so I moved on but with good memories to take on my journey south.


I reached the tourist haven of Maun but couldn’t afford to go out on the Okavango Delta, Botswana offered little I could afford. Most of its revenue comes from diamonds and tourists and in the case of tourism it opts for a policy of ‘low volume, high cost’. Luxury lodges on the salt pans cost 1400 US dollars a night or in simple speak ‘crazy money’. Botswana is not really a backpacker destination unless you happen to be wearing a bandanna, a sarong or crazy pantaloons and have a mummy and daddy that throw ludicrous amounts of money your way to help fund your gap year all because what they really want is you out of the house for a while. Couples and bands of overlanders set out on boats from various lodges for a ‘booze cruise’. If you were going to name a boat for the purpose of taking pissheads out at sunset, what would you call it? I want to hug the person who came up with this…


After leaving Maun I saw a number of Herero women, a group of people originally from Namibia. They were adorned in huge dresses derived from the style of Victorian era German missionaries. Enormous crinoline is worn over a series of petticoats as well as a horn shaped hat. But after these colourful characters faded away Botswana got boring. It might be a succinct description but it was 400km of straight roads, flat terrain, no wildlife, nobody to talk to and nothing to inspire interest. Generally it went something like this…

Bush… cow… bush… goat… bush… cow… bush… goat… bush… cow… bush… goat… bush… cow… bush… goat…ice cream parlour… cow…naked lady… goat… human-sized bottle of cold beer

Stop cycling, slap in the face, and resume… Bush… cow… bush… goat…

In fact the only thing to break the monotony was the odd dog chase. Since the menacing mutts of Eastern Europe I’ve had it easy, dogs in Africa are underfed, scrawny and timid, less intent on attacking strangers than on finding their next scrap of food. But Botswanan farms were home to territorial hounds and once again it’s game on.

On my last night in Botswana I saw a sign for a Crocodile Farm and decided to investigate. They warned me of hippos outside the perimeter and so offered to let me stay in their research facility. I was a bit more concerned about meeting a stray crocodile ‘Oh that’s just snappy, don’t mind him, he’s like one of the family. Snappy no! What have I told you about chewing on the guests’ To keep the hippos at bay the farm was surrounded by a tall electric fence. I’ve fallen asleep to a variety of sounds in the bush, some obscure and many terrifying, but none quite as comical as hippos intermittently being electrocuted.

The next day I had made it to the Namibian border and I was relieved, especially since not one of the immigration officials bore even the slightest resemblance to a bush, a cow or a goat. I filled in the usual forms and wrote ‘professional daydreamer’ under occupation. I don’t write doctor anymore. It feels a bit fraudulent, I probably won’t practice medicine for several years and besides you always risk an American tourist in the queue behind you reading the form and then suddenly recalling that curious blue spot on their ass and ‘would you mind having a quick look at it for me?’. A cyclist? No. That implies I’m some sort of athlete. An adventurer maybe? Too pretentious. What do I do most of the time besides cycling? I’m a professional daydreamer. My old maths teacher was right after all.

Strangely at this border there were no touts or middlemen to be found and I soon learnt why. My route into Namibia passed immediately through a national park and once again there was that disconcerting query, first from immigration officials and then from customs “But what will you do about all the lions?” Despite my half-hearted pleas to ride unaccompanied it was unanimously decided that it was too dangerous, they made a good case. The lions had to cross the road to get to the Okavango River on the other side. They were frequently sighted chilling on the road. On top of that there were no cars whatsoever. I waited and eventually a truck arrived. There was space in the back for my bike but the guy could see I wanted to ride. For twenty kilometres he trailed me as I cycled through the national park. Once again plenty elephant, no lion. I had made it through lion country unmauled and lets face it, it’s a good brag.

In Namibia I stopped at a campsite and I was chuffed to find three friends I’d made in Zambia ten days before. Distances are vast in Africa and I realised that I had almost ridden the equivalent of Land’s End to John ’O Groats since we’d last been together. I was looking forward to hanging out with them on my day off. I asked what they had planned. ..

‘We’re going to rent some bikes and go on a little ride. You want to come with?’
‘Errrrrm… no thanks. Knock yourselves out.’

I set up my stove to cook lunch, pulled out my lighter, sparked it and watched with horror as the whole stove and fuel bottle went up in flames. The bottle was full of petrol. I threw water over it but the blaze continued. Panicking and convinced that the outcome would involve a huge fireball and a surgeon removing metal shards from my face, I took a short run up and punted the entire burning mess into the crocodile infested waters of the Okavango River. No more stove. Luckily in Northern Namibia stoves weren’t really necessary, the surrounding countryside was full of deadwood. I stopped early to collect it and cooked my dinner African style over open fires, sometimes I needed some solitude and I’d camp in the bush, sometimes I needed company and I’d ask to camp in the villages. Maybe I’d stay with the locals more if it wasn’t for the guilt that inevitably follows. It’s a guilt that every Westerner feels when they spend time with anyone eking out a subsistence way of life. My tent looks out of place standing next to mud huts with thatched roofs. We sit around a fire, a fire they lit to keep me warm using wood they collected and chopped up in my honour. I prepare to cook. As I unload each ingredient from my pannier I’m uncomfortably aware that nobody in my company could afford any of them. So I cook more than I need and offer it round. But the adults won’t take it; surplus grub goes to the children. I eat pasta with a sauce of fresh vegetables and beef stock, they munch away at a maize-based porridge. The young men talk about their dreams and their hopes for the future, of leaving Namibia, of getting a job, of finding a life somewhere else, maybe Europe, maybe America. I think about how improbable their dreams sound. I say nothing. I feel guilty. I zip myself into a four season sleeping bag and wonder how they keep warm through the night. The next day I thank everyone. I’m grateful for permission to camp, for water, for the fire, but most of all for the guilt, it reminds me that I’m lucky to have a life of almost limitless options, choices and possibilities. I sometimes run into smug travellers who like to brag about how they can live on less than ten dollars a day. It’s not so impressive when you find out that over one billion people live on less than a dollar a day and over half the world’s population live on less than two dollars fifty. Ten dollars is lavish.
I soon passed the ‘red line’, a fence separating northern Namibia from the rest. It was originally erected in the sixties as an animal infection control mechanism. Farms south of the line are mainly white commercial farmers, north is mostly black communal farmers. There was a small shop and petrol station by the fence. Two chirpy shop assistants approached me and began a rapid and bewildering inquisition.

‘Where are you from?’
‘England’
‘Do you come from Hollywood?’
'No. That’s in America.’
‘Is there green grass in England?’
‘Yes. Lots’
‘What about maize?’
‘Some’
‘What about game parks?’
‘Erm, not many’
‘What about wild elephants?’
‘No’
‘NO WILD ELEPHANTS!’ WHEYY! (They took a while to get over the shock).’ Why do you travel by bicycle?’
‘For an adventure’
‘Will the government in your country pay you money when you return?’
‘No’
‘Do you write for a newspaper?’
‘No. I write on the internet’
‘Can you take our photo and put it on this internet?’

Ladies and Gentlemen, because Tracy gave me five dollars off my bill, I give you Tracy and Louise…

I rode through the north playing catch up with Nyomi who was few days ahead. In the hills to the west I could see a fire raging, my first impression was that it was a controlled burn started by a farmer but as it got closer I started to guess that if someone was once at the helm, they had long since abandoned ship. This was now a wildfire and it was raging out of control through the dry scrub, wheedled and cajoled onwards by the wind. I watched the wall of flames move quickly across the land consuming power lines. It was almost encroaching on the road, my road, up ahead. A railway line lay between the road and the blaze, I thought it might buffer the inferno but I watched the flames jump the tracks and ignite the scrub on the other side in seconds. Animals raced out of the bush across the road to escape, birds, lizards, crickets and even two kudu hurtled across my path. I pedalled hard envisioning a Namibian policeman having to identify my pile of cinders by the factory number on a smouldering Rohloff hub. I came across a lodge, men were busy hosing down the thatched roof. A bit optimistic. I thought. If the fire gets there, you’re toast. The flames reached the road just behind me but I was out of danger.

 It has to be said, I wasn’t coping well without Nyomi. I was cooking the same amount of food each evening and scoffing it all to myself. I had upped my Dairy Milk chocolate intake to three bars a day. I was showering less than I probably should. I was worried that very soon I would be found slumped by the roadside, clad only in a pair of grubby, torn Lycra shorts, slurring profanities at strangers, surrounded by pizza crusts, fruit and nut bars and empty bottles of cheap Namibian cider. I needed Nyomi back in my life. I finally found her with two couch-surfers, Anthony and Jules, British physiotherapists working in Namibia with VSO. They put us up and even let us borrow their car so we could explore Etosha National Park. Namibia seemed to have more than its fair share of enticing attractions… ancient dinosaur footprints, three hundred and fifty metre high sand dunes, the infamous skeleton coast and the world’s largest meteorite. I decided to give the last one a miss. Apparently it was just a rock and wasn’t going to live up to my expectations. No ethereal green glow, no extra-terrestrial runes carved onto its surface.

A Painted Agama Lizard

A large Skink

A recently deceased lizard, killed by a puff adder which did a runner

A bird of prey in Etosha. Not sure what it is... any ideas please leave in the comments section below. It could do a 360 head twist so maybe some sort of owl???

A Secretary Bird, Etosha

The day after we moved on Nyomi was up before me. She was sporting lycra shorts, cycling gloves, a helmet and a look that said ‘you best be ready for some hardcore cycling?’ We loaded up with over twenty litres of water for our plan was to off-road through the Erongo hills. The scenery was spectacular and there’s nothing in life more cathartic than the crunch of gravel underneath your tyres when you’re riding fast down a graded road. When I eventually make it back to the UK I might have to record that sound and play it at night just so I can get to sleep. Perhaps after I reach Cape Town and Nyomi’s gone home I should also have a recording of her shrill ululations on repeat…

‘Stop eating so many aubergines! Stop eating so many aubergines! Stop eating so many aubergines!’

I’ll drift into a blissful slumber.

We were aiming for Spitzkoppe, a mountain that rises out of the desert, a mountain that is surrounded by tired clichés by tired Lonely Planet travel writers ‘The Matterhorn of Africa’, ‘the Ayres Rock of Africa’. We watched the peak gradually rise up out of the jade desert scrub, hour by hour it became more imposing, more of it filled my field of vision every time I glanced up from the sandy track. We lost the race, the sun made it to the horizon before we hit the mountain. The next morning, as we approached from the east, the sun behind us dyed the western sky a pale blue and Spitzkoppe a rosy hue. By lunch the image and the colours were sharper, sanguine swords of granite reached up to pierce the sapphire sky. After we'd strolled around the mountain it was a straight run to Swakopmund, a town on the Atlantic coast where we planned to have a deserved break. We were steaming in. It was the perfect storm – a strong tailwind, a descent of about a thousand vertical metres, old skool jungle on my IPOD and by ten o'clock AM I had consumed over eight times the Recommended Daily Allowance of glucose in the form of Cadbury’s Daily Milk chocolate. We covered one hundred and ten kilometres in three and a half hours.

So next we ride south through the Namib desert, past Fish River Canyon (The ‘Grand Canyon of Africa’, thank you Lonely Planet) and finally into South Africa. If you liked this post hit the new google +1 button below.

Something didn't feel right. We were in Swakopmund, a small Namibian town on the Atlantic coast, it has a one way system and a bicycle lane. I noticed that people walked small dogs, there were lots of grand houses as well as a 'Super Spar' supermarket and even a few fat people. Once I saw someone running, and not after a wayward goat, but for pleasure. This wasn't Africa. This was Europe. It looked like someone had surgically removed part of Germany, airlifted it to Africa and stitched it into place.

After a two minute conversation with a total stranger at the Malawi / Zambia border two months before Nyomi was handed a business card and an invitation 'Give us a call when you get to Swakop, you guys are welcome to come and stay with us'. We arrived and made contact. Signet, Pierre and Willy... A fantastically hospitable Namibian family who night after night cooked us great food and introduced us to Braai, barbecue Afrikaans style. We stayed for an action packed week which included sand-boarding, a German festival, taking a boat out to a seal reserve, visiting a snake park and then to top it all off Nyomi jumped out of a plane at 10,000 feet.
We left Swakopmund well rested, keen to continue. The coastal road was where the dry Namib desert met the sea. On our first night we pitched our tents on a huge granite mound which rose of the sand. We watched the sea fog roll in behind us, consuming the land and enveloping our passage east in a mysterious shroud. I had missed the desert, the clear skies, the emptiness and the fact that you never have to think about where to pitch your tent. But I had made a school boy error. On our way out of Swakopmund I asked a local guy where I could next find some water 'what about here?' I had innocently suggested, pointing to a small dot on my map. 'Yes' came the rapid reply. I've been traveling in Africa long enough to have known better. I'd been sucked in by a phenomenon known as 'The African Yes'. Whilst people are often eager to help they don't always understand the question thus reverting to the default response of 'Yes'. We were waterless in the Namib Desert, the dot on the map was a mountain, not a village. If I'd had my suspicions about the African Yes I might have put it to the test...

'Can we get water at this village?'
'Yes'
'Can I get a double Bourbon on the rocks at this village?'
'Yes'
What's your name?'
'Yes'
Do you believe Elvis is alive and well?'
'Yes'
'Who would win in a fight - a penguin or a badger?'
'Yes'
'What's the opposite of yes?'
'Yes'
'Do you know the meaning of life?'
'Yes'
'What is it?'
'Yes'

As always it was locals, this time motorists, who came to our aid and filled our bottles. We pushed on to the sprawling metropolis aptly named Solitaire. I found it amazing that a place that consists only of a petrol station, a lodge and a bakery had found its name onto road signs advertising it's existence one hundred kilometres away, but this was Namibia after all. It's the bakery I was interested in. Even before we had arrived into Namibia I had heard rumours about a bakery in the middle of the desert run by a legendary figure known as Moose. People assured me that this bakery was home to The Best Apple Pie in Namibia. I was so lost in pastry-based fantasies that I had got well ahead of Nyomi on that sandy track leading to Solitaire. A car stopped beside me 'your friend's hurt' said the driver 'she crashed'. I pedaled back to the accident site; Nyomi was flat out staring vacantly upwards and complaining about her leg. I looked her over, it would be big bruise but probably no lasting damage, although clearly she couldn't ride today. She hitched a lift with her bike, I arranged to meet her in Solitaire. But when I arrived I faced a short lived dilemma...

Check to see if Nyomi's OK
The Best Apple Pie in Namibia
Check Nyomi
Best Apple Pie
Nyomi
Apple Pie
Ny... PIE PIE PIE PIE PIE PIE PIE

My conscious mind could barely recollect who Nyomi was, I had to find Moose, thankfully he wasn't hard to find. Moose had the physique you'd expect of a man who'd been baking apple pie in the middle of the Namib desert since 1992. His pies were evidently so good that pretty soon he was going to need to stop looking at pastries and start looking for a good cardiovascular surgeon. He was closing shop when I arrived

'I've only got Apple pie left' said Moose
'That's all I need Moose. Tell me, is it the Best in Namibia?'
'Well it's the best in town'

Moose had been selling apple pie to travellers for years. Solitaire is remote but also relatively close to the huge red sand dunes at Sossusvlei, Namibia's premier tourist attraction, relatively being the all important word. This meant that the bakery was adventurer central and Moose had met them all. He'd met people who'd arrived in black London taxis, in double decker buses and a Chinese man who arrived on foot. From China. He'd met a Dutch cyclist whose journey dwarfs mine; he was on his third circumnavigation of the globe by bicycle. Not much impressed Moose these days. I checked on Nyomi, she said she felt fine. I didn't. I'd overdone it on apple pie. The next day we continued to the famous dunes, for the last section we left our bikes at the campsite and got a lift with a French family - mum, dad and three children aged 3, 6 and 10. They were traveling around the world for two years in a converted fire engine. Check them out... http://www.chamaco.fr/.


We got out of the truck just before sunrise and climbed 'Dune 45'. The world abruptly became a computer screen saver. Only two colours existed in this peculiar and angular world - the blue of the sky and the fierce orange of the sand. But I couldn't help feel a bit shortchanged. The appeal of the desert, for me at least, is the lonely serenity, the space and the silence. I found myself amongst a hoard of hysterical Overlanders trying to get a photo of their mates doing star jumps. And then there's the helicopters, ever-present in sites of natural beauty because there's rich people and money to be made. It all began to feel less like a wilderness and more like a theme park. But despite the chaos, this was the desert at it's most luminescent and stark. A photographer's paradise.




We got moving again and ran into another family, the third to take us in the last week. Mike, Carol and their four kids fed us more braai, beer and information about our increasingly chilly route through South Africa. We were out of the tropics now and this was winter time. My Buff has gone from sweatband to neck warmer, woolly hats and gloves have been unearthed from the ‘pannier of doom’. The mornings are what a British weatherman might describe as ‘fresh’ or ‘crisp’, what I’d call XXXXXXX cold. My body’s confused; it had been stuck in a perpetual summer. I realise I’m a bit like a farmer in that I’m always talking or thinking about the weather. But I suppose that’s because, like a farmer, I’m always in it and it matters. A downpour or a headwind can really spoil my day. Nyomi's eccentric appearance had reached new heights. In the chilly mornings she would emerge from an ice covered tent wearing everything she owned, including socks on her hands. The human cocoon would pedal off looking somewhere between Kenny from Southpark and the Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters. As the day gets warmer she sheds layers until she's stripped down to a pair of lycra shorts over lycra leggings, a vest top and a headband. In three hours she goes from Eskimo to aerobics instructor. If she continues this commitment to increasingly deranged fashion statements once she goes home next month it will only be a matter of time until she is pounced on by six orderlies and forcibly injected with anti-psychotic drugs.

We zigzagged through Namibia on dirt roads, occasionally happening upon dusty backwaters and end of the road towns where I always expected to find fresh fruit and veg and where I was always disappointed. I still hadn't learnt to lower my expectations. A shop with 'mega' or 'hyper' in the title might sell crisps and nuts, a 'supermarket' - some penny sweets, and in a 'retail outlet' there might be a couple of empty shelves, occasionally a front door, never anything for retail and sometimes a sign saying 'back after lunch' that a neighbour tells you has been up for three days. Finally we got back to tarmac and were heading south once again. It felt good to be facing Cape Town, our noses pointed south, or my nose at least, Nyomi's was hidden under buff headwear, neck warmers and polo-necks. We were heading to a town called Keetmanshoop. It didn't sound much like a town to me, it sounded more like a lesser known member of the Wu Tang Clan. Nyomi's family arrives into Cape Town at the end of the month so we had to push on quickly down the B1. We were interviewed in Swakopmund for a national Namibian newspaper after which the reporter happened to mention the 'B1 Butcher'. That's right, Namibia had it's very own serial killer. But it's OK, the reporter reassured me 'we think he's dead', 'you think?', 'yeah, someone died and, well, it might be him'. Great. Keetmanshoop was a good venue for our day off, we explored the Quivertree forest, the quirky rock formations at the Giant's Playground and then fed some captive cheetahs.

Quiver trees

Once again we were on the receiving end of warnings from passers by, South Africa was apparently crime-ridden and full of those ubiquitous 'Bad People'. It was clear we were closing in on our final African nation when I saw this sign in the window of a bakery...



At last we were in South Africa, only 120 km to the next town, Spingbok, we'd easily make it. But we'd used up all our good karma, first hills, then flies, then punctures, then a headwind, then pointless squabbles bourne of frustration impeded our progress. At first the landscape reminded me of Sinai in Egypt, a dead world of rocky outcrops, crags, boulders, scree and beige. The land grew a touch greener and I recollected my time in Western Greece and Central Anatolia. I have cycled so many roads that de ja vu is almost a daily occurrence. A sudden suspicion that I've ridden this road before, the sun is in the same position in the sky, the landscape looks eerily familiar. If I think hard enough I can work out which road in which country it reminds me of.

South Africa

We made it to Springbok. Whilst strolling around town a guy leaned out of a green Golf GTI, jeered and then shouted me over. He wore huge sunglasses and an off kilter baseball cap. Perhaps he was one of these Bad People. I cautiously approached, he fired out some questions and I replied, telling him briefly about my journey before saying farewell. A minute later he bounded down the street after us and thrust a 100 Rand bill into Nyomi's hand 'Have fun in South Africa' he said smiling. South Africa may have one of the highest murder rates in the world but perhaps it also has one of the highest getting-handed-money-by-complete-strangers rates as well.

The gift came at a good time. South Africa and Namibia are more expensive than anywhere I've passed through since Western Europe. Most travellers spend the majority of their funds on accommodation and ‘tourist’ activities. We spend little on these, as a proportion of our budget much, much more goes on food. Here are Steve and Nyomi’s ten ways to save money (Nyomi’s the really thrifty one, I could be more frugal were it not for the twin vices of beer and chocolate).

1. Have a ‘quick look’ around a five star hotel and then steal the toilet paper. A special thank you to The Livingstone in Zambia. My saddle sore arse got the five star treatment it deserves.

2. Rough camp. It’s easy to free camp in the bush but we also ask at police stations, schools, churches and hospitals when we get to towns, even when there’s a perfectly good campsite or hostel around the corner. When you have to stay in a guesthouse never choose one with 'oasis', view' or 'resort' in the title. I'm sure each adds 50% to your bill.

3. Don’t buy new books… use hostel book swaps. You will occasionally find a gem but be prepared to sift through the rubbish. In one Turkish book exchange, next to an autobiography by Richard Hammond, I actually found a self-help guide to genital herpes. It was good to see it in the same vicinity as the autobiography though, I can think of many similarities between Richard Hammond and genital herpes, but I can’t help wondering what they swapped it for. Did they saunter off with a smug grin and War and Peace tucked under their arm?

4. Internet… in Europe you can ask a student. If you’re lucky they’ll lend you a card or password and you can use the university computers. In Africa you just have to cough up at internet cafes.

5. http://www.couchsurfing.org/. We love it.

6. Repair, don’t replace. Africans are much better than we are in the wasteful west. My shorts are a patchwork quilt. Hole in your tyre? Just put a piece of old tyre inside to plug the gap.

7. Always wash your own clothes. Scrub, rinse, black water down the drain, scrub, rinse, black, scrub, rinse, black, scrub, rinse, oh that’ll do.

8. Avoid other tourists and their hangouts. Eat with the locals.

9. Haggle, trade things, shop around, let people buy you beer.

10. If it’s free… go to town

Unfortunately I don't own a laptop, I have to use internet cafes to write this blog. Internet's not cheap in South Africa so this post and the next few will cost a fair bit. I could cut down on food and eat less to save money but let's face it, there are few images more bleak or farcical than a grown man in baggy lycra. So instead, if you want you can help contribute to the cost of this blog by donating three quid... just click on the blue 'Support' button in the right hand column and at the top of this blog, underneath the map. Bar The Apocolypse, my next post will come from Cape Town, the end of my African odyssey.

‘Hey are you that doctor that’s cycling around the world?’

‘Hey and are you that girl that fell over?’








So what’s next? For the Americas my timing has to be right. Southern Argentina is a chilly place this time of year and in order to hit Alaska in the summer time (more bears, less frostbite) I have three months to kill, three months I’ll spend mostly in Cape Town, and there’s a lot to do. My bike, blog and website will all be getting a make over, Nyomi’s family are coming to visit next week followed by mine a month later, I have to cadge a lift in a boat going to South America for some time in late October, I will be doing radio and newspaper interviews and a couple of public talks about my journey, I will begin another push for equipment sponsors, there’s the rugby world cup to watch on tele and at the end of September I travel to Malawi to DJ at the Lake of Stars Festival. I also plan to do some road cycling around the Cape Peninsula with some local cyclists as well as taking off on my bike once again to explore the Garden Route, the Wild Coast and possibly to climb a holy grail for mountain bikers – the legendary Sani Pass – the route from South Africa into the landlocked mountain kingdom of Lesotho (details to come). This blog will also continue and over the next three months you can expect the following posts…

I recorded various bits of useful and useless information as I traveled, mostly out of boredom but also because I thought that someone planning a similar trip to mine could benefit from some numbers. I made a note of the finances to remind myself how much I'm spending or rather to remind myself how much I need to stop spending, and I noted down where I slept each night. Here you go....

The bare facts
Route and distances

Route: UK, France, Switzerland, Monaco, Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia, Montenegro, Macedonia, Albania, Greece, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Egypt, Sudan, Ethiopia, Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Tanzania, Malawi, Zambia, Botswana, Namibia, South Africa.

Europe (London to Istanbul)
5010 km over 4 months

The Middle East (Istanbul to Cairo)
3236 km over 2 and a half months

Africa (Cairo to Cape Town)
14,969 km over 9 months

Paved roads - 20,933 km
Unpaved - 2282 km (mostly in Ethiopia, Kenya, Tanzania and Namibia)

Top altitude - 3050 metres - north of Addis Abeba, Ethiopia

Top speed - 75 km/hr (coming into Iskenderun, Turkey)

Biggest climb
The shores of the Dead Sea to the King's highway, Jordan.
From 400 below sea level to 1300 metres above
Continuous ascent for 55 km and 1700 vertical metres
(although this is nothing compared to what's coming up in South America)

Longest distance cycled in one day - 209 km 
Southern Namibia to the South African border (strong tailwind and lots of Cadbury's Dairy Milk)

Shortest distance in one full day of cycling - 47 km 
The remote Turkana region of Northern Kenya (lots of sand and lots of pushing)

Highest average speed over a day - 28.5 km/hr, Namibia
Lowest average speed over a day - 7.4 km/hr, Kenya

Longest stay in one place- 23 days- Istanbul

Accommodation



'Other' included churches, schools, hospitals, police stations, monasteries, convents, derelict castles, catholic missions, tourist information centres, rough on the beach, in a water storage tank, in the research facility of a crocodile farm and in the shed of a water buffalo (after the tenant was evicted).

Bike bits

Punctures - 113
How did this happen! OK, OK... it deserves an explanation - first of all I was under-inflating my back tyre towards the start of the trip, the pump had no gauge on it, so the tubes ruptured by the valve. It took me a while to figure out the cause. The replacement Chinese made tubes were so bad they often exploded whilst I was pumping them up before I'd got them to the right pressure and they never lasted very long. I got more punctures on the rough roads and some from thorns and the metal wire that comes from shredded truck tyres, both are all over the roads in Africa. I started off using the self-sticking puncture patches that don't require glue, these all eventually failed and I ended up repairing punctures I'd fixed weeks before.

Tyres - 8
I changed my front Schwalbe whilst I was still in the UK and could still get a replacement when a large nail pieced it after just 20 km in the outskirts of London. It goes to show Schwalbe tyres aren't invincible. I didn't get another puncture for over 5000 km. My front Schwalbe Extreme lasted an impressive 15,793 km from London to Tanzania. The back tyres tended to last about half this distance. Occasionally I had to use local tyres whilst I waited for new Schwalbe ones, they didn't last long.

Chains - 3
1. KMC Gold (titanium - nitride anti-corrosion) :  lasted 14,490 km
2. Sram : lasted 7187 km
3. Cheap local one : lasted 1538 km


Brake pads - 6 sets
Rohloff Hubs - 2
Bike pumps - 6 (thank you China)

Spokes - All intact - No replacements required


Finances

I'm sure people develop a sort of selective memory when it comes to expenses and underestimate how much they spend. I recorded everything except that of my biggest expense - food - as it would have got far too complicated. Clearly I could have been more thrifty butwhilst I could happily sleep anywhere, I could never really bring myself to spend less on food. Dinner was too important and I wasn't going to eat instant noodles every night.

• The medical expenses relate to the expensive MRI I needed on my knee in Greece. 
• The card charges and commission I paid for changing money came to a painful £341.50, but what can you do?
• I spent £956 on accommodation, not too bad over 16 months and I slept for free 60% of the time.
• I didn't have a laptop with meso I had to use internet cafes. Wifi is everywhere these days and as you can see, I could have bought a laptop for the amount I spent on the net. A large proportion of this expense was because I uploaded photos onto Flickr which took time and money but which gave me piece of mind.
• The costs incurred for 'tourism' includedentrance to national parks, museums, sights of interest, transport around cities, activities and tours.
• A note on VISAs... All VISAs were obtainable on the border with the exception of VISAs for Syria, Sudan and Ethiopia which had to be obtained in advance. Free entry / free VISAs included all of Europe (except Turkey), Rwanda, Malawi, Botswana, Namibia and South Africa
  Cost of the other VISAs:
  Turkey - £10
  Kenya - £16
  Jordan - £18 (includes departure tax)
  Ethiopia - £19
  Uganda, Tanzania and Zambia - all £31 each
  Syria - £37 (includes departure tax)
  Sudan - £107 (includes letter of intent from British embassy, VISA and registration fee)
  
  Total on VISAs - £310

Most expensive countries
Obviously France and Italy come out top. Then Namibia and to a slightly lesser degree South Africa. Tourism was especially expensive relative to the cost of living in Jordan and Botswana.

Cheapest countries
Uganda, Ethiopia and rural Kenya and Tanzania were probably the cheapest parts. In Europe it was Albania.

Climate

Lowest temperature - Minus 19°C
2000 metres up, Corps, mid-winter in the Alps, France

Highest temperature - 56.5°C 
I recorded this in sunlight, Omo Valley, Ethiopia
(note that the temperatures used on our weather forecasts are taken in the shade not in direct sunlight, although the shade temperature was still likely to be in the high 40s)

Other


Highest body weight - 80 kg before departure (due to my training regime of pasties and beer)
Lowest body weight - 65 kg Ethiopia(due to all the crazy children and all the crazy mountains)
Books read - 20
Most days without a shower - 8
Largest amount of Dairy Milk Chocolate consumed in one sitting - 450 grams

Crashes - 2
Me verses motorbike in Uganda
Tyre blow out on a downhill in Tanzania

Cycle tourers I met en route - 24
Six were English, four were German, four were Swizz and the rest were a mixed bunch. About half were riding the length of Africa.

Worst book I've seen in a hotel book exchange
'Candida infection: Could a yeast infection be your problem?' - Turkey

People always ask me 'what was the best bit?' Well these are five of my favourite memories... 

1. My 30th birthday in Syria when a large extended family took me in and threw me an impromptu party
2. Free wheeling at over 40 km/hr on the flat for hours and covering 209 km in a day all with the aid of a magnificent tail wind, Namibia
3.Grabbing on to the back of lorries and being pushed uphill by a large group of giggling children, Ethiopia
4. Partying hard on the shores of Lake Malawi
5. Offroading through the Ethiopian wilderness

And in the name of balance - Five terrifying near misses...

1. Band of youths with sticks surround our tent and demand money in the middle of the night, Egypt
2. Accidentally picking up a Black Widow spider, South Africa
3. Collision with a motorbike, Uganda
4. Mob of children throwing stones and stealing our gear, Ethiopia
5. Pack of farm dogs trying to sink their teeth into my legs, Greece

Please vote...

What was your favourite blog piece?

The beginning...Lesson oneReggae rain and a dodgy beardParanoia and pesky poochesHeartbreakThe humble fareRecovery, japery and some summer shenanigansMeltdownDoctor, soldier, vagrant, priestAin't no valley low enoughThe promise of AfricaLucky, lucky gitsThe Nubian waySuicidal goats and helping handsFrontier passage the Jade SeaThe people of the grey bullThe city of seven hills and le pays de mille collinesThe warm heart of AfricaLets go clubbingWhere the wild things areDeserts and dessertsDay 265 - Guardian of the south

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Some of my favourite photos...

Syria

Egypt

Sudan

Rwanda

Namibia

Namibia

France

Croatia

Jordan

Egypt

Ethiopia

Kenya

Zambia

South Africa

And finally - here's a video of the Milestones. Turn up your computer volume and if you like it then you know what to do.. like it, +1 it, share it and help me get it out there...

2.    Incognito insect repellent

Cyclists are a vulnerable bunch when it comes to mosquito bites and the diseases they carry. It's fair to say that as an absolute minimum, a bout of malaria would have really pissed me off. I found Incognito - a non DEET based repellent and gave it a go. Whilst riding through the malarial zones in sub-Saharan Africa it has been incredibly effective and I've been malaria free. Plus it makes you smell like lemons, which after cycling 150 km can only be a bonus. You can get some here 

3.   P20 Suncream

This is more of an essential item in my book. Once a day application is all you need - you can sweat buckets, shower or swim and it stays on. No grease, no shine and its fast gaining popularity. After only one application you can cycle 150 km through the Sahara under the scornful, merciless sun and no beetroot hue afterwards. Could this be the end of red and white striped Brits abroad?

4.   Endura Hummvee 3/4 shorts and trousers

It´s a bold statement I know, but I reckon Endura make the best cycling clothing out there. I rode in these almost every day. Loads of pockets with zips, stretch panels and side zipped ventilation. And they look cool, which of course is very important when you're completely on your own for days at a time in the middle of a desert.

5.   Craghoppers base t-shirt

I alternated between two of these t-shirts whilst cycling through Africa and both look almost brand new today. They cost less than a tenner and are made from moisture-wicking polyester which keeps you dry and not caked in sweat. Bargain.

Craghoppers Base t-shirt and Endura 3/4 shorts

7.   Seal skinz socks
 
The Sealskinz range of waterproof socks keep your feet warm and dry even in the worst weather conditions and definitely worth investing in if you´re planning a journey through a wet climate. Unique patented technology - find out more here

8.   Moleskine journal


A symbol of contemporary nomadism. These are the ultimate, classic, smartest notebooks, used by the legendary explorers and artists of yesteryear. I'm particularly fond of trying to convince strangers that they are actually made from mole's skin. The Moleskine is where my blog begins and where my book, if I ever write one, will be spawned from. There are several different varieties. I use the large ruled hardback which has loads of pages, little pockets for all the scrap paper I scribble disjointed ideas down on and a reward section at the front. More info here

9.   Park MTB-3 Multitool

I've had many bad experiences with multitools. They often fall apart on me or I end up hurling them at something hard in frustration, and then they fall apart on me. But this robust little gizmo has everything you'd need and expect from a multitool, it's really durable and comes completely apart which is important because you need the Allen keys to operate the chain tool, most other multitool makers forget about this. When you dismantle it you have two tyre levers too. It includes various hex wrenches, spoke wrenches and screwdrivers, a bottle opener, a pedal wrench and a serrated knife.  

10.   Sea to Summit Sleeping bag liner

Washing a sleeping bag is a hassle so these save you the trouble - you just wash the liner. They also keep you even warmer on cold nights. There are various versions including silk and cotton. You can get some here.


2.   160 GB IPOD

Is this the largest music memory of all portable MP3 players? I don't rightly know but that's got to be the main draw. 160 GB = about 40,000 songs. That's over 110 days and nights of listening continuously until you reach the end of the track list. I have almost 30,000 on mine so I doubt I´ll ever get bored. Yes Itunes is annoying and makes accessibility difficult but it still has to be head, shoulders, knees and toes above the other MP3 players out there. 


3.   Leatherman Wave

Fix your bike with it, open tins with it, cut up mangos with it, open beer bottles with it, trim your beard with it, scratch your arse with it... not all of the leatherman's functions are in the instruction booklet but that's only because the list is endless. The Wave is the most popular Leatherman and includes a tough pair of pliers, sharp blades and hacksaws, scissors, can opener and more. It's one solid sexy beast and well worth investing in.

4.   Ortlieb Panniers

Out of the 26 cycle tourers I met between London and Cape Townalmost all of them had Ortliebs, and there must be a reason. Immensely durable, watertight and suitably voluminous for starters. They are an obvious choice for most.

5.   Tubus racks

In South AmericaI was once flung far from my saddle when a cheap aluminium rack suddenly bent and jammed into my spokes, obliterating several of them and leaving me rackless with a sore arse in a ditch. So it's fair to say I did my research this time round, make way for the Tubus. The concensus seems to be that these are the strongest racks out there and well worth the investment, unless you have a penchant for mud in your face and the taste of blood.

6.   Schwalbe tyres

I did almost16,000 km on my front Schwalbe Extreme, that's the distance from London to Tanzania. This is another brand the long distance cyclists stick to like glue. Overwhelmingly more popular than the competitors, some cyclists complain of forgetting how to fix a puncture after fitting them. I have the Schwalbe Dureme on now, they might sound like a brand of condom but they do the job and I suppose if either bursts you're going to have a pretty bad day.

7.   Terra Nova Superlite Solar tent

Camping in thick snow, the Alps

Some would argue that equipment is overrated, that people take off into the wilderness all the time with cheap bits and do fine, but if there's one piece of kit you definitely don't want to skimp on it's your tent. It's your home afterall. I have camped for over 200 nights in my tent so far. In the desert, in the wet season, in gale force winds and in thick snow (see right) and my Terra Nova is still going strong, still water tight and the poles are still fracture free. The design is great too, there's loads of room inside, 2 doors and porches and if its hot you can just pitch the freestanding inner. It weighs a miniscule 2.4 kg and for me it was the best choice I could have made. Terra Nova have actually stopped producing the Solar but the Superlite Voyager is a similar price and just as good with a similar design. Be careful with the zips though... treat them well and they'll do the same for you.



8.   Exped Downmat

Down and air is the combo gives you the warmest night's sleep. These sleeping mats are also much more comfortable than a thermorest or a simple roll mat. Check them out here.
9.   Shimano SD66 SPD sandals 

Tough sandals you can cycle in, with cleats if you need them. I wore them almost every day I was in Africa and they lasted me all the way. You can pick up a pair from Madison here.


10.   Business cards  

Not just a good way to avoid constantly writing down your email address to people you meet en route on scraps of paper which inevitably get lost but also a good way to promote a blog or website. I´m tired of explaining my route around the world so I have a map on the back of the cards so I can just show people instead.

Absolute essentials

Never leave home without...
Padded Lycra
A couple of good books


Kit I wish I'd brought...

A side mirror
A descent multifuel stove - such as the Primus Omnifuel
Two litre water bottle holders for the bike (still can't find any)
A decent travel pillow - the key to a good night's sleep
Presents for people /  thank you cards - maybe some photos from home
A half decent netbook
A decent dry bag for the rack to keep everything together, such as this one pictured from Overboard Africa...

Some kit I wish I had left behind...

MSR stove (I had one, it is now floating around the crocodile infested waters of the Okovango river in Botswana. Good riddance.)
Self sticking puncture repair patches - good for a race when you have to repair punctures quickly but not for touring. They all eventually fail.
Cleats - still not sure if these were behind my knee injury but I no longer take the risk
My crap bike pump without a pressure gauge, always have a gauge.
Tubes with Presta valves - You will never find replacements outside Europe, go instead with Schroeder valveswhich are also handy because if your pumps breaks, and it will, you can re-inflate at petrol stations


3 things I would never skimp on...

1. Tent
2. Sleeping bag
3. Tyres

So a quick update - I´m currently in Argentina and about to begin the next leg of the journey - The Americas. It will be around 18 months from here to Alaska. Cant wait to get started. My knee has been a problem of late but the MRI scan in Cape Town was better than I had anticipated and the knee has improved a fair bit since, so on I go. More stories from the road very soon.

Backpackers heaved off their weighty packs, exchanged tales of testing bus rides, skimmed through Lonely Planets and made plans. I sat and watched them gloomily, still waiting and still glum because I was still here. As each group came and left I remained in the hostel, hostage by virtue of a swollen knee. Two Polish bikers arrived and they were stuck here too. Their tent had undergone some mini disaster and they were waiting for the Argentinian snail mail to cough up new parts. At least now my life had a focus. I knew that I had to get out of here before the Poles. The race was on. Every day I peeked tentatively under the covers and studied, stretched, flexed and massaged my knee. After a week I decided I could no longer risk postmen, big parcels and jubilant Polish faces. I had to get out of here.

I began cycling out of town, uneasy and unsure, but after the sameness of the plains in the far south Patagonia began flaunting it´s tail feathers, I was entering the realm of the Andes, the longest chain of mountains on earth and my majestic companion for the majority of South America. The Patagonian peaks are a lot smaller in stature than their cousins up north but formidable nonetheless, they glared at me from afar, daring me closer.

I soon joined forces with Vincent, a 27 year old Frenchman who carried his luggage in a slick, egg shaped, perfect white trailer. No corners, just curves and a hatch for access. It looked like space age technology. A French flag stood proud and sturdy and in the breeze towards the rear. That evening I found myself rough camping with three other cyclists, we were all travelling north and all planning an audacious adventure across a remote border post into Chile. Alongside Vincent and myself was Tim, a conspicuous Dutchman, tall with refulgent yellow panniers, a luminous yellow jacket and an equally luminous grin. The most notable part of Tim´s plan was the absence of one. He claimed no solid time line, direction or schedule. Instead he would simply ride vaguely Northward through South America whilst his money lasted. For Tim this was an insouciant jaunt where the best plan was no plan. The last member of our motley posse was Michel, a sixty two year old Frenchman with the wiry appearance of someone for whom travelling by bicycle has been habit for decades.




The team

The next morning we set off early to avoid that gusty menace characteristic of Patagonia. The four of us performed a ballet, tucked into slip streams, shuffling and re-ordering, buoyant and giddy to be riding as a unit. We swept into El Chaiten as condors swooped and glided in elliptical circuits above, the midday sun cast their shadows down to earth, they darted across the ragged terrain like sinister predacious beasts. The knobbly white facade of snowy crags and peaks dominated more and more of my gaze until we were all cowering under their prestigious glint. The sheer granite cliffs of Fitzroy took precedence over the rest, it stood aloof and self important in centre stage, flouting its juts and angles in the glare of summer sun. Mountaineers packed into the town seeking the rare weather window to make a summit attempt, a technically tough climb and a vicious micro-climate make tackling Fitzroy the preserve of only the most experienced climbers. We knew a few bits and pieces about the route ahead, some rough facts gathered from other riders we met coming South. This would be adventure cycling at it's truest, with all its tests, trials and hopefully, triumphs.

Thirty km rough road. Probably very windy.
First boat - leaves at 5pm daily (unless very windy)
Camp the other side of the lake
Very Tough Stretch - 22 km, most is unridable. Carry bikes and panniers through rivers, swamp etc
Second boat, leaves twice a week - don´t miss it. Nowhere to get food.

Tim and I set out together into violent gales. My weather meter clocked wind speeds of 60 and 70 miles an hour, Beaufort ten, almost hurricane force. We abandoned pedalling but found it tough to even stand in the face of the gale. The road surface became airborne and the stinging particles drove into our faces, it would be a "sand blasting" in the desert, this was a "dust whooping". Huge ethereal columns of dust surged upwards from the road and raced towards us. The clouds overhead tore across the sky as if someone had pressed fast forward. Luckily the shape of the land began to provide some shelter from the wind, we could ride again and made enough progress to ensure we wouldn't miss the boat. On arrival a local man gave us the grim news - "El Barco" he explained was "Kaput".

This was normal, he divulged, the boat usually breaks down a few times a week. The others arrived and I explained, we were all aware what this could mean. No boat today meant we risked missing the second boat which departed only twice per week. I watched Vincent digesting the news, he shook his head and sighed his frustration. Tim's grin was replaced by a troubled frown, he muttered profanities in Dutch. My attention shifted to the 62 year old Frenchman, his eyes met mine, he shrugged, grabbed an invisible Senorita and began dancing through the pelting rain with his imaginary girlfriend whilst singing ´La Bamba´. At least we were all in this together. Four more cyclists then arrived, two Brits, a Spaniard and a Romanian, we all began sniffing around for information. At the last minute a van arrived and it seemed, the boat´s captain. Relief spread through the party. We were leaving tonight after all.

From left Andre, Tim, Vincent and Nick



Eight cyclists

Sunlight flooded our free campsite on the lake shore and one by one I watched as another head peered out of canvas, eyes admired the pristine lake and then tentatively glanced at the hills and the daunting prospect upwards. A few of us braved the chill for a quick dip in the glacial melt waters of the lake. A few Argentine backpackers gathered and pointed towards the bobbing bodies in the water, "Mira!... Europeans!" they gasped as if we were exotic creatures. Now we set off through the trees. Over the next five hours we pushed and dragged our loaded bikes through dense bush on narrow tracks and through thick mud, hoisted them over huge dead tree trunks, carried them on our shoulders whilst wading through rivers knee high in water, hauled them up impossibly steep slopes and edged over slippy tree trunks traversing turbulent rivers below. A Slovenian trekker amongst us was the only one to have travelled this route before. He was finding it tough to disguise his glee at our painstaking passage.

"Are we past the worst bit yet?" Came a hopeful voice

"No no no. Of course not!" replied the Slovenian with mischief in his eyes. He paused for dramatic effect and to ruminate over this fact

"You haven't even reached the first swamp yet! And then of course there's the huge climb to the pass, oh and the river with no bridge, and the second swamp and... "

I had to cut him off before more unwelcome details emerged  "... and then the dark forest of death and the valley of the doomed, but you should reach Mordor by sundown"

Perhaps it was because we were new friends and there was some male bonding going on, or perhaps it was simply out of necessity but at times our journey seemed interspersed with moments that belonged to melodramatic war films. Every so often weary legs would lose their footing, another cyclist would arrive at their comrade's aid, hauling the fallen to their feet and returning to action. In between the groans of effort and dismay emanating from our inching party and the scraping of panniers and rattling of racks came odd music of strange birds, siren-like calls echoed through the forest. Heads low, shoulders hunched, faces wearing the strain but with underlying resolve we moved onwards. It seemed improbable that there would be anything marking the border crossing out here but as we edged over the crest of another hill the words "Bienvenidos a Chile" slowly rose up to meet triumphant yet jaded eyes. There was nothing else here of course, but the sign meant everything. We summoned the energy to pose for the obligatory group shot under the sign, munched biscuits, gulped down water and descended. I passed two cyclists coming up and had to fight the urge to tell them to watch out for "The First Swamp". After another icy dip in another lake the much heralded boat arrived to take us to Villa O'Higgins and the very beginning of the infamous Carretera Austral.







In Villa O'Higgins Tim and I headed off together before the chasing pack. We were both meeting friends in Bariloche for Christmas and so had to make quick ground. I had a dirty secret - the deadline felt good. It's a romantic notion I can't fully claim to enjoy - taking off into the wild without deadlines, schedules, routine or constriction. In a life without structure I can't resist creating some. Tim and I were a good team and rode at a similar pace. Tim was a racing road cyclist in his previous life, competing in La Marmotte in the Alps amongst others. On tarmac climbs he would power past me as I span a slower ascent, but on rough roads the tables were turned and the figure of the tall Dutchman would slowly diminish in my side mirror. Of the many lessons Africa imparted, riding fast for hours on bad roads was a prominent one. Cycling at speed meant of course that when we hit supermarkets the result was carnage. Five minutes after passing through the checkout we would both be sprawled on a bench or just the ground, only metres from the exit and surrounded by empty family packets of crisps and chocolate wrappers with beer cans in hand. On at least one occasion we failed even to make it outside the store before descending into gluttonous scoffage.

Serendipity comes with the territory on the Careterra and usually it's easier riding with a buddy but I am sure Tim´s tendency to tempt fate didn't always help us on our way. He would emerge from his tent in the morning declaring ´Today will be perfect, I can feel it!´. An hour later, in fierce gales and pelting rain his attention would turn to the graded road ´God this road is great! I bet it stays like this for ages!´. After an hour of bouncing over washboard-like terrain and skidding and sliding over tennis ball sized rocks I would shoot daggers his direction as he sealed our destiny ´Well it has been tough today Steve, but it can't get any worse tomorrow´.


The Carretera Austral was Pinochet's baby, a rough road connecting the southern settlements of Chile, swinging through thick forests, fjords, glaciers and steep mountains. More than 10,000 Chilean soldiers helped construct the road, many lost their lives in the process. It stretches for over a thousand kilometres and seems to slip perfectly into this pocket of Patagonian wilderness. The Carretera is also something of a bottleneck, cyclists invariably choose this path over the windy and dull alternative through Argentina. It's the first thread on a spider web and afterwards a multitude of different options branch off, scattering cyclists to different corners of the continent. The route is hardly ever flat, the ups and downs though serve to satisfy every cyclist's inner masochist. The dips, rises and curves of the roller-coaster make every minute a different one and every corner and crest reveals a new view. Sometimes it felt like I had cycled through a portal, suddenly transported to another distant place on the planet. The road veered around emerald lakes, courted deep blue rivers, bounded over the foothills of glistening, snowy giants and then floundered deep into moist, mossy, deciduous green. Black faced Ibis cawed and Kites and Hawks languidly glided overhead. Some of this won't last. HidroAysén is a controversial mega project that aims to build five hydroelectric power plants in Chile's Aysen Region. Two on the Baker River and three on the Pascua River. The project is estimated to flood 14,579 acres of natural reserves. But for us, for now, we could immerse ourselves in nature and we embraced it, cooking over campfires, drinking straight from glacial streams and jumping into icy lakes when we felt the urge.




Some of this was familiar, I had cycled the length of the Carretera twelve years ago, as a nineteen year old punk on my Gap year. Then it was April, blustery and colder than now. But there was actually a lot I had forgotten, it made me worry about how much of my world tour I will be able to recall in my dotage. Now it was summer and there were definitely many more cyclists than I remember, and Patagonia was in bloom - lupins painted the surroundings with scintillating, uncompromising hue, the air was thick with the scent of pine and pollen. Only one thing spoilt the party - December and January are months for what locals refer to as the "Tabano" - a biting breed of horsefly. Every day they tracked me up the hills, feeding on me in my weakest moments.

Me and my brother in 2000, Carretera Austral, Chile

2011

Vincent was maybe a day or so behind us, the young French cyclist with curiously hairless legs. It had emerged that Vincent had taken to shaving his legs, reasons for which could only be guessed at. A popular theory was that his girlfriend urged him to and that he relented. Tim and I of course were unable to let this lie and it became an ongoing jibe on the Carretera. We often met cyclists travelling in the other direction and we were unable to resist passing them messages to relay to Vincent behind us
´We love your shiny legs´
´you´ve missed a bit´
Sometimes we´d hand them a razor to pass on when they came past him, along with the message
´in case you run out of wax´.

This region was cyclist central and every day I rode past a blur of riders taking on the hillocks and troughs. I came across the Lycra clad Speedsters and the ponderous meanderers. I met those on two week breaks from work, others on epic trans-continental expeditions and a few who had pedalled down from Alaska. I came across the super-lightweight and the unprepared and overloaded. I ran into solo riders, couples on tandems, threesomes and cyclists from twenty five different nations (that's right, I´ve been counting), the cycling-mad French topping the league table. I met trundling pensioners and a couple with a three year old toddler in a trailer attached to Dad's bike. I met the enthralled, the absorbed and the defeated, a few looked ready for a bus ride home.

In a small, inauspicious village along the Careterra was a Casa De Ciclistas. These refuges can be found throughout South America, they are homes whom the owners have opened solely for passing cyclists to spend the night. No money changes hands and nothing is expected in return. There were ten riders sharing the space that evening, we all relished the free shower, the bed and the good company. Hundreds of others have passed through over the years, their scribbles, sketches, cards and photos were crammed inside the guest book. Some wrote poems, one had added an altitude map of the road ahead. There were numerous messages of gratitude to the owner as well as addresses of blogs and websites. Up to eighteen had stayed here on a single night last year. We all crammed inside, loaded bikes were stacked up against each other in the open plan living room, people rummaged for pots and pans, pasta simmered away, stiff limbs were stretched, journals were scribbled in. We shared food, stories, tips and time. Maps were studied and discussed, our futures just lines and dots, soon a picture, later a memory, one of many. Tomorrow we would all leave, the house will be empty again until the late afternoon when more weary bodies in mud splattered Lycra shuffle inside. A few days later Tim and I camped under a bridge to shelter from the rain. We obviously weren't the first to take cover here either. On the concrete bridge supports other cyclists had drawn simple sketches of loaded cyclists riding through a mountainous backdrop. Like primitive cave paintings by hunter gatherers they had documented their presence for others to see.


The Carretera stunned and challenged us all over the next couple of weeks. Tim and I rode through nasty bouts of gastroenteritis, the Spaniard's chain snapped twice, Michel's bike would suffer a major technical problem and he would have to hitch hike north, the Tabano seemed to have a particular taste for Romanians and of course Vincent had to endure constant taunts about his shiny, hairless legs from cyclists coming in the other direction.

The next bit, strangely, I remember in detail from my time here twelve years ago. Queulat - a lush rain forest decorating the Patagonian Andes in which waterfalls drape from virtually every cliff face. The Queulat icecap and associated glaciers lie high and deep amongst the peaks. It rained of course, it usually does, some parts have 4000 mm of rainfall annually and over 300 days of rain per year. In 1766, the Jesuit Father José García Alsue explored the area searching for The City of Caesars, a mythical and enchanted city which was purported as having mountains of pure gold and diamond. Instead he found Queulat and almost certainly got a drenching for his trouble, though for me there really was mystery here and slowly it all began to come back to me. The roadside was as dense as I remembered with understories of bamboos and ferns and every vista dominated by evergreen trees and the huge exotic leaves of Chilean rhubarb, two metres in girth. I remembered too the sudden, sullen, all-encompassing envelope on entering the forest, I remembered the ashen clouds loitering unnaturally low, waist high to mountains and ephemeral rainbows. I remembered how the waterfalls looked like twine, tethering a huge unsullied white tarp of snow to mountain tops. And I remembered the all pervasive sounds of moiling water, the trickle and gush of a thousand creeks, rivers, brooks and streams.

My 25,000 km milestone in the murk

Soon afterwards we crossed the Chile - Argentine border for the fourth time. On Christmas day we pedalled still, along the lakeside the inhabitants of nearby Bariloche were coming out to cook meat on barbecues, drink wine, play music and swim. I made my deadline and was reunited with old friends I hadn't seen in almost two years after a twenty day mission with just one day off my bicycle. So I'm resting over Christmas and the New Year and then I set off north once again through Argentina towards Mendoza and Salta. A volcano spewing ash might make things tricky but as Tim would say "Its only a volcano. What could possibly go wrong?"

Finally... I need a new IPOD this Christmas so if you feel like helping me out by way of a belated Christmas present, even though I got you precisely zip this year, please check out the right hand column of this blog where you should find a blue button where you can donate just three pounds to help me get some music back in my life.

Have a great New Year



I'm the dot, riding across a volcano in Central Chile

It looked like a cloud clinging to the horizon, some lonely, benign clump of cumulus at the edge of the vast blue expanse of Patagonian sky. But locals made shifty, furtive glances in its direction because they knew better and so did I. That whitish grey smudge came from deep inside the malevolent belly of the earth itself. Last June, after laying dormant for half a century a volcano named Puyehue suddenly and violently erupted, not from it’s old caldera but instead by ripping a huge gash into the surface of the earth, six miles long by three miles wide, two and a half miles away. Bariloche, the town I found myself now, had been covered in a thick coat of ash. The tourist industry was predictably decimated and is still recovering as the volcano continues to belch out thick plumes of ash, enough to warrant closing not just Bariloche airport but also an airport the other side of the Pacific in Melbourne, Australia. Chile makes up part of the Pacific Ring of Fire and boasts a chain of about 2,000 volcanoes, the world’s second largest after Indonesia. Some 50 to 60 are on record as having erupted, and 500 are potentially active.

The eruption in June ( photo from Reuters/Ivan Alvarado)

Ongoing ash plume visible from Bariloche

Guide books bragged about Argentina's Route of the Seven Lakes, I counted two, a grim haze hung across the land and a suffocating slate-grey membrane eliminated light and space, extinguishing the promise of pristine lakes and majestic mountains. The dank, sodden coat of ash filled crevasses, lined ridges and dowsed every mountain for miles, the hint of grey giving the only clue that this was not snow. The air was thick with the volcanic dust, the sun just a torchlight searching for distant targets through a foggy night, finding none.  The wind didn't lift the murk the way fog drifts skyward on the breeze, instead the air was thick and tepid, carrying with it more burnt earth in its gripe. Houses and trees had slate-coloured tops of powder, lorries sprayed the streets with water to wash away the gunk, cars drove with headlights on full beam and people shuffled along holding handkerchiefs to their mouths or wearing surgical masks. Ash was regularly cleared from the road and sat heaped up in huge soggy banks by the roadside. Eventually every part of me and my bike wore the sticky residue. My eyes watered, my mouth dried up and when the faint shadow of another cyclist brightened out of the gloom I realised my mistake, I wasn't prepared for this at all. The figure was clad in a huge overcoat, donning a surgical mask, a broad rimmed hat and swimming goggles. 

Gringos in the mist

Roadside ash piled high

North of San Martin the dust made way for undulating sheets of gold. This side of the Andes is an arid semi-desert, the mountains wrestle any moisture out of the atmosphere so it remains fresh and green in Chile, yellow and dusty in Argentina. I relish the kind of freedom that a life on a bicycle allows, I treasure the moments when I can abandon all my plans on a whim or after some sketchy advice from another cyclist. In San Martin, after two minutes with an Argentine biker, my schedule was upended and a new plan was coming together. The road map of this region looks like two interlocking trees, side by side. The trunk of the first is Chile's main highway that connects most of the major cities up to Santiago and beyond, part of the famous Pan-American. The trunk of the other is Routa 40 in Argentina which runs the length of the country. Branches flow east and west, trying to connect but often not finding their opposite, an invisible obstacle, the Andes, won't permit it. But a few link across, jerking left and right in violent erratic wiggles as they close in on the Andean peaks. I traced my finger over the network of rough roads, the long thin ends of the branches, trying to find vertical links, there were a few. I penned a rough route, my roads of choice were nestled high and deep in the Andes, where settlements were sporadic and wilderness king. The loop I had drawn ran through seven national parks, nudged up against several volcanoes and finally delivered me back into Argentina via a remote, and not strictly speaking legal, Andean pass. Immigration didn't exist here, I was destined to become an illegal alien in Argentina and I'd have to deal with that later. I would need a lot of food, the bike would be heavy, the road tough but the plan was simple, spontaneous, slap dash and full of optimism. The plan was perfect.

So that was how I found myself set once again on a course bound for Chile and as I neared the borderlands the looming cone of stratovolcano Lanin was there to greet me. Lately I had been riding from tourist-ville to tourist-ville but now I was alone and I stopped every so often just to appreciate the stagnant, sublime silence. The failing sun cast its final rays over the cliffs, submerging the land in liquid gold and monkey puzzle trees became silhouetted against the colossal volcano creating an aura of pre-history.


After the pass rural life played out over my handlebars. Mine were the only inquisitive eyes here, there was no reason for other tourists to come this way, that had been the reason to take this road in the first place. When I asked how many kilometres to the next village people just shrugged, they may have lived here all their lives but their answer came in how many hours it takes on a horse or an ox drawn cart, that was my first clue, I was getting off the tourist trail. When I ate lunch children would approach and begin a silent vigil, staring, intrigued but mute despite my encouragement (clue 2) and when I stopped to ask directions, a bunch of strange looking men grunted and smiled inanely (clue 3). Some years ago I guessed a brother and sister had gotten a little too close. This was Chilean hillbilly country.

As villages became more and more scarce and I began to enjoy the increasing detachment, a truck pulled up. The passenger, a woman, began a rapid-fire babble in the harsh dialect typical of rural Chile. I strained to make sense of the torrent of words and gestures, she emphasised and repeated the important bits but never reduced the pace. I discerned a few bits of information, enough for vague terror to build.

A volcano is erupting
It's name is Sollipulli
It's in the direction you have cycled from
The eruption has melted a glacier
We are driving around to tell people

I had a thousand questions, my pigeon Spanish denied me most. I asked the only one my language skills would allow. "Was I in danger?"

A shrug, more babble, brief concurring with the driver, wild gesticulating and then an answer which I interpreted as "if you were cycled the other way then "Yes", but you should be OK"

I wondered if they knew just how slow my battle down this bad road was, I wanted to explain that bicycles were not the best machines for outrunning volcanic eruptions. As they drove off, my mind raced. They weren't the army. This isn't an evacuation. I can't see anything on the horizon. I should be OK. But whilst the thought process seemed vaguely logical it didn't stop me glancing tentatively in my side mirror, half expecting to see the forest behind me rapidly consumed in pyroclastic soup.

Finally I left cultivated land far behind me and cycled along Routa Interlagos, by evening I had found a campsite and had been adopted by the family in the tent next to me. I was the father's nominated drinking buddy for the evening, he was a raging alcoholic. His family seemed relieved more than happy to have me there, probably just grateful that the mindless drunk was now my responsibility. Alcoholics are never the best people to test your language skills. If you make a mistake or can't think of the right verb they do little to help aside from an arm around the shoulder and some slurring in a tone unintelligible to any ears.

The next day I started into one of the National Reserves, it was clear this was real volcano country. Alert systems were in place on the outskirts of every town or village and signs advertised the risks. Soon I was amidst a surreal, black desert of basalt. The last eruption here was in 2008, they expect one every five to ten years. In the background to this bare arena were colourful hills, metal ores painted the rocks red, green and amber. Over lunch I sat admiring the volcano, sheltering from the wind behind a van with a camera crew taking photos for a European sport's brand. The guide addressed the group "Just looking at him makes me exhausted!" gesturing towards me as everyone chuckled.

A volcano alert system on the outskirts of a town

Alone, I descended over the other side of the volcano, the track became smaller, less distinct, soon barely traceable. I didn't have a good enough map of the area to navigate properly. A brutal climb disappeared upwards, I began to push, for hours I continued onwards, shoving, dragging, panting. Every so often a river crossed the path, I had to dismount and carry my panniers over two by two. After an equally huge and steep descent I knew that turning back now would mean a gigantic effort.

Where roads turn into rivers

Soon came the inevitable questions, each filled with dread and unease - Is this right? This can't be the way. Maybe I should of taken that left at the lake. What if... It was abrupt, that sense of vulnerability that seemed to sprawl out over the hills and mountains, bigger than the sky, further than the horizon, insurmountable and unbeatable. I realised then I was scared. The root of my fear lay in everything I didn't know and could never know. Whether I had enough food, whether I was on the right track, how long until I got to a village, if I should turn back. I was scared too that I didn't have it in me, physically and mentally. For two days I didn't see another human being, deep in the Andes, scared and alone, every decision a burden, heavy in self doubt, and out here it was a lot to carry.

Then finally through the trees I sighted a river and by the bank, a few tin houses. Suddenly elated I ditched my bike and ran to the bank, there was no bridge and it was too deep to wade across but a rickety basket attached to a pulley system would do the job. A man on the far side spotted me and over the next half an hour he helped transport my panniers and bike across the river. The relief was almost worth the panic and toil. I was back from the brink.



Things got tougher but I began to be hopeful I was on the right track, my compass agreed with me and the road. Fist-sized chunks of ancient volcanic debris littered the ascent and I slipped and landed heavily, bicycle on top of me. I lay still in the dust and began to laugh, suddenly everything was hilarious. I laughed that it had taken me three hours to cover ten kilometres, that I had been effectively lost for most of the last three days, that I was totally alone and that bikes don't belong here. Finally I laughed at the fact that I was lying in the dust, under my bike, on a remote Chilean mountainside and could only guess where I was heading, because that probably shouldn't be funny.

It was a few hours later that I lumbered up another switchback, edged over another ridge and there before me, naked and clear, land in every direction, most of it beneath me. I had made it. This was the pass. 

I took a small stone as a souvenir and headed down through a peat bog, a lake and a faint silhouette of what appeared to be a hut were my targets. An astonished Mapuche farmer, perhaps believing I was an apparition or an evil spirit eyed me nervously. I has staggered onto his remote farm through a peat bog, dirty, grimacing, heaving a bicycle in front of me and probably groaning. In hindsight his expression made perfect sense.

In Caviahue I sat for a whole day in a cafe, watching a violent thunder storm roll in, reading, writing, drinking beer and chatting to other customers only to find out with the aid of a decent map and some local knowledge that I had completely missed the pass I was aiming for, I had crossed another one, one not featured on my map or, as I found out later, on googlemaps.  I thought about the nature of optimism, of how it can be a duplicitous beast. Without one side of the sword I wouldn't have started my journey, to travel you need an undercurrent of positivity, the feeling that the world isn't as perilous or angry as the media might have you believe, that chances are things will work out OK in the end, that it's always possible and that the faint line on my map zigzagging over the border was doable on a loaded touring bike. But it was that same hope that had led me to a baron, lonely track, lost, with a redundant map not detailed enough to navigate. It was foolish, naive, blind faith. I had underplanned, I had carelessly pushed on regardless. Optimism doesn't wait on facts. It deals with prospects. A healthy dose of pessimism leads to 'what if... ?' and then maybe a contingency plan.



I made my way down from the hills as wild fires blazed out of control through the dry Argentine scrub. Soon I connected with route 40 which tossed me from one hill to the next. The land was dry and bald but stark and serene, especially in the minutes before sunset. I passed through a succession of small dusty towns where the kids looked bored and stray dogs outnumbered people. I found the odd campsite, places where the owner greets you with a sympathetic frown which says "I'll take your money, but are you sure you want to stay here?", places where strays come and go as they please, pissing on people's tents, where you have to usher away a hurd of cattle in order to reach the bathroom, where scorpions occasionally venture inside your tent and where nearby campers play Cumbia loud into the night (to the uninitiated Cumbia is the acoustic equivalent of being tied naked to a cactus and ravaged by rabid Rottweilers)

The scorpion that found its way underneath my sleeping mat. I found him the following morning

Without a Argentine stamp in my passport I could be in real trouble so my plan was to take another remote pass back into Chile making it appear that I had never left in the first place. Getting information about these passes is near impossible without some local knowledge. Hours on Google was time wasted so it was lucky when I met three more cyclists, one had come down from Alaska. The message was that the pass was possible by bike, although they hadn't come that way themselves. And more luck, just as I was readying to leave Malargue I met a dutch couple who had actually cycled the pass. Unfortunately there was immigration but I decided to go for it anyway. The couple drew me a map that looked as though it should describe the location of buried loot and was full of landmarks and instruction that only cyclists would consider relevent.

Turn left at the dead cow
Big climb after the angry dog
Good wild camping spot between the wonky trees




I have cycled across the Andes six times now, and I'm not done, but this one, Paso Vergara, was my favourite of all. Tough at times, a rugged blend of prodigious mountains, bleak desert and verdant plains where horses grazed. I was getting nervous as I approached the Argentinian border post, the last trace of civilization was three days behind me, being turned back was not an appealing option. In every country people have a penchant for hearing how great you think their country is, but nowhere is this more the case than in Argentina. If you forget to add some praise in conversation an Argentinian may well go fishing for it with "Do you like Argentina?" as wide, pleading eyes await the predictable and courteous response. Not yet satisfied the game sometimes continues
"And the landscape? Do you like our mountains?"
"Do you find the people friendly?"
And if it's a guy inevitably "And the women? What do you think?"
"Que hermosa!" I would reply "how beautiful!"

There's a strong sense of national pride in Argentina and the Argentinians are suckers for flattery, my plan at the border post was to exploit this quirk. I entered the small lonely hut which sat in the shadow of the mountains and served as immigration. I approached the official, firm handshake, eye contact and straight to business, schmoozing.

"What a beautiful place! The mountains, the lakes, beautiful!"

His expression was interested and warm, inviting me to continue  
"Yes, I think so too" he said
"I've been cycling for two years now and Argentina is my favourite country of all"
"Verdad?" he blurted, "true?"
"Yes. The people are so hospitable and helpful"
His eyes goaded me on. Time to lay it on thick
"The food is incredible, there's so much to do and the women, wow!"
That was it, he was putty in my hand. By this stage I could have surrendered a kilogram of uncut cocaine to the customs official and he would have winked and waved me through.
"Oh, and... I have this little problem with my passport..."
Two minutes later he was reaching for the red stamp and I had "salida" across another page despite the lack of an "entrada". When I reached the Chilean immigration post twenty kilometres later I realised that in his flustered state the Argentinian official had forgotton to give me the slip of paper I needed to gain entry into Chile. "I'm so glad to reach Chile, its much better than Argentina" I told the official and freewheeled down the pass into the green hills of the new country.

The descent was a rapid rally through forested valleys with white frothy rivers and then into lowland central Chile where vast vineyards owned the panorama. I cycled north on route 5 to Santiago, knowing that the Andes to my right were gaining in stature all the while. Every pass north of my next one climbs to over 4000 metres, but I know I'll be back, The Andes are a prize and a punishment and one I can never refuse. My bike and my tent have suffered a bit lately as well and need some good repair work, but it's all been worth it.

Thank you to everyone who contributed to the cost of an IPOD so I have some banging tunes to listen to. Next post will come from Argentina once again after (at least) one more mountain pass.

My alarm clock makes no sound, she breaches distant hills and warm filaments of rubicund light filter into my tent, gently spurring me to wake. I rise and prepare for one more day on the road.

I munch and I guzzle, carbs and caffeine my first call. Over the next half hour my tent is slowly purged of its contents and my bike becomes bulky, panniers and dry bags tethered to the rack and frame. Packing up is an automatic ritual now, whilst my hands complete the task my mind replays the events of yesterday, or any other day behind me. There's no radio or TV news in the background, the world is a mystery. I could guess the time but I don't know it, there's no deadline to rejoin the road and nobody will get upset if I'm late, but I never wait long, I look forward to the moment too much.

I roll my bike back onto the road I left in the dusky dregs of yesterday and the moment begins. Time slows for peaceful speculation, some seconds of intrigue and of calm. I zero my speedo. My eyes stray to a point somewhere up ahead or I muse over my map, imagining what the dots and lines have in store. Yesterday feels a long time ago.

Maybe today I'll breeze across perfect tarmac through a desert on a raging tailwind clocking up two hundred kilometres before sunset. Maybe I'll battle, curse and sweat up rough tracks high in the mountains covering little ground.

Maybe today I'll be bullied into roadside dust by the hasty drivers of city and suburbia, maybe I'll freewheel in solitude around deserted lake shores and through sprawling forests, redolent of pine.

Maybe today I'll spot exotic wildlife and snatch for my camera, maybe I'll face the stench of anonymous roadkill, maybe I'll hear strange sounds but never glimpse their owners.

Maybe today I'll join some locals for food or tea, maybe I'll swap tales with another cyclist, maybe I'll yearn for company, maybe at the end of the day I won't notice or care that I haven't spoken with anyone.

And when that end comes perhaps I'll wish the sun could hover above the horizon for a few more hours and I could ride on, or perhaps I'll retreat from the road, defeated and depressed, wishing that today never was, whatever the case I know that tomorrow morning there will be a moment of time waiting for me when I will ponder again an unknown future that comes hand in hand with the drift of the road. If I ever lose that moment I will know it's time to come home, but tomorrow there will be other roads to ride and I'm hungry for them. Tomorrow is full of maybes and tomorrow will be different, in small and subtle or brilliant and explosive ways. The surprise of tomorrow is just one more reason for aiming my sights at the horizon and pedalling on into one more day on the road.

The journey continues...


The Andes lined up like children in a school photo, distinct rows of rock increasing in stature, rising up from the east. In there somewhere was Aconcagua, the lankiest pupil in Class Andes, it's peak resides at almost 7000 metres above sea level. In there too was Paso Libertadores, my route back into Argentina, the busiest of the forty or so connections between the two countries. For me it was just another jaunt through the mountains but for the Chilean biker I met en route to the pass it was more like a pilgrimage. He told me that his father had died six years ago, his ashes had been scattered at the top next to the four tonne statue of Christ the Redeemer on the old road that marks the frontier. On this day every year he cycles the pass, every year he talks to his dead father as he pedals.

The road to the pass followed the twists and turns of the river and a claustrophobia built as I became more hemmed in by the surrounding rock. The peripheral sky shrank away, traded for the craggy shoulders of mountains, which framed an ever diminishing blue streak above. For half a day of riding the road clung to the river, but when the bond was broken it was a dramatic parting, the river idled away around some corner of the valley and the road took a desperate leap up the side of a mountain in a series of sharp, intimidating chicanes. Locals refer to this section as Paso Caracoles - Snail's Pass. Everything that climbs up does so at a snail's pace, trucks, cars and me. The Andes in summer are unlike any mountains I have seen before, the spectrum of colours from oxidised minerals, all shades of brown, yellow, amber and deep scarlet, fashions an unearthly feel. The popularity of this pass with motorists took out some the adventure the other Andean passes had offered but there is a certain kudos that comes with tackling Libertadores. At the top of the main section of switchbacks it was possible to see at once just how far I had come up, the drivers could see it too and for hours they honked, waved, cheered and applauded. At 3200 metres there's a tunnel, my bike could have been loaded onto a truck but the old road up to the statue of Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer) looked too tempting to pass up, a rough road leaves the tarmac and wiggles up to 3832 metres above sea level. Not only would this be the highest I have managed to cycle so far but the gain in altitude would be fairly quick, enough for the effects of low levels of oxygen in unacclimatised lungs to add to the challenge. I had camped at 1300 metres the night before so I faced a continuous climb of a meaty 2600 metres over one day, dwarfing my previous biggies, riding from the Dead Sea to the Kings Highway in Jordan and The Blue Nile Gorge of Ethiopia.

Translation - Mountain road. Take precautions. Steep gradient for 55 km.

The suplhur stained rocks of Puente de Inca

The last three hundred vertical metres were tired, hypoxic ones but I gleefully freewheeled down the other side, weaving my way through loose stones with just the afterglow of dusk and a full moon to guide me. It was cold at the top so I decided against camping with Jesus.
 
In Santiago there is a rebellious group of bikers who call themselves Los Furiosos Ciclistas - The Furious Cyclists. On the other side of the pass I wished I had joined their ranks. Trucks careered past, too close for comfort, emitting the long hard horn blasts that say "Get Off My Road!". Last month two Dutch cyclists on a tandem were hit and killed by a truck in Argentina and it's easy to see how it could happen. I have nothing against truckers in general, they helped me out when I hitched across Europe, they have stopped to give me fruit, they often give me a wide birth and I have even grabbed the back of them to get up mountains in Ethiopia, but I fantasised about what I would do if I ever caught up with one of the careless idiots on this road. I memorised number plates. I imagined myself strolling into a roadside cafe and walking out minutes later, in the background a trucker is face down in his fried breakfast.

Just as was I losing my rag with another speeding juggernaut a character arrived on the scene to cheer me up. Winold, The Potty Mouthed Polish Cyclist.

Winold was on a six week loop from Buenos Aires, I asked him a few questions about his journey.

"So why did you choose to ride Argentina?"
"One day I was, you know, picking the shit out of my nose and I just thought "Argentina!" he announced with a thick Slavic accent
"Oh I see. Is that a GPS you've got there?"
"Yeah. My girlfriend gave it to me"
"Good present"
"Yeah. Then she dump me"
"Oh right"
"Yeah. She say me or Argentina. I say Argentina. She say fuck off"
"I see"

Winold The Potty Mouthed Polish Cyclist then shoved his hands into his lycra shorts and rummaged vigorously
"Ahh my ass and balls man. They are really suffering! I tell you!"

Winold was a good companion. His propensity to erupt into profanities in both Polish and English never failed to amuse me. We rode together for a few days, explored Mendoza's wine routes and sampled some of the produce as we went but entering the city was a minor fiasco. We were stopped on the road by a young earnest looking Police Officer who began a detailed search of our panniers. He made a point of smelling the contents of our wallets and head bags, hunting for narcotics. I had a sinking feeling when he removed the tube of electrolyte tablets, the feeling was akin to the one you get when you lose your balance on a downhill and know you're about to hit the ground but haven't yet made impact, this feeling was because I knew that the tablets had long since crumbled into a fine white powder. He eyed the container with suspicion and pried open the lid sending a puff of white into the air and when his eyes met mine they were wide and dangerous. I laughed, I think I had to, and did my best to explain. To our relief he gave us an irritable wave and permission to continue.

After I split from Winold The Potty Mouthed Polish Cyclist I made good ground with the help of a couple of days of tailwinds and flat terrain. To the West the arresting form of the Andes exploded from the plains, there were no rolling foothills, just the sudden silhouettes of giants. It was harvest season for the wineries, trucks full to the brim with grapes passed by. The air felt dry and torrid in the morning but it became muggy in the afternoons and violent summer storms gathered by the early evening, the rain was usually slight but the lightning spectacular and intimidating if amongst it. My plan was to tackle a remote pass back into Chile but it was only open for four days of the week leaving me two days to kill in Villa Union. Whilst I was wondering about what to do with my two days off in a small village, Belinda, my bicycle, decided for me. The gear cables leading to my Rohloff Hub became detached. It had happened two weeks earlier on the approach to Santiago. I rode in on one gear and went to find the head mechanic of a renowned, clean, shiny bike store, the largest in Chile's capital. He charged me a whopping sum and now two weeks down the road the problem was back. In Villa Union I found the town's only mechanic. I suspected his work would hold up because everyone knows that a mechanic's ability is proportional to the blackness of his jeans, the level of chaos in the workshop and the volume of the ambient music. He was swathed in oil and grime and shouted questions to me over the blare of Argentine pop whilst he sifted seemingly without focus through vast containers of metal parts amongst the total disarray of his grubby garage. He had never encountered a Rohloff Hub before but half an hour later the job was done, he had given me a couple of tools and a tutorial in case the problem recurred and then refused all payment.

I decided to leave my bike in Villa Union and hitch hike to Chilecito and back to use the Internet and ATM, a simple plan that fell apart in the best way. A Chilean family on holiday took me there, the journey was interspersed with gasps and sighs of delight, behind the glass of the car windows the views were sublime. Layered sheets of rust coloured rock, ancient layers of sea, lake and river sediment, jutted out at angles, teetering ships sinking into a red sea of sandstone. The cliche here was unavoidable - the enormity of nature, the insignificance of me amongst it. The bulbous tops of columnar cacti the height of small houses poked up from the precipitous drop next to the road and the vista was a tricolour, the deep blue of summer sky, the blaze of dry red earth and the deep green of cacti, succulents and other foliage. It was a combination of contrast, one that felt desiccated and tropical at once although the latter is a fallacy, rain is sparse and fleeting here.

I tried to hitch hike back in the afternoon but ended up sitting roadside, bored and fed up, the traffic had completely dried up as the town prepared for Carnival. After four hours I had no choice but to return to Chilecito to spend the night, but when down and frustrated, serendipity struck. I found the cheapest hostel in town, from the garden I could hear music. Outside two girls were dancing, waving handkerchiefs in the style of zamba dance, two were singing in perfect harmony and a guy strummed a guitar. The music was the traditional sound of folklore, gentle and breezy. They were practising for a performance that night in the town and invited me along. We danced and partied until the earlier hours. The next day they left Chilecito to continue their tour of the regions Carnivals, aiming for the most popular shindig, La Rioja, on Saturday.

The next day I tried again to hitch back to Villa Union. After two hours without joy three Chilean hitch hikers turned up. No cars came by but at least I had company, we played drums, danced and joked about for hours in the sunshine. Somehow they had blagged two roast chickens from a previous lift, these were used to entice truckers but eventually it dawned on me that we had no chance of catching a ride. I had to return once again to Chilecito to find a hostel, the next day I heard there was a bus to Villa Union. I had with me just the clothes I was wearing, a bottle of water, my wallet and my journal and the next day when I was told that the only bus was full I had no idea what to try next, but as I digested the grim news and pondered my options a bus for La Rioja turned up. Without hesitation I jumped aboard. I knew I had to make the most of a bad situation and it was this philosophy that put me on a four hour bus ride in the opposite direction to my bicycle and almost all of my belongings, wearing the same clothes for the last three days, in search of some dancing musicians and a flour fight.

The Carnival in La Rioja is known as La Chaya and most of the fun occurs in the stadium outside town and is set to the musical stylings of folklore artists and musicians. The origins of the festival lie in a tragic love story told by the native South American Indians. Chaya was a very beautiful girl who fell in love with a young prince of a tribe. The families and elders of the tribe forbade the relationship and Chaya became so sad she disappeared in the mountains, becoming cloud. The Prince searched for her in mountains without success and then drank himself to death. During La Chaya it looked to me like young Argentinians were doing their best to imitate the prince, but for a less noble cause. The entire city was sloshed.

I tagged along with a group from my hostel after failing to reach my dancing musician friends. Once inside the stadium one of my new friends asked me whether I was ready to be part of the party. When I nodded he tipped half a bag of flour over my head. Within half an hour an immense flour fight had begun, nobody escaped the action. Every one of the 15,000 inside the stadium was caked in flour, people threw bags of it and sprayed their friends and strangers with flour guns.

Eventually I made it back to Villa Union, sat on the bus, still wearing the same clothes but now also wearing a thick coat of flour. It's in moments like these that people so often muse that everything happens for a reason. I don't honestly believe that some higher power had directed me to be amongst 15,000 revellers covered head to toe in flour, and serendipity may be an overused and corrupted term, but I think it fits.

I apologise for the paucity of photos this month, I didn't have my camera with me when most of the fun was happening. On the next stage I will be rubbing shoulders with some of the highest volcanoes on earth. I plan to take a remote pass back into Chile, hauling 12 days of food and climbing to over 4000 metres via a pass that is only open for thirty odd days of the year. Then I loop back through another pass that climbs to almost 5000 metres, the second highest between Chile and Argentina. I will report back next month.

I'm a complete idiot. Only idiots make mistakes like this.

The thought repeated itself as I moodily shuffled through Salta's empty streets, cleats clipping the cobblestones, carrying two bike tyres. The part of Salta that wasn't sleeping peacefully was on their way to or from church, because it was a SUNDAY, not a MONDAY as I assumed it must be. I couldn't leave Salta without some bike parts and gas for my stove, items that are easy to find on any day of week in Salta, except SUNDAYS. And it was definitely a SUNDAY. That was clear, as clear as the fact that only nomadic, dreamy idiots who have been travelling for over two years make mistakes with the day of the week and end up staying an extra day when they should be en route to Chile.

So finally I escaped the clutches of the cosy city and I cruised up a cloudy gorge, Quebrada del Toro, to San Antonio, brimming with the same sense of nervous excitement that always builds when I know I'm about to leave civilisation behind, this time for around five days. But I was a little sad to leave Argentina behind, it's the largest country I've travelled through so far and I have spent more days cycling here than any of it's twenty nine predecessors on my route so far. So it's lucky that it also happens to be one of my favourite. The landscape of the North is captivating and hugely varied, the people are helpful and friendly (although as a Brit I had to ignore the occasional whinging and muttering concerning the Falklands), the tourism industry is organised, the food is great and many small towns have free campsites for tired bikers like me. Plus there's the girls... enough said.

Paso Sico - another venture above the 4000 metre mark. Paso Jama, a little further north is the paved and popular route into Chile, making Sico a kind of reclusive kid at school nobody wants to know. After a few days of lung crunching, leg breaking, lethargic ascent I arrived at the far flung and lonesome Chilean border post and wondered what the Chilean policemen could have done to get stranded out here, on the side of a mountain, two hundred kilometres from the next sizable town. I decided that at least one of the three men who worked out here had got a little too drunk at the Police Christmas party and said something inappropriate to a senior officer. They were ticking off the days they had left on the wall like prisoners in a jail cell. To brighten their spirits I told them how beautiful I thought it was up here in the mountains, but my comment was met with a derisive laugh that said "you want my job? Have it!". They warned me of a monster that roamed around the mountains, a name I hadn't heard for twelve years, the legendary Chupacabra. When I was last in Chile farmers told me tales of this mythical beast, a bit like the Beast of Bodmin or the Loch Ness Monster, which they blamed for disappearing livestock (Chupacabra literally means 'goat sucker'). It was good to know that the Chupacabra was still alive and well, although if animals were going missing then I probably should be more worried about meeting a puma, the more likely culprit.


A Chupacabra

The battle for Sico really began when I left the Chilean police post and a steep climb and storm force headwind teamed up against me. In retaliation I enlisted the help of James Brown via my IPOD. Nothing can stop me and James. Sico soon relented. I could have reached San Pedro on my penultimate day in the mountains but I wanted one more night of quiet isolation before I hit gringo central. The next day I rose early and began my morning routine which has become full of strange rituals -

Check for scorpions hiding in my shoes
Put water bottles in the sun to melt the solid ice (its usually around minus five degrees C at night (23 F)
Curse when I eat porridge because I'm fed up with it but there's no alternative

I've been around tourists a lot of late and I don't really mind the questions. The trials and joys of a cycle tourer are intriguing to other travellers, and my answers to their questions have become fine-tuned and automatic, but perhaps in a year's time I'll resort to barefaced lies in order to avoid the predictable inquisition...

'Hey are you travelling by bike?'
'Ummm no. Definitely not. I don't even like cycling.'
'Isn't that your bike?'
'Oh that. No no. I'm just watching that for a friend.'
'Is that Lycra you're wearing?'
'Errrr, yes. I always wear Lycra. I like how it feels against my skin.'
'Wait a minute, isn't that a spanner in your pocket?'
'I'm just pleased to see you'

Somebody once told me that a burden of cycling around the world is that you will be expected to talk about it at every dinner party for the rest of your life. Fast forward thirty years, I can envisage the following scenario.

'Hey everyone, this is Steve. Some years ago Steve cycled all the way around the world! He's got some great stories. Go on, tell us a story Steve'

Shotgun to temple
Chh chh boooooom!
I ruin the dinner party

So to avoid brain landing in someones lemon sorbet thirty years from now I have devised a few alternative answers to those common questions, answers designed to stupefy, perplex, outrage and entertain. From now on I will be using these when anyone asks a question about my life on a bicycle, be it backpacker, journalist or curious local.

Why do you travel by bicycle?
It was part of a deal brokered by my defence team at the trial. My prison term was commuted to bicycle touring years. The judge, the prosecution and my victim's family all agreed that five years of bicycle touring was a fair trade for twenty five to life in solitary. I went along with the plea bargain. Mostly, I wish I hadn't.

Isn't it dangerous?
Yes, it's very dangerous. I wear full Kevlar body armour underneath my Lycra, I carry heavy arsenal in my rear panniers and I have a handlebar mounted flamethrower which I can discharge by tugging on a piece of brake cable.

What has been your favourite country so far?
England. I especially enjoyed the M25 ring road and the suburbs around Milton Keynes. To be honest, it's all been a bit underwhelming since then.

What do you eat?
I live off the land. Most days I stop a few hours before sunset to collect nuts, berries and wild mushrooms and to trap field mice and hunt small game. In cities I live almost exclusively on deep fried confectionery.

How do you afford it?
People smuggling. I can just about fit a refugee in my rear pannier. But only small ones. After a few border runs it can be quite lucrative.

Where do you sleep?
I usually just lie down in a ditch or put the bike on autopilot and slump across the handlebars.

What do your family think?
I didn't tell them. In our culture bicycle touring is shameful. They may have disowned me.

How many kilometres do you ride per day?
It depends on many things - the wind, the road, the hills and the quantity of amphetamines I managed to score from the last big town en route.

What type of bike do you have? How much did it cost?
Very little. I constructed it myself using common household items. The handlebar is half a broom handle, the frame is composed of central heating pipes welded together and the rims are hollowed out undersides of metal trash cans.

How much does your kit weigh?
Difficult to answer because I no longer work in kilograms. Like most cycle tourers the unit of weight I am most familiar with is the Packet Of Pasta (POP). My gear usually comes to around 68 POPs. More with a refugee on board.

Do you ever take lifts?
No. Although sometimes I give backies to tired motorists.

Don't you get lonely?
No. I have Jake.
(which begs the question 'and who's Jake?')

Oh you've not met Jake yet? He's around here somewhere. Here he is, hi Jake!

(at this point I will produce a sock puppet and begin a conversation with Jake the Sock Puppet using a high pitched screechy voice for Jake)

How long have we been friends Jake?
Since you started cycling Steve
You're my only friend aren't you Jake
Yes I am

I will continue the pantomime until...

1. Someone asks another question or
2. Everyone slowly backs away from me and I am alone or
3. I feel a sharp stabbing sensation in one of my buttocks. A syringe wielding orderly has just dosed me with a potent dose of antipsychotic medication and I will soon be rendered unconscious. But at least I won't have to answer any more questions.

How do you cross the oceans?

(I hate this one. Since teleporters have yet to be invented there aren't that many options, are there? Perhaps it doesn't deserve an answer, but to appease all the curious idiots out there...)

First I will politely ask Curious Idiot to bend over. Once in position I will insert the end of a bicycle pump and inflate, rapidly. Before 50 PSI the Curious Idiot should be airborne, at which point I will shout 'Like that!' in answer to their question (hence the title of this blog post). If the Curious Idiot isn't a projectile then they probably have a massive hernia, better call the paramedics. No need to apologise though.

What will you do when you come home? Will you write a book?
No. I will walk a bit funny for a while and then marry my bicycle. Eventually I will probably shoot myself in the head at a dinner party when someone asks me a question about what I will do next. And then someone else will write a book about it.

If anyone is interested in the real answers, I have recently updated the FAQs on my website.

So here are some shots from Quebrada del Toro and Paso Sico -

Another milestone

Finally I made to San Pedro where I had to wait until I received a parcel from home containing essential bits of new kit for Bolivia, a parcel that still hasn't arrived, a parcel that was left in a corner of the customs building in Santiago whilst everyone ignored it, a parcel that has been the bane of my life for the last two, boring, expensive, stir-crazy weeks. Whilst looking for a campsite in San Pedro I asked some street side hippies for direction. Just camp with us! came the invitation. OK. They had been working converting their home into something that I couldn't quite tell yet, mainly because after five years 'working' on it they hadn't got very far. They worked harder keeping the tourists and inhabitants of San Pedro stocked up with marijuana. Around mid-morning, after smoking vast quantities of weed, one of them would forget where they had left the joint and so they would usually abandon the days work on the house at this stage to find the missing drugs. Occasionally they would go to the nearby sand dunes to take LSD, a place called 'Valle de la Muerte' which translates as Death Valley, perhaps not the most sensible option if you plan to take potent mind altering chemicals. I tried, with limited success, to be as constructive as I could be in San Pedro - I wrote, pitched and submitted freelance travel features (a new line of work), I read several books, I visited the valley of the moon, even though I'd been there before and every country seems to have a valley of the moon, and I helped the hippies locate missing marijuana.

I realise that on the whole this has been quite a moany post, so on to a more optimistic future. Bolivia is next, a place that will undoubtedly contrast sharply with my experience of South America up until now, being as it is, one of the poorest and least developed countries in Latin America. I will cycle to and across the world's largest, most famous and most photographed salt lake, The Salar De Uyuni and then make my way up to the capital La Paz from where I'll send the next post. I can't wait, even though thanks to a certain international courier, CALLED DHL, I have to. (Hence the title of this blog post).

Running down dunes in Death Valley, near San Pedro (there was no LSD involved, I promise)



Some decisions have unwelcome consequences when cycling around the world. The road divides unexpectedly, I opt for the left hand turn, I'm wrong. I spend an hour backtracking. It's a bummer, I'll get over it. But when I arranged for a parcel to be sent from the UK to a town in northern Chile the road I took led to a financial mess and almost a month long stay in a small, dusty town, a place I had planned to be for just two days. My hope is that anyone reading this farcical and horrible tale of woe will give these cowboys, namely DHL, a wide birth in the future.

My mum packed a box of gear I needed for the next stage of the trip and posted it with DHL in Oxford. The box contained two bike tyres, a camera lens and a few small items such as a reading book and a bottle of mosquito repellent. The staff at DHL assured my mum the package would be with me in five days, making the member of staff concerned The World's Greatest Optimist. Over the next few weeks DHL would break several other world records.

• I arrived in San Pedro, checked the tracking number and noted a huge string of "clearance delays" meaning there was some hold up getting it through customs. I wondered if DHL had done anything to resolve this other than type "clearance delay" into a computer. I would soon learn that typing constitutes an ambitious task for DHL.
• I called them up to be told they had emailed me and that they required more information before it could clear customs. I received no such email. There was nothing in my spam filter and I checked DHL had the right email address. There are three possibilities - either this was an oversight (one of around a thousand over the next month), or a barefaced lie, or DHL has not trained it's staff how to send emails. Perhaps they wrote the email but didn't know they had to hit the send button afterwards. Perhaps the computer wouldn't function because of trouble locating the 'on' switch. Perhaps the staff couldn't access the computer room because they spent half an hour pushing a door with a pull sign above it and then gave up. All very realistic possibilities.
• DHL informed me they didn't have all the information they required to clear it through customs. So I re-sent the information that my mum had already provided when she sent the parcel. I then sent an email to NASA informing them that black holes do actually exist on earth. One resides in DHL's main office in Santiago, just behind the water filter. It sucks in email addresses, phone numbers, staff motivation, respect for customers, any sense of corporate responsibility and cute looking puppies and kittens.
• I called day after day to be told that my parcel is being processed but that DHL were powerless to speed it up. They refused to contact customs to move it through.
• Long, boring days passed by with no progress. I checked the tracking number - to my surprise the computer screen told me the box had been delivered. Strange, I had no box. Another oversight or another red and yellow lie? Perhaps it's en route. I called DHL - the information on the computer was wrong they told me. The box remains in customs. Probably safer there than anywhere near the black hole though.
• A week later DHL sent me an email explaining that if I wanted to receive the box I would have to cover the costs. The bill was totalled up and came to a mind boggling 480 US dollars. Understandably I freaked out. This was more than the value of the items in the box and around twice the amount my mum had paid to post it!
• After another two days of pestering I finally got a breakdown. DHL and customs were charging me for - 
• Duties and taxes - not much I can do about that
• A sanitary authorisation and certificate. This was required for the one bottle of mosquito repellent my mum had packed, they were asking for over 100 US dollars for this procedure. My mum had unwittingly posted The Most Expensive Bottle Of Mosquito Repellent On Earth. It better be good stuff. I asked if they or customs could simply remove the item, thereby forfeiting the need for the sanitary inspection and certificate.
  "That's not possible" I was told "But we can get an outside agency to do that".
  "Great" I said. "Let's do that"
  "But it will cost 250 US dollars."
  Amazingly The Most Expensive Bottle Of Mosquito Repellent On Earth was getting more expensive.
• Storage charges. Seeing as though I was desperate to get it posted and they were fucking around for days it seemed slightly unjust, to put it mildly, that I now had to pay them rent for refusing to deliver what I needed. I wondered what it cost them to keep a box in a corner whilst staff occasionally stared at it and shrugged. Perhaps they provided a nice chill out area for my package, made sure the room was well heated and played some ambient music so that my box didn't stress out too much whilst it was waiting to meet me.
• The icing on the cake - A DHL service charge was the final expense expected of me. Wow. If I had received good service would they be charging even more?
• So I debated, reasoned, argued and eventually a supervisor agreed to remove the service charge and bill me 313 US dollars. Still extortionate but they had me over a barrel. Refuse and I'm not going to get anything and I couldn't bring myself to walk away. I had already been waiting now for two weeks in San Pedro and my box had been listening to a Best of the Eighties compilation for three. I asked them to bill me immediately.
• Three days later the bill had still not been emailed despite my frequent phone calls to the DHL office in Santiago. When it did arrive they had upped the cost again to 398 US dollars citing extra storage charges since our agreement about the bill, an agreement in which they had assured me the bill would be the final amount I would have to pay. Apparently my box wasn't comfortable with eighties music and they had to buy in some trip-hop CDs.
• By this stage the DHL staff in Santiago had begun avoiding my calls and they were going straight to voice mail. Was I being paranoid? Perhaps. But when I called through the main line and asked to speak to a specific member of staff, amazingly they were suddenly free. They would often of course leave me on hold for long periods. The on hold message, translated from Spanish, boasted about how choosing DHL is the right choice because they are fast and easy. FAST AND EASY! At this stage I felt like Michel Douglas' character in the film Falling Down. Perhaps I should stroll into a branch of DHL with a rocket launcher?
• I made complaints through the UK DHL website. They haven't contacted me since I lodged those complaints despite assuring that they deal with all such matters promptly. But, as I have learnt, DHL live in an alternative reality in which time as we know it does not constitute the fourth dimension of the universe, it has been replaced by money. 
• At this stage I considered praying to Fed Ex instead "please Fed Ex, deliver me from evil..."
• I am still waiting for my package

I admit a small portion of the blame lies at my door. In hindsight I should have had the parcel posted to a capital city. I should also have had it sent to any country other than Chile which has notoriously strict customs controls. I also know that DHL don't have jurisdiction over Chile's Health Authority or Customs but they did virtually nothing to speed up the process, they made mistake after mistake, they never apologised, they were incompetent, unsympathetic, neglectful, slow and expensive.

I live on less than ten dollars a day. Financially this was a minor catastrophe for me and I started to seriously wonder if it would jeopardise my entire journey. The camera lens and tyres were the only expensive items in the box and if I walked away without them that would cost me dearly as well. Add in the cost of staying for three weeks in an expensive tourist town and all the phone calls to DHL. I felt like I had been viciously mugged and was helpless to act. Well this is my only reprieve....

I am not setting out to damage DHL's reputation for my own petty ends, I just wanted to tell my story and explain to those that follow my journey why I have been held up for so long. However, so that others don't fall into the same trap this blog post will be travelling far and wide, from consumer forums to travel websites and blogs. After all, I have nothing better to do, I'm still waiting for my box. As an international courier service I'm sure DHL understand the power of the Internet to build their brand and market their services. I think they should also taste some of the destructive power of negative publicity on line. I only have three requests for DHL -

• A full and unreserved apology
• An explanation as to why these string of mistakes were made
• A refund - of at least the charges by the sender

I will update you all if they ever make good on those requests, though my optimism has not just been dented, it's been fed into one of those gigantic car crushing machines and is now the size of a matchbox. Thanks very much DHL, which I have decided actually stands for Disastrous and Harrowing Logistics or Deeply Heinous Lame-asses. If you can think of an appropriate translation of the DHL acronym in relation to my recent trauma please leave in the comments section below.

Sorry about the rant, but it was cathartic. If you actually got to the end then here's a present to cheer you up... the funniest complaint letter in the world which made headlines a few years back and was actually written by a friend of a friend. Enjoy.

So I'm in Cusco, about to set off to Machu Picchu and spend far too much of my precious travel money.

Here's a description of an astronomy tour in the Atacama Desert whilst I was in San Pedro about one month ago...

I pitch into the lap of my neighbour before retreating, embarrassed and apologetic. The Toyota had abruptly veered off the paved road onto a pothole-strewn track, one of many that scores the surface of the Atacama Desert around the small town of San Pedro in northern Chile. The orange blaze of the car’s headlights dissects the night, roving over flat plains of sand and rock. Suddenly the silhouette of a solitary figure develops from the blackness, hunched over a wide cylinder.

Our group pile out into the dark, expectant and excited about an astronomy tour in the most renowned star gazing region on earth. The Atacama boasts the quintessential ingredients - altitude, little cloud cover, dry air and a lack of light pollution. As we climb out of the vehicle heads fall backwards and faint sighs of appreciation escape into the night. “Wow, what a sky!” affirms an American. A shooting star flashes across the hazy arch of the Milky Way, the cosmos responding to our tributes.

A broken circle of eight shivering bodies enclose the resident expert and his telescope. “Welcome!” announces Pablo, arms and fingers outstretched, palms tilted skyward as if our guide owns the night’s sky and we are only invited guests to the wonder of nature. Pablo is a small, animated man, mummified in an array of thick over-garments. I stand trembling in my shorts and sandals as the other tourists observe me with the same look of wonder and concern that most people reserve for the very, very drunk.

Saturn is first on the agenda, it's an opener designed to impress. We crowd the telescope, taking it in turns to admire the surreal, off-kilter rings. Pablo describes the visible constellations with the aid of green laser pointer and identifies stars that likely no longer exist; their life long since extinguished but their light still travelling through space.

Everyone has a question, most have many, and Pablo meets each with an understanding nod and an explanation, sometimes then directing lively demonstrations in which volunteers charge around, simulating orbiting bodies and solar eclipses. The curious gratified, Pablo introduces us to a star he has christened The Rastafarian. As I squint at the flek it shimmers green, gold and red and Pablo erupts into a rendition of Bob Marley’s ‘no woman no cry’. He is soon joined by a chorus of voices from the gloom.

We cram back into the Toyota and as we chug off through the rough I peer back over my seat to see a little man and his telescope, drenched in the red of the car’s rear lights, slowly dissolving back into the desert night. Those with window seats aim enlightened eyes at the celestial sphere, the hunger for star gazing not yet sated. A voice complains that the low lying white dot of Venus had sunk into the horizon. “Don’t worry”, comes the reassuring voice of our driver, “she’ll be back tomorrow night”. He smiles at his prediction. “They all will.”

Pedalling across the Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia

My breath was a fog, wafting through the roseate light of morning. The temperature on my thermometer had slumped to minus 15° C (5° F)in the early hours and was stubbornly refusing to get much higher whilst my mind was violently and reluctantly dragged backwards to the European winter of 2010 when I set off from the UK amongst similar climes. I had crossed the border into Bolivia and every night I wore my wardrobe to ease the chill, every night the cold created a struggle to find sleep and every morning began with the task of melting solid ice to make coffee. I've spent weeks climbing above and dipping away from the 4000 metre mark but at 4500 metres up in Bolivia, by some mystery of meteorology, the temperature had taken another dive and I have returned to the snow zone. But now at least, I have company. 

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” 
 Jack Keruoac - On The Road

A new character enters my story - Nicky Gooch, a solo cyclist, a professional bike mechanic, a Brummie and a roman candle. We had met before in Patagonia and rode together for a few days in a gaggle of other bikers. After my time-consuming mini-disaster in San Pedro I had been over-taken by many of the cyclists I had passed further south. Nicky was a tall, straggly-haired biker with ginger stubble and a thick midlands accent. We decided to tackle the Lagunas route through Bolivia together and we made a good team. Nicky helped when I freaked out about the state of my bicycle, offering his mechanical skills or doling out reassuring advice. Equally when Nicky, a hypochondriac, developed chest pain I would remind him about all the beer, cigarettes and coffee he consumes and offer him an antacid. 

On our second afternoon in Bolivia a frigid wind gathered momentum until it's howl was all-pervasive and it's thrust marred our progress towards the 5000 metre high Paso de Sol de Manana (pass of the morning sun). By evening all we could do was push our bikes up the sandy track, unable to ride in the gale. Decisions were now shared and some of the usual burden of choice off my shoulders, that night our options were to backtrack fifteen laborious kilometres to shelter or just rough camp where we were, we agreed on the latter.

I shouted to Nicky: "it's going to be a tough night!". 
 "Good job we're f***ing hard then!" Nicky yelled back.

I hoped he was right. The wind was firing across the wilds with the force of a water cannon. With no natural shelter around I began to fear my tent wouldn't hold up to the punishment and as we built a small wall as a protective windbreak using some of the surrounding rocks, all I could think of was sheering tent poles and a crumpled mass of polyester encasing two shivering bodies. Finally, inside my tent I imagined I should be penning my final words to relatives like Captain Scott on his ill-fated journey to the South Pole "These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale...". Instead, at almost 5000 metres above sea level, in freezing, storm force gales, on the slopes of a remote Bolivian mountain, Nicky pulled out his laptop and we watched 'Only fools and horses', a dated British sitcom set in Peckham, South London.

Nicky on the Salar

Cooking up snow for a drink

Nicky pushing up another climb, a salt lake in the backdrop

Bolivia was a collection of rumours and I had only a few, nebulous expectations. I had seen some photos of the traditional garbs - women wearing bowler hats, adopted from the British and a traditional skirt called the pollera, a symbol of pride in being indigenous. I'd also heard enough to be worried about the bad roads and bad drivers though I knew that compared to Chile and Argentina, the price of almost everything would be lower.

Occasionally Bolivia rekindled memories of Africa, although on the surface it was a world away, there were some subtle reminders. Whilst there were plenty of shops, business had moved to the street, African-style. The smell of grilled goat's meat from the roadside vendors drifted through the cities. Bolivia had the typical South American ratio of stray dogs to people (roughly 20000000 : 1) and the outskirts of every sizable town were guarded by the ugly twin bouncers of a litter-strewn wasteland and stinking sewage. The dogs nosed through both. Tragically Bolivia joins the ranks of one of the dirtiest countries on my route so far, alongside the other unfortunates of Syria and Albania. Rubbish has become a feature of the landscape and is as prevalent as the speeding lunatics in unroadworthy vehicles plying Bolivia's main highways. But Bolivia is also full of the things I love most when I travel somewhere new - Bolivia is full of questions.  I tried to decipher strange scents on the street, the contents of the weird drinks brewed by the road and when I felt the eyes of locals taking me in, what they might be wondering. I'm enjoying Bolivia, because it keeps me guessing.

I hadn't done much research on southern Bolivia before we set off so when we rolled over the apex of another hill and a surreal cherry-red lake revealed itself beneath mountains I had no idea I was looking at the famous Laguna Colorada, the Red Lagoon, but I was impressed nonetheless. The sanguine stain of the waters is derived from a type of algae which thrives there. Flamingos waded and dipped their crooked beaks into the red, one or two began their run up to flight, dead ones were scattered over the salt-stained banks. White islands of Borax dissected the red ripples and when jeeps circled the far shore, a vaporous haze kicked up and I felt I had entered a severe, nightmarish netherworld.

The surreal orange/red of Laguna Colorada

A flamingo takes off

And so another character arrives on the scene: Marta - Polish, a solo cyclist and another roman candle. She was also only the second lady I have seen riding solo over the last two and a half years. When we met in a tiny Bolivian highland village she was explaining to a local man that she was starving after cycling all day and that she needed meat... "so do you have a machine gun so I can hunt some llamas?" she asked him with a wink. I liked her immediately. That night Myself, Nicky and Marta all binged on wine, chocolate, rice and chips in the village before setting off in opposite directions, hardy Marta was travelling to the increasingly chilly South.

Marta

Next was the small town of Uyuni and Nicky and I decided on a day off. The night before our rest day we went out in search of fun and happened upon the aptly named Extreme Fun Pub, a place in which the cocktail menu consisted of...

Hasta la vista, llama
The sexy llama bitch
Orgasmo multiple de la llama
The llama's sensual naval
Llama sperm (vodka, chocolate liquor de cafe and ???)
Llama Sutra

The drinks were served in ceramic model of a llama vagina. It was an alcoholic orgy and I think this particular photo of Nicky well illustrates just how obliterated we got...


I admit it, I was worried about cycling the Salar de Uyuni, the world's largest salt lake. My expectations, like the geography of the Salar itself, were high. Ever since I had first glimpsed photos of cycle tourers, beaming and, I imagined, effortlessly gliding across the perfect white sea of salt, I had yearned to ride there, perhaps more than anywhere else on earth. Cyclists talked of "an unforgettable experience", what if the riding the Salar didn't live up to my mental version? What if it was disappointing? What if it was forgettable?

"Look, over there!" shouts Nicky, motioning to a thin belt of white to the West, wedged between the horizon and a featureless expanse of brown earth. My pulse quickens as I think about the fact that where the white begins, it doesn't end for almost 170 km, the Salar has an area roughly the same as the island of Jamaica. Soon we reach a memorial plaque for the victims of an accident in 2008 in which two tourist jeeps collided. The most probable scenario is that both drivers were playing the "Iron Man," travelling head to head and trying to be the last vehicle to deviate from the collision path. Both jeeps were travelling at over 100 km/hr and gasoline containers were attached to the vehicle's fronts. Thirteen died in the crash and ensuing blaze. After finding out these gruesome details, my faith in Bolivian drivers plummeted yet again, and it had been already cruising towards rock bottom, fuelled by my experience on Bolivian roads so far.

Ten minutes later we reach the edge of a mirror - a shallow but vast pool of water perfectly reflecting the azure sky above, a couple of clouds are in a listless drift across the ground and sky. Within the water, snake-shaped mounds of white salt protrude and I guess we can pedal across without getting knee deep in brine. On the other side lies the reason for all the water here, conical piles of salt stretch out in rows, this is where they mine lithium, the Salar holds up to 60% of the world's reserves. We set off, splashing through the salt water and meandering between the shimmering islands, occasionally stopping to heave our entrenched back tyres out of the sodden gunk beneath the water. A minute later blue gives way to an unending honeycomb of bright white salt and we ride along, unconfined, free, ignoring jeep trails and heading just 'across'.

The endless, gleaming jigsaw of wonky hexagons (salt tiles) has to be one of the most impressive sites in the natural world, it's a privilege to ride it and we can't resist camping out on the Salar that night as well. Our timing is perfect, tonight a full moon rides the eastern horizon, illuminating the string of tourist jeeps returning to town, and with only a light breeze I can just detect the faint thrum of their working engines. Fiery and towering tropical cumulus bunch up in the northern sky, alight with the dregs of sunlight and the occasional flash of lightning. For a while we frame photos as the final beams of light are replaced by the white glow of the moon and night claims the Salar. Coldness ends our photography session and we set up camp.

The next day we ride west, our spirited zigzag leaving faint trails and branding the crust of salt as we try to avoid the small holes which penetrate the Salar, linking the surface to an underlying pool of brine. As we travel, a light crunch of the salt beneath our wheels and the soft whistle of the wind travel with us. In recent years a sport, you could say, a tradition, has grown amongst cyclists on the Salar - The Naked Ride-By. Crazy Guy On A Bike, the largest online community of cycle tourers in the world, is full of photos of naked bodies on bicycles on the famous white backdrop. Nicky and I weren't about to let the opportunity pass. We shed our clothes and pedal along, tourist trucks in the distance may spot us but I was relying on the weird, hallucinogenic nature of the terrain to diffuse their fears.

"George, George... is that... a, a cyclist?"
"No darling, you're seeing things."
"It is George! And he's naked!"
"Yes darling, whatever you say. Driver! My wife isn't feeling well, can we go back now please?"


Here's a short video, thanks to Nicky, and some stills...












Bolivia is tough. Travellers regularly suffer the country's many challenges and extremes, they complain of cold, of altitude sickness, of diarrhoea. For me though, it was infertility that was starting to look like the most likely outcome, courtesy of Bolivia's notoriously bad roads. The sandy, washboard-type road surface amounts to back to back speed bumps and it was a painful bounce through sweeping sandy-coloured plains of sun-torched grass on the Altiplano. Nicky's theory went that "if you don't have lumpy balls in Bolivia, you're not riding hard enough". It was on these roads that I inadvertently invented 'The Bolivian Omelette". Here's the recipe -

Put four uncooked eggs into front pannier
Add eggs to a bag of grapes, hoping the grapes will act as mini shock absorbers
Cycle down any unpaved Bolivian road
Collect mix of grapes, runny egg and egg shell
Add llama meat
Fry it all up
Voilà - The Bolivian Omelette

Bolivians living up on the Altiplano have a reputation for being reserved and shy. I don't have any photos of the colourful people we met en route, nobody would consent to their photos being taken. I try not to generalise and stereotype people, I'm sure there are plenty of gregarious Bolivians, but after travelling though so many countries it becomes difficult not to, and I reckon Bolivians do the same. I've cycled through at least three Bolivian villages, the inhabitants of which probably now believe that the majority of British men have matted facial hair, mayonnaise-stained clothes and own an overwhelmingly aroma of onion and feet.

Riding through the Bolivian villages we ran a gauntlet of barking, chasing dogs whilst locals looked on, inanimate, silent and so I figured, complicit in the chase. We sometimes sang "Ghost Town" by The Specials on the way in to these deserted villages, even those locals who own shops or hostels need to supplement their income by working in the fields so it was often impossible to buy basic supplies or find a bed until the evening.

Gradually the terrain flattened out, women worked the fields, brightly coloured shawls tight across their back supporting mystery loads. A few returned my waves, but not many. By six pm I had another companion, a dark shadow-cyclist, pushed into the rough to my right by the low sun. At breaks Nick and I shared tales from the road, we sang bad eighties rock ballads and sang badly to better eighties rock ballads, we did impressions of some of the frightfully posh and endearingly naive Gap Year students called Rupert or Tarquin we've met along the way. And then we made it to Ururo.

Social protest is the traditional way of gaining government attention in Bolivia and the day we entered Ururo coincided with a 72 hour strike by The Workers' Union of Bolivia (COB) whilst the physicians and other health professionals were continuing their indefinite strike and daily demonstrations against changes in working conditions. The UK foreign office site stated:

"There are currently several ongoing social conflicts in Bolivia and blockades may occur along the main roads without notice. Due to the risk of violence, you should never try to cross a blockade."


Finally - La Paz, which can boast perhaps the most dramatic entrance to any city in the world. As we cycled through the slum district of El Alto, suddenly to our right, La Paz jumped out of the trees. Loose folds of city were awkwardly sprawled over the sides of several mountains. The shiny tin roofs of the houses glinted in the midday sun and we freewheeled into the mayhem of another enticing and animated South American city.

La Paz

After a 17 day ride with only one day off, La Paz was a welcome break, and because one day it would be nice to father children, I decided to take a whole week off Bolivia's bumpy roads. Next I ride past Lake Titicaca and to Cusco in Peru to catch up with Tom, an old friend from my time in Liverpool, before visiting the famous Inca ruins at Machu Picchu and then rattling through the rest of Peru.

Finally here's a couple of links... an article I wrote about a border crossing from Argentina to Chile in an online magazine called Sidetracked and an interview with a US based magazine called Sierra.

A waft of frigid mist drifts across the splintered wooden crosses, cloaking their detail, and a shiver ripples through my arms and down my back as I watch their shapes fade threateningly back to life. They were erected as memorials to the backpackers and locals who have plummeted to their death, and the abyss lies just a few feet from where I'm standing.

On first consideration it might seem surprising that people still die whilst cycling the North Yungas Road in Bolivia, a road eagerly referred to by its more popular and dread-inducing monikor – El Camino de la Muerte, Spanish for ‘The Death Road’. If a person were going to be a little more careful than usual, I reason, surely it would be at a location in which ‘Death’ was half the title. But, teeth chattering in the sub zero bite of 4700 metres above sea level at the very start of this now infamous freewheel, I change my mind.

The name it seems is just an invitation to push the boundaries of good sense and later bath in the glory of having nearly died, but not. This truth emerges as I catch glimpses of the fired up faces of the bikers, creased and flushed with surging adrenaline, as they rocket down the unsealed track next to a chiasmic drop which flanks the Death Road for most of its course, the reason behind all the crosses and the well-deserved reputation.

I’m here on my loaded touring bike, cleats detached for this ride, and in the midst of a throng of bikers who have opted instead to join an organised tour. In all seventeen companies now sprinkle the Death Road with bikes and riders and the setting is as staggering as the premise of riding it. Cut into the jungle-clad mountains of the Yungas, just one hour from Bolivia’s most populous city of La Paz, the foreboding rock-strewn track twists an almost continuous descent for over forty miles. Whilst rallying down over three and a half thousand vertical metres, riders travel not only from altitude to lowland but from cloud filled cold to humid tropical heat and from unsullied fear to, fingers crossed, celebration and relief.

After peering tentatively over the unguarded road’s edge and briefly marveling at the sheer cliff face and remote tree tops beneath, I wonder whether the Paraguayan prisoners of war who constructed this road in the 1930s had any inkling at the time of its eventual fate. Over the years the Death Road has claimed thousands of lives and is now a feared and notorious but popular attraction along the deeply rutted Gringo Trail of South America.

Inside the hostels of La Paz myths concerning the Death Road abound. A car flying over the edge only one week ago was the current star of the rumour mill, batted around mostly by a bunch of Israelis just back from a tour, one nursing a broken wrist after he had thrown himself from his wayward bike before it had thrown him into the jungle. To find out some hard facts, I decide to ask the experts. ‘The risks are very real. And this road is not the place to cut corners.’ Proclaims Derren Patterson of Gravity, the company home to the original posse of guides who dreamt up the ride back in 1998 and who still boast an unrivalled safety record.‘The interest for most companies is to sell the tour as cheaply as possible because cheap backpackers often only look at the price tag without thinking that in Bolivia there are no standards for activities like this.’ Cut corners, it emerges, come in the shape of re-welded frames, underpaid guides, cheap parts and even fake brake pads.

Researching the road’s murky past only led me to further question my decision to join these thrill junkies. The Death Road was the site of Bolivia's biggest road accident when, in 1983, a bus carrying over one hundred passengers hurtled over the precipice and tumbled into oblivion. By the mid-90s it was official once it was christened The World's Most Dangerous Road following a review by the Inter-American Development Bank who estimated that 200 to 300 people careered off its edge every year and that, per mile, there were more fatalities here than on any other road on earth. Not long after this unsavory honour was bestowed on the North Yungas Road guides and backpackers arrived in force, keen for a slap of adrenaline and a photo on Facebook, complete with a boastful caption. By 2006 the riders had it almost all to themselves once the construction of a new thoroughfare to the jungle was completed, taking with it most of the traffic. Amongst the cyclists who have dared not all have reached the small town of Coroico near the finish line. In the last twelve years eighteen "I survived The World's Most Dangerous Road" t-shirts have gone spare.

A view from the upper reaches of the Death Road

It's near the top of the descent that resides the most hair-raising section. At this altitude clouds frequently invade the forest, obscuring both the three metre wide sliver of rugged terrain ahead and the vertiginous drop immediately beside it. I watch as the wind drives dense whirls of cloud into the foliage to reveal an exaggerated and menacing vista, tempting and deterring the gathered riders about to take the plunge. Rows of impossibly deep Vs made up of converging mountainsides stretch away, becoming ever more blurred by a distant and sullen murk. Jungle hugs every bulge and whim of the mountains; beneath the cliffs it hides the twisted and rusting metal carcasses of hundreds of trucks and cars. As well as the magic of the precipice, it's exhilarating too being so enclosed in nature.

As I begin the descent an internal monologue kicks up, a perhaps predictable "DEATH road... be careful!” on repeat. But soon another voice takes over, going something like "YEAAAAAAH! I'm riding the DEATH road! WOOOOOOOOH!" My enthusiasm though is soon subdued as I begin wobbling wildly in the aftermath of a collision between my front tyre and a fist sized chunk of rock. I pull swiftly over to the right as a fleet of Konas and their hooting jockeys rampage past, each sensibly screaming “Coming left!” as they go. As a one day aspiring father I start to wish that I too had suspension. Throughout these upper reaches water patters onto the rocky road surface from high above, only the truly courageous, skillful or imbecilic veer to avoid getting wet; I am none of the above and receive a sopping for my cowardice. After each hairy switchback another huge curl of terror-inducing trail reveals itself along with one very clear impression - roads do not belong here.

The soundtrack of the Yungas doesn't seem to fit with the chilling vista, a timid and quirky blend of squawks, buzzes and clicks attest to the richness of life that lurks in the nearby greenery. Underneath and barely discernible there’s another layer of sound - the trickle and gush of hidden jungle streams. At times it’s tempting to wonder at the scenery, to glance behind, to search for the source of that strange jungle sound, and then the inner voice shouts ‘DEATH ROAD!’ and I reign in my curiosity and refocus my attention on my juddering bicycle and the ever present peril to my left. Today, I remind myself, I’m careful. Every so often someone is going to do their best impression of ET going home and I have promised my mum I will not be the next abyss-bound silhouette.


At one of the viewing points en route I skid to a halt and begin chatting to a gaggle of hyperventilating but for now stationary bikers and as I discover, The Death Road draws all sorts. ‘My son challenged me to give it a go!’ a pudgy middle aged man confides with a nervous grin, now bathed in perspiration and perhaps questioning the wisdom of accepting a dare from a sixteen year old. Roughly twenty five thousand riders enjoy the buzz and bragging rights every year, from masters of downhill to slack fast food junkies and from multinational gangs of backpackers to honeymooning couples, competing for glory. The tour groups issue their riders with elbow pads and helmets, as we clamber back onto bikes I can't help but consider what the protective kit and their human contents would look like after a hundred metre free fall and a jungle canopy crash-landing, but to avoid an embarrassing panic attack, I try hard not to. Behind a van trails our group of riders so that the guides can assist in case of accident, or get a front seat view if one of their clients flies a short cut to the finishing altitude.

Towards the lower reaches I relax a little more and gravity spins my wheels ever faster. The temperature rises, clouds evaporate, multi-hued butterflies dance beneath my handlebars and fetching purple flowers and banana plantations fill my peripheral vision. Then all of a sudden I'm coasting through a village and towards a rumbling river, above birds of prey glide languorously in low loops and Bolivia welcomes me back from the edge of reason with beaming children and ogling women festooned in bowler hats and traditional pollera skirts of shocking pink. I spot the father of the teenager, his face now as iridescent as the skirts but also alight with jubilation. I exhale my relief knowing that I too have made it, although I’m concerned for my brake pads, they are now at death’s door. The bikers swiftly pile into town and just as rapidly into bars where they high five and down celebratory beers. Others pull wheelies but most don't feel the need to show off any more than donning their "I survived..." t-shirts. A quick body count by a guide confirms that, this time, everyone gets one.

There's a subset of cyclists who enjoy climbs, I'm one of them, and from the off my inner masochist wasn’t entirely happy with the prospect of spinning downhill for hours. Where's the payback? I needed to know. Where the pain to go with the gain? Fortunately for the guilty, the Death Road has another currency - you pay for the freewheeling with fear and there’s now no doubt in my mind - it’s more than a fair price.

But of course for the vast majority the Death Road will fail to fulfill its eponymous promise, in fact for me the opposite was true and I finished the ride not just giddy with relief, but fiercely alive. They could change the title, somehow though, I don't think it would have quite the same draw.




After escaping the action of La Paz I headed west to the shores of Lake Titicaca, the largest lake in South America and the highest lake of it's size in the world at a lofty 3812 metres above sea level. The road around the lake holds me tight to it's shore, often just a few faded green fields melting into the lake water lie between us. Further out, amongst the passive blue ripples, rise the giant mounds of islands that from a distance resemble the humps of huge sea monsters frozen in time. Beyond the islands, and the invisible opposing shore, hover snowy mountain tops, their bases lost in a grey-blue blur which hangs mysteriously over the lake.

Copacabana is another popular stop on the Gringo Trail, a 'path' that I swore to abandon once I had made it as far as Cusco in Peru. A wave of drug dealers, gangs of Israelis revelling in their post army exodus, overly assertive restaurant touts and chocolate selling hippies surge through the cobbled streets. I sniff out the cheapest hostel in town and set about trying to repair my only boots which have a jagged gash which now reveals half the sole. South Americans have much smaller feet and finding replacements my size has been impossible. Tomorrow I want to escape the masses and trek across Sun Island.

The tree scattered hills behind Copacabana slowly deflate behind the frothy, parabolic wake of our boat and the expanding blue of Lake Titicaca. I sit hunched up, hugging my knees to my chest and shivering on the open top deck of a boat heading for Sun Island, one of the lake's largest and famed for the array of Inca ruins pockmarking the rocky terrain. I am engulfed in different languages, I recognise German, Hebrew, Spanish, French and Portuguese. Amongst the assembled tourists is a German chewing coca leaf and a couple of French tourists who have embraced Bolivian culture to the extent that they are adorned in the loud colours of the traditional knit-wear. I smile secretly to myself as I imagine them wondering into the arrivals terminal at some major European airport, still festooned in the traditional garbs, perhaps also with alpaca fleece coats and pan pipes.

We chug along beside the southern end of the island. The choppy, tight undulations of the terrain have a wave-like quality, the land seems like an elevated, drab version of the lake itself. Spiky succulents sprout out of the rocky slopes and shore side wooden fishing boats break into a wobbly dance as they meet the churning wake of our craft.


We walk from the beaches up the rocky path with a guide who has a crooked toothless grin and a cow boy style hat, as large black and white birds of prey patrol the sky above. He takes us to an alter, the original sacrificial table used by the Incas when they killed virgins on special ceremonies. He talks us through the presumed details of the brutal process, the murder and subsequent removal of the heart. To demonstrate he raises a clawed hand enclosing the imaginary heart fresh from the virgin's chest, the circle of gasping tourists fix excited and appalled eyes on the hand.


Afterwards I set off with Coni, a Swizz girl I met on the boat. For three hours we walk the path as it arcs and dips over the rolling spine of the island, the dark blue view of the lake never escapes my eye line. As I amble past terraced fields and watch the gulls gliding from lake to shore, I admire the tranquillity of the setting, impressed that it's now a world away from the violent and dramatic distant past we have been privy to. 



The train seemed the most time-conservative way to reach Machu Picchu. I take a seat opposite an American couple from Colorado who chat away in that relaxed and familiar way that Americans have when they strike up conversation with strangers. A little later an older American lady sits down next to me, a conversational non-sequitur who rambles through topics, from the people she has met with very large feet to what happens to horses when they get a cold. The train tracks coddle the bank of the Urubamba river, frothy and eye-catching. With the passing minutes the forest grows thicker, trees overhang the far river bank, their creepers and vines dangling into the water like a congregation of still and pensive fishermen. The train finally stops at Agua Calientes and I step onto a platform full of jostling, confused tourists and hotel porters.

Crowded buses make runs up the hill to Machu Picchu but I feel a little guilty about taking the train instead of the trekking option so decide to redeem myself by hiking for an hour uphill to reach it. In the morning heat it's a sweaty battle up, but when I emerge from the jungle foliage and Machu Picchu shouts it's presence, I stop dead and appreciate the enormous landscape which is swimming in sunlight and throngs of sightseers. The feeling is akin to walking onto a stage and the curtain being drawn to reveal the audience because surrounding the ruins runs a huge circle of the blunt, verdant cones of even grander mountains.


After joining the shuffling hoards, and trying to covertly listen to knowledgeable tour guides, I make it back to Agua Calientes where I am chuffed to catch up with Tom, a good friend from my time in Liverpool, along with his wife Thea and her parents. That night the town is alive with outlandish costumes, noisy drunks and dancing backpackers. The occasion is a saint's day, although as I have learnt of late, the Peruvians will take any excuse for a fiesta.


So in contrast to my usual type of blog piece, this month I decided to write three short pieces about popular tourist activities in Bolivia and Peru. For the next post expect my more usual tales of adventure from a remote part of Peru as I cycle one of the toughest routes so far, taking in over five passes each in excess of 5000 metres altitude and hitting some notoriously bad roads on which I will climb higher in one week than from sea level to the summit of Mount Everest. Once through the central highlands I'll join the coast and scoot along to Lima where I plan to visit projects looking at TB control in the shanty towns around the capital as well as a project which is focused on the eradication of tapeworm infection. I will report back next month.

Taking a break towards the top of a 5100 metre (16,700 feet) high pass in the central Peruvian highlands

San Pedro & The Valley Of The Moon - tick
Uyuni & The Salar - tick
La Paz & The Death Road - tick
Copacabana & Lake Titicaca - tick
Cusco & Machu Picchu - tick

I wouldn't have missed any of it, but the Gringo Trail comes with a price, and not just a financial one. The obvious path was becoming lugubrious and for weeks I had been mentally setting it against the lure of an untrammeled, exotic alternative I imagined must be out there, somewhere. And I was getting fed up with the people who inhabit these tourist-laden towns, who so often see each bus load of newcomers as just a fat wodge of the local currency, and who address me in brusque tones and dole out petty reprimands -

"No, you can't charge your IPOD here!"
"Use an outside bin, not that one!"
"We don't have towels here!"
"Take your hands off my crotch, I'm a married man!"

OK, so maybe not the last one, but I had made a decison - I didn't want to wend, zombie-like, to the next place the guide book told me to. I wanted to be the dissident ant in the army, breaking from the hoards to forge my own, more original route. At any rate, if you have arrived into Cusco from Bolivia, the Gringo trail hits a crossroads. Some will head to the Canyon country around Peru's second city of Arequipa, some will take a side trip to the jungle, others will travel through the central highlands to Lima and more still will venture to the desert coast and Pacific Ocean, edging towards Lima and maybe stopping on the way to fly over the world famous Nazca lines.

In 2010 a British couple, also cyclists, were sat at a computer in Peru, glancing intermittently at their GPS and scouring Google Earth for an adventure to sate their wanderlust. They crafted a route that meandered south from the Cusco region through a remote section of the high Andes and would hopefully deliver them into the depths of the Cotahuasi Canyon. The Pikes completed the mountain passage and went on to author one of my favourite websites, Andes By Bike, which describes the finer points of this monster excursion into the unknown, the most difficult route detailed on their website. The numbers and the practical details they provided spoke of the challenges involved -

• Over 130 km of cycling at over 4500 metres
• Five passes in excess of 5000 metres
• 9160 metres vertical metres climbed in one week (greater than from sea level to the summit of Mount Everest)
• Road conditions frequently poor, gradients can be very steep

For the first few days out of Cusco I oscillated wildly between a bare and windy domain at high altitude to hot tropical valleys. In the flourishing lowlands I felt for the first time that I was back in the tropics as I climbed past wooden huts partly hidden by burgeoning fruit trees which owned papaya, banana, oranges and more. I stared incredulously down upon the city of Abancay, an amorphous brown smudge, wondering where else but in Peru could you look down at a settlement that lies a full kilometre and a half below you. 

As I rested towards the top of another pass, devouring a delicious Chirimoya, or custard-apple, (nothing like an apple, tastes a bit like custard), a familiar and hairy face rolled up. It belonged to Mikael, a Frenchman I had met in La Paz, 1000 days into his world tour on a recumbent bicycle. We cycled off together, Mikael on his weird contraption stealing the limelight and getting terrorised by dogs far more than me, to a canine his legs were probably like rotating steaks on a spit roast. A couple of days later we came to my junction. Mikael's stretch of tarmac eased through the valley, my earthy trail zigzagged into mystery and it was here I waved goodbye to Mikael, to smooth asphalt, to shops and to amenities, to gringos, to cosy beds and warm nights, to caution and comfort and convenience and perhaps when it was all gone and I'd finished pining for it, perhaps I would find something more.

Mikael, the laid back Frenchman

Andean Geese

Ariel view of grazing llama

Cycling the deepest canyon on earth

Sitting on the precipice beside Sipia falls

Riding in the shadow of the volcano Coropuna

Turkey vultures feeding on the carcass of a seal washed up on the Pacific coast