Here’s a few pics from my recent trip to Eindhoven, Antwerp, Brussels and Leuven.
First, some random shoes on a wire in Eindhoven.
Then buildings rising into the mist in downtown Eindvhoven.
Eva poses by the brown river Dommel that runs through the heart of Eindhoven.
The spectacular Atomium just outside Brussels, seen at night. There are restaurants, hotels and other stuff inside each of the balls. It’s truly incredible to see.
Thanks to this post, and a whole heap of other stuff, I finally sorted out a Google Maps problem on my Nexus One.
When trying to install some apps, I would see this error message in logcat:
requires unavailable shared library com.google.android.maps
I had the Google Maps app installed and working, but that didn’t fix the issue. It turns out, I had to add two other files and restart the phone. I found those files in the google zip from Cyanogenmod. It took a little fiddling, but I was able to use these instructions to remount /system in write mode. First step was to take the following two files from the google apps zip (gapps-hdpi-20101114-signed.zip) and put them onto my sd card.
/system/etc/permissions/com.google.android.maps.xml
/system/framework/com.google.android.maps.jar
Then to load them onto the phone, I opened the terminal emulator and ran:
su
mount -o rw,remount -t yaffs2 /dev/block/mtdblock3 /system
cp /mnt/sdcard/com.google.android.maps.xml /system/etc/permissions/
cp /mnt/sdcard/com.google.android.maps.jar /system/framework/
Then after I rebooted the phone, I was able to install apps that depend on Google Maps. I can now check bus and train times, and do all kinds of other cool stuff with maps! 
Note, this is only relevant if you do not want all Google Apps installed. I only have the map application installed as I don’t sync my phone with any Google services. If you’re using all the Google Apps, I suggest reinstalling as these steps should not be necessary.
To add a little colour, here’s an unrelated picture from flickr, courtesy of epSos.de.
Soraya connected with Talley and she took us out on a dumpster tour of Weisbaden tonight. It was a real treat, we came back with three bags of veggies. We scored German potato pancakes and a jar of better-than-organic apple and mango sauce. Delicious trash dinner with a little bacon from Soraya’s fridge.
Here’s the girls over the bin and over the spoils. Soraya on left, Talley on right.
Tomas kindly volunteered to be the photographer and videographer for Bessy and I’s final ride together. I rode up to the border with Tomas, he parked his bike, then I gave him a lift back to town. Here’s the shots he took. Video coming soon…
A few photos of Bessy for potential buyers. It’s the end of an era, my trusty steed is up for sale in Panama.
Yesterday I bought a prepaid ICE sim card in Costa Rica. Last time I was in Costa Rica they didn’t exist. Then they were available, but very hard to find I read. I walked into a shop called abCelular in San Isidro, and after a bit of confusion, walked out with a 2500 colones sim. Yay.
They asked for an ID card. I offered my UK driving license. That was fine, except their computer would only accept numbers in the “identification document number” spot. So instead, I gave them my passport, where the document number is only digits. I probably could have pushed the issue with my driving license, maybe they would have just entered the numerical part or something, but the passport seemed easier, and I was in a hurry.
The transaction was painless. I showed no phone and they only looked at the photo page of my passport, but wouldn’t have seen it at all if I’d pushed the driving license. It seems that prepaid SIMS are finally available in Costa Rica…
Now if only I could get service inside my house…
Ross and I visited two places that sounded vaguely comparable from what I’d read online. They were in fact extremely different.
I met a French woman called Cecile in Antigua, Guatemala. She recommended I visit BioSfera and gave me the details of where I could find it. I tracked them down online here. We arrived around three in the afternoon and there was nobody home. I figured, these are hippies, let’s make ourselves comfortable and hang out. So that’s what we did. After two hours and still no sign of anyone, I was starting to question what was going on. We called a few of the numbers on the board, and one of them answered. In broken Spanish we figured out a guy would be over in half an hour or so.
By this point it was going to be dark in half an hour. Finding somewhere to stay after dark is a lot harder. We had to decide if we were going to commit to this place or haul ass out of there. Despite the slightly odd start, we decided to stay. The fella turned up (I’ve forgotten his name now) and was super friendly. He explained that Julie was on holiday and Susie had been arrested over some disput with a neighbour and was in jail! Ouch.
That meant there was no food because there was nobody to cook. By this time it was dark, and there’s no power at BioSfera, so only gas lamps for light. Luckily there’s a restaurant 50m next door, the same neighbour that Susie had the dispute with! So her being in jail created business for the restaurant as Ross and I ate there with little other option.
Then our host left us to our own devices and we spent the evening watching the stars by the fireside, drinking cups of roibos tea in hammock chairs. It was a slightly eery but very pleasant evening. I’d like to get back and meet Susie and Julie at some point, they sound like interesting characters.
The next day we dropped by Selva Negra on our way back to Matagalpa. Wow, what a contrast. A 1.5km driveway from the road, then a security guard at the gate who takes your money before you enter. 100 cordobas ($5 USD) buys you entrance plus 100 cordobas in the restaurant, or 50 cordobas buys you just entrance. Paved and tarred roads, manicured gardens, expensive cakes and white table clothes. This place was about as far from BioSfera as one could be. It was essentially an upscale Nicaraguan resort which I had thought was a national park.
Turns out national parks or nature reserves in this part of the world are not quite the same as at home. My impression of a national park or nature reserve is some government operated, charity orientated type of affair. Down here, they’re usually commercial businesses that have been given some type of certificate by the government.
BioSfera is a pretty small place. One open air dormitory with 6 beds, 2 private rooms (probably for the hosts) and a field behind. It says something about cloud forest on the web site but I saw virtually no forest at all. The view was ok across the valley, but it’s all farmland. Not the most inspiring scenery in my opinion. The picture on the site somewhat belied the reality as we experienced it.
I wouldn’t hurry back to Selva Negra but I’d be happy to stop at BioSfera again. Mostly, I’d be interestd to meet the girls behind it and learn a bit more about their project. There might well be hidden depths to the place that we missed by passing up the tour in Spanish we were offered!
I crossed one border 5 days ago and 2 borders yesterday. Yesterday morning I left San Salvador, El Salvador, rode through Honduras, and then arrived in Leon, Nicaragua just before dark. The 3 hours in Honduras was hellish. I have no desire to return to Honduras at any point in the foreseeable future.
El Salvador seemed like an expensive country. With some considerable effort, I was living very cheaply in Guatemala. I was trying to recover from a spending binge over xmas and new year. When I hit El Salvador the prices seemed a notch higher than I had been paying in Guatemala. However, I did get by on just about $20 USD a day. The currency in El Salvador is the US Dollar, which made it easier to get a handle on what I was spending.
Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras and Nicaragua are part of The Central American Four (CA4). I had heard they share some paperwork for visas, vehicle imports, and so on. I saw no evidence of that in my border crossings. Every crossing was just like entering a completely new country. I checked out of one and into the next. I believe it’s different for residents of one of the CA4 countries, but for me it seemed like 4 totally separate countries. In fairness, that might only apply to the bike, the process of importing myself did seem fairly easy between the 4 countries.
We crossed the border on CA2, the highway closest to the Pacific coast. I’m not sure what the towns are called on either side. This was 5 days and 3 border crossings back, so my memory is a little fuzzy. I’ll try to remember the details as accurately as I can.
The road split around a building. An armed uniformed fella stopped us and told us to park our bikes. A kid started telling us what we needed to take where. I ignored him and went about handling my own paperwork. We had to go around the building to two separate windows. One was related to the bike and the other to me. The first window was for the bike. I think I needed 1 copy each of my passport, driving license, and vehicle title. I also needed a copy of something else which I had to go and get on the spot. I handed all of that over and was given something back. I don’t think I spent any money at this point.
Next I went to the migracion window. I handed over my passport, I think it was stamped, and I got it back. Again, I didn’t pay anything here. However, Tomas had paid $2 and thought it might have been for both of us. Whether it was the disarming charm of my smile underneath the moustache or Tomas’s $2, we will never know!
I think this part must have been the exit from Guatemala. Next we crossed quite a long bridge, and came upon another building. At first we rode right past, ignoring the calls of the kid who had been helping Tomas with his paperwork. We stopped at a check point. By this time the kid had caught up with us and was shouting something. I’m guessing he told the guard we hadn’t imported our bikes. I strongly wanted him to leave us alone.
We went back to the building. The entrance was halfway down on the left hand side (as we approached the first time, it was on the right as we were turned back by the guard). We went into here and were served quickly by a pleasant woman. She came outside to the bikes and wrote down more information than I remember at any other border. She noted the colour, number of cyclinders, make and model, vin number, plate, and a few other things about the bike. Then she told us we needed that information to be typed into the computer. That meant waiting for the guy at the next window to finish the paperwork he was working on. The key word here is waiting.
We spent close to 3 hours in that office while the guy behind the desk processed one single set of paperwork. There were several vehicles all being imported together, on the back of a truck I think. It was the hottest part of the day and we were in full riding gear. I nearly melted in the waiting room. For some reason all the windows were closed, so the only ventilation was through the open door and one missing slat in one of the window. I could see an air conditioning machine inside the office where the officials were working. It was very hot and very sweaty. I slugged 3 cans of cold juice while we waited. After a couple of hours I went off and found some food, figuring we might be at the border all night.
Eventually, with some apology from the woman who first served us, we were given a typed version of what she had written. Then we needed to sign it and get it photocopied. (Short of travelling with a photocopier, there seems to be no way to avoid paying for photocopies at these borders.) She followed me to the copy shop and said they would pay for the 10c copy. I assumed it was to apologise for the agonising wait. As if to rub salt on the wound, it was another person who processed Tomas’s paperwork after we’d waited close to 3 hours. Presumably he could have processed our paperwork at any point during that 3 hour wait.
We smoked a victory cigarette, saddled up and rode like hell hoping to get somewhere with a hotel before dark. We made it to El Tunco pretty quickly from the border. Just over an hour if I remember correctly. We had made it into El Salvador in my longest ever border crossing.
After a couple of days on the beach (El Tunco and Playa San Diego) we rode the 35km to San Salvador. Tomas was having real trouble with his skin. It’s usually brought on by stress. He decided to stay in El Salvador and chill out for a while to get back into better health. The prospect of 2 border crossings in one day sounded like more stress than he needed. I’m ready to settle somewhere for a few weeks and I want to do that in Nicaragua, so I decided to press on. After about 6 weeks riding together, we were parting company.
It’s been really awesome riding with Tomas. After probably 7 or 8 months on the road alone, it’s been a real change to ride with somebody. A very positive change. Tomas is probably the only person I’ve travelled with for more than a month, and it was truly painless. I feel like I’ve made a very good friend for life.
After a quick breakfast and a final smoke, I said adios to Tomas and rode out of San Salvador heading for Nicaragua.
As I approached the Honduras border people were frantically waving me down by the side of the road. I ignored them all. If anything, I sped up to pass them. I didn’t realise I was almost at the border and they looked dodgy as hell to me. In retrospect I’m guessing they were border “guides”. Locals who know the paperwork required to cross the border and who will “help” you for some kind of fee or tip.
Personally, I handle all my border paperwork myself. I don’t want anyone involved in my business, handling my passport, or otherwise interfering in my border crossing. I’m sure their help can be useful, and is probably cheap, but I’m innately sceptical of anyone who tries to pressure sell me into anything.
I arrived at the border sooner than I thought. I was expecting it to be another 20km or so. When I got there, checking out of El Salvador was easy. I went to 2 windows and got my passport stamped. I think I paid $3 for this. However, I had missed the point where I needed to check out my motorcycle. It was 3km back into El Salvador. I turned back, explained to the chemical spraying guys that I wasn’t entering, and got the bike checked out of El Salvador. For this I needed a copy of my entry paperwork into El Salvador. As usual, there was a conveniently placed copy shop ready to take a little money for a copy.
Then I returned to the border, again dodging the waving guides. I gave my newly stamped photocopy to the last border point on the El Salvadorian side and crossed the bridge.
In Honduras the process was a little more confusing. I arrived and was asked for my passport. That part was easy, I handed it over, they gave it back. Next I needed to import the bike. I asked a policeman where to do that and he told me to ride on, it wasn’t necessary. About 500m down the road a fella with a gun at a checkpoint told me it was necessary. So back I went. My biggest challenge was locating the office where I could actually do the paperwork. I’ll try to describe the scene for any would-be border crossers.
Coming over the bridge, there’s a large building in the centre of the road. The road splits around it. It has a large courtyard in the centre. On the right hand side, just slightly before the start of that building, there is a mostly unmarked building. There is a copy shop on the corner, parking spots in front. Inside there, with almost no signage of any kind, I was able to import my vehicle.
Firstly, I needed 3 copies each of my passport, title, driving license and exit paperwork from El Salvador. Then I handed over all 12 copies and $35 USD (they gave me change from $40) and waited. I was given back a form and they stamped my passport and wrote in my vehicle details. I then needed 5 copies of the form and 3 of my passport stamp, for a total of 20 copies. Finally, after returning with the copies, I was given back my documents and rolled onwards into Honduras.
I was given a form and a copy of the form. The copy was for the security guard just beyond the border. I gave it to him and was able to ride on.
The woman told me I did not need to do any exit paperwork in Honduras, I could just ride out.
This was probably the least painful part of my trip in Honduras. The whole process took just over an hour and would have been quicker if I’d stopped at the right place to begin with. For future note, the point to export the vehicle from El Salvador is right where you cross a speed bump. I flew over it passing a few trucks and ignoring the police standing by the side of the road. That was the spot!
Immediately after the security checkpoint was a police checkpoint. They waved me through and I carried on. In the next 200 km I went through either 9 or 10 police checkpoints. I started counting after the 3rd or 4th one. At the first checkpoint where I was asked to stop, they informed that I didn’t have reflective stickers on the side of my bike. It was a $100 ticket apparently.
I played dumb while they hassled other vehicles. Eventually I searched all my pockets and came out with a $5 bill. I had a $100 and a $20 bill in my passport wallet which I was hoping to keep, more on that later. Finally, the officer took my money and gave me back my driving license. This is where my international driving permit would have been really helpful. If I don’t get it back, I don’t care, I have another 2 with me. But foolishly I gave him my British license, a pain in the ass to replace, and much easier to enter the next country with.
I’d been in the country less than 20 minutes and I was a bit shaken up at the blatantly extortionist tactics of the police. At the next few police checkpoints I stayed behind other vehicles and passed them slowly as they were stopped. I figured by the time the police saw me I was already past. Then I came upon a checkpoint where there was no traffic waiting. Four officers were waving me down. I figured they were telling me to slow down, so I did, and I rode right through. I also figured, this is Central America, the police here have tiny little motorbikes and crappy old cars. They’ll never chase me, and if they do, no way in hell they’ll catch me. Wrong and wrong.
I chose to run from probably the only police checkpoint in Central America equipped with a Ford F350 super duty truck. For those not familiar with the absurdity of American trucks, the F350 has at least a 5.4 litre engine and, apparently, is damn fast. The police chased me from a standing start. I was doing about 60km/h as I passed them and quickly hit 130km/h. They caught me within 2 minutes. When I saw them coming, I pushed full throttle and the truck just kept coming. There was no way in hell I could outrun that monster.
When they did catch up with me, the police were a little irate. Apparently the issue was my speed. They made no mention of the fact I had not stopped, at least not that I understood in my very poor Spanish. They asked for my license, I handed over my disposable international drivers permit. They talked a lot about a ticket and about going back to the next city to pay it, etc. I played dumb saying mostly “no intiendo”, I don’t understand. At one point an officer pulled a US $10 bill out of his wallet and waved it at me talking about paying. I was in the shit now.
Eventually they told me to follow them back to town. I took my time putting on my helmet and gloves. A few cars passed me and they didn’t appear to be waiting for me. At this point they thought they had my driving license. They probably figured I couldn’t leave the country without it, so they had me by the balls. I considered making a second run for it at this point. If they had caught me more slowly in a less powerful vehicle the first time, I probably would have. I’d have happily left the international drivers permit behind and I was on my way to the border, as it turns out, probably never to return to Honduras.
I decided against trying to escape from the police twice in the same day. I followed them down the road. I came upon them stopped at a tienda (the equivalent of a corner store). They talked again about a fine. I asked if I could pay the fine here. They drove a bit further down the road and pulled over at a quiet point in the road. I pulled alongside and they said something about paying here. I asked how much. The game had begun. I only had a $20 bill and a $100 bill. I really did not want to pay $100.
They motioned for me to pull off the road. I stopped the bike and discreetly pulled out the $20 bill. I put it into my pocket. I went back to the window of the truck. They talked about a $200 fine at the police station. I explained that I didn’t have $200. I asked about a bank. Then I very slowly, very deliberately and very painfully searched all of my 7 pockets. I pulled out every scrap of paper, opened every bag and container, and inspected every item I was carrying. At one point I handed the policeman my $20 bill. I kept searching. Finally, he gave me back my driving license and they drove away. I had survived. I think their anger was giving way to boredom and frustration at that point.
I was now aware that the only cash I was carrying was a single $100 bill. If I had to bribe a third cop in Honduras, it would be expensive. The chances of getting change from a bent cop seemed pretty slim.
I made it through all but the last checkpoint in Honduras without stopping. This time the cop was standing beside the road with a couple of buddies. Dodgy looking characters in jeans and t-shirts. I only saw a small motorbike. I figured he’d never catch me, probably wouldn’t try. I passed him slowly. He blew his whistle and motioned for me to stop after I had passed him. I saw it in my mirror. After a split second deliberation, I stopped. Running hadn’t worked out well the first time.
His uninformed, unarmed, apparently unpolice buddies had no problem participating in my stop. I handed over a few documents. They looked the bike over touching a few things. I felt like a wounded animal being circled by a flock of vultures. I was very, very keen to get the hell out of Honduras at this point.
The cop gave me my documents back and another guy asked me, while smoking a cigarette, if I wanted to help. I played dumb again saying that I didn’t understand. As quickly as I could I threw my documents in my back pocket, pulled on my gloves, and took off.
I was very, very glad to see the Nicaraguan border. I had spent more than enough time in Honduras and at this point I was downright desperate to get out while I still had most of my money and all of my possessions. Total cost for my 3 hours in Honduras, $60: $35 in border fees, $25 in bribes. I think that officially makes Honduras the most expensive country per hour yet.
If I remember correctly, I didn’t do anything to leave Honduras. It’s a bit fuzzy now, the last three border crossings are starting to blur together. I think I just crossed into Nicaragua and started my paperwork there. I may have missed something in Honduras, but if I did, it wasn’t a problem in Nicaragua. As I have no desire to return to Honduras, I’m relaxed about it.
Getting into Nicaragua was fairly slow and somewhat painful. Initially I entered a long building next to the bank. There was a semi circular counter with a few cajas. I queued at the first one. It took about 20 or 30 minutes to get the counter. I paid $7, handed over my passport, and was stamped in. After very thoroughly examining my $100 bill, he gave me $93 change. Then I had to import the bike. I went down the hall to where a long, long queue of truck drivers were waiting. They pointed me at various cajas, but each one sent me back to the queue. Eventually, I took my place at the end of a line of probably 12 or 15 truck drivers. I was not optimistic about getting through in less than an hour. It looked like I’d be riding out from the border in the dark.
A Spanish couple in a mobile home arrived behind me. I had seen them at the first police checkpoint where I was “fined” for not having reflective stripes. They spoke very little English, but naturally, great Spanish. A woman appeared and told me I needed to pay $12 for insurance while in Nicaragua. I gave her a copy of my driving license, vehicle title and $12. She gave me a piece of paper that apparently I need to show to the police here. I have not yet had to show it to anyone, but it did all seem legitimate.
Somehow the insurance girl took the Spanish couple to another door where they were promptly served, ahead of me and the dozen truck drivers. I spotted them on the other side of the counter and I dashed over there. I asked if I might also import my bike there. Somewhat jovially, the same guy who had sent me back to the queue earlier agreed to sort out my paperwork. 20 to 30 minutes later I had all my documents sorted and I was on my way. He needed one copy each of my passport, driving license and vehicle title (all of which I had ready). He took that, some time, and no money and gave me some paperwork back.
I had crossed my second border in a day, third in a week, and most importantly, made it out of Honduras alive. I was grateful to be in Nicaragua, but I was also keen to find somewhere to sleep before dark. I was aiming for Esteli, but by some navigational misfortune I ended up in Leon. I think I crossed the wrong border for Esteli, that border is a bit further north. I wonder if there are any less police on that road.
I’m now at a fairly relaxed hostel called Big Foot in Leon. Seems like a nice little city. I’ve already run into 3 people I know from other places, so I’m feeling quite settled after my ordeal through Honduras. Now I’m hoping to spend some quality time in Nicaragua and get a feel for the country.
This morning we crossed the border from Mexico into Guatemala. It was painless. I read about a couple of guys who crossed in 20 minutes so I was confident it would be easy.
To start with we needed to leave Mexico. We missed the exit point which is about 3km from the border. It looked like a government building but didn’t look very border like. For future reference I think it’s here. After we back tracked we started at the Banjercito and checked out our motorbikes. The fella took photos of the VIN numbers then printed some papers and gave us a certificate showing we’d exported our bikes. No money required. Next we went to the next door building and exported ourselves from Mexico. Again, painless, and no money required.
Then we rode across the border and were flagged down by some fellas who wanted to spray the bikes. They asked for 13 quetzales for each bike. They didn’t take pesos. At this point we had some pesos left and no quetzales. Just our luck, there was a money changer on hand. He charged us 70 pesos for 30 quetzales, xe.com puts that at 45 pesos. An unnecessary expense of $2 USD, we’ll survive.
After our bikes were sprayed, we got in line at the Migracion office. A couple of buses had just arrived so there were a lot of people waiting in the midday heat. While Tomas stayed in line I went to the atm to get some quetzales at a slightly more reasonable rate. When I got back the queue had disappeared and Tomas had done his paperwork. I went into the office and after some confusion about my entry stamp into Guatemala exactly one year and one day ago, I was processed into Guatemala. Total cost, 20 Mexican pesos.
We went to the next building over to import our bikes. The process was painless. We needed our Mexican export certificate, title, license and passport. Four signatures later we went next door to the bank and paid the 40 quetzales fee. Then returned to the window to collect our paperwork and stickers for the bikes.
All paperwork completed, we were into Guatemala. The process took about 2 hours which was due in part to our confusion over the process, some waiting in line and then just the process. Althought it took longer than the entry into Mexico it felt decidedly more expedient. Personally, I spent much less time waiting than entering Mexico.
I’ve read that 3rd party liability insurance is required in Mexico. I wasn’t asked for any proof of insurance at the border, but I hear it can save me going to jail if I get into an accident. So, a couple of days before crossing the border, I bought a policy. I read somewhere that Baja Bound were a chunk cheaper than other insurers. I ran a few online quotes and they came in under $100. The next cheapest policy was over $130, but to see that quote online I had to check a box that said I did have US or Canadian insurance on the vehicle. The guy on the phone told me it didn’t matter for liability only packages, but the web site wanted an extra $50 if I said no to that question. Weird.
Within a few hours of buying my policy, I received an email from Hank Morton at Baja Bound. He thanked me for my business and had noticed that I mentioned the insurance on my blog, he shamelessly asked for a plug and said he’d be happy to give me a $20 rebate. Awesome! I’m impressed. These guys are clearly on the ball in terms of their online branding. I suggested Hank donate the $20 to a charity of their choosing and he explained that they already work with a range of charities, so that would be easy.
I had one issue during the order process. I checked the box that said no, I don’t have US or Canadian insurance on the vehicle. But while entering vehicle information the site said that US or Canadian insurance was required. Hank confirmed it is not, so it seems like a miscommunication on the site. Otherwise, the ordering process was painless and I had my certificate immediately.
I’m happy to recommend Baja Bound for motorcycle or car insurance in Mexico.
Yesterday I crossed the border from the United States into the Republic of Mexico. I was slightly apprehensive about the crossing. I’d read that the border region is dangerous due the ongoing drug war in Mexico. I also read that the paperwork process was confusing and might be time consuming.
My apprehension was unjustified. The border crossing was an outrageously slow process, but it was simple, I managed with minimal Spanish and I felt safe throughout the process. I’ll document how it went here, and hope to document all my future border crossings.
I’ll also summarise the facts in a few bullet points, scroll down for the quick summary if you’re in a hurry.
I paid the $3 bridge toll on the American side. Then as I crossed into Mexico I kept moving. Nobody stopped me or even looked me over. I could have continued merrily on my way without doing any paperwork whatsoever. I believe Mexico has a free trade zone within 25km or 30km of the border. Within that zone visitors from the US have no need of a visa, paperwork, or otherwise. Just wander in. The crossing back into the states is a little more involved though!
I had read about the Banjercito, where I would get some sort of permit to take Bessy (the bike) into Mexico. I knew I had to stop there voluntarily otherwise I wouldn’t get the appropriate paperwork and would have to come back. There were a few people in dark blue uniforms lounging around a table smoking. I stopped to ask them where I could import my motorcycle. I attempted to say “I’m going to Monterrey” in Spanish, knowing that Monterrey is beyond the free trade zone. I was pointed to the Banjercito, across the way.
I turned immediately left and rode 10 metres up a one way street the wrong way to pull into the carpark in front of the Banjercito. I have read that at some borders the Banjercito can be quite far from the actual border. Here in Ciudad Miguel Alemán it is physically adjacent to the Migracion office, easy.
I walked into the Banjercito office and was served immediately through a glass counter. The girl spoke little or no English, about the same as my Spanish! A helpful fella translated and explained I needed to go to the migracion office first. After a little navigational difficulty, I found it. The migracion office is on the same side of the road, 3 doors closer to the USA side of the bridge.
The migracion official was interested my plentiful visits to Cambodia. I used to cross the Cambodian border every 3 months in Thailand, so I have 3 or 4 full page Cambodian visas in my passport. After a bit of pleasant chit chatter translated by the various people in the office, we established that I was retired, riding a motorcycle, and 90 days would be sufficient.
They asked how long I wanted to stay in Mexico. I believe I could have asked for up to 180 days but they mentioned 90 and I figured that would be fine. If I stay any longer in Mexico it might take me years to get to South America. The migracion officer filled in my form for me. All I had to do was point out the address on my driving license, sign, and smile.
I was handed the carbon copy to take to the Banjercito to pay the fee. It was about $20 USD for the Permiso Personal I believe. Although the simplest part of the process, I think this was the most time consuming. There were two or three people in front of me in the queue at the Banjercito and it took forever to get through them with only 1 caja open.
Eventually some vaguely manager looking fella came out and started shouting at the poor girl behind the counter. Then he called a young fella from the back office and a second caja was opened.
When it came time to actually pay the fee, I handed over my good old British Chip & Pin visa debit card. This caused some confusion. He tried swiping it several times, apparently struggling to understand the Spanish instructions on the machine telling him to insert the card into the chip reading slot. Finally his colleague assisted and put the card into the slot. Then the machine asked for my PIN number, in Spanish of course. Well this caused even more confusion. He didn’t have a PIN number, so he called the manager looking fella. Then he cancelled the transaction and the manager tried the same process again.
Watching all of this I knew what was going on but lacked the Spanish to intervene. I was also puzzled as to how I was going to enter my PIN number through a 1 inch gap in the glass window. The machine had no detachable keypad and was several times larger than the hole in the glass. Oh yay for Mexican engineering…
Eventually, after the manager asked me, in English, to tell him my PIN, I suggested I try typing it through the window. In my head I was running over the risk of telling them my PIN number. I figured I’d have to call my bank nearly immediately and have a new PIN number issued. That would involve it being mailed to my mum, she’d need to read it, forward it on to me, etc. My card would be out of service for a week or two at least.
While they held the keypad up to the window, I was able to stick my finger through and punch in the numbers. Not exactly great PIN security, but it seemed preferable to reading my PIN number aloud for all and sundry to hear!
So, payment number one completed, I returned to the migracion office to have my, now paid, Permiso Personal, stamped. This part was painless. I walked in, handed over the paperwork, it was stamped and handed back to me. Muchas gracias.
Now I went to the copias booth which had been pointed out to me by the helpful translating fella earlier. The girl in the booth looked cute to me, but that might have been more to do with her flawless, effortless command of English than her physical appearance. I was grateful to be able to complete one part of the transaction without guessing what was being said to me.
I required copies of my paid and stamped Permiso Personal, my driving license, my vehicle title and my passport. I already had copies of all my own documents, so I only required 1 copy of the Permiso Personal at a cost of 50 cents. Expensive for a photocopy perhaps., but a bargain to be confirm, in English, that I had all the copies I needed!
I returned to the Banjercito, this time to get my temporarily import my vehicle. The girl behind the counter was incredibly diligent. She checked every piece of paperwork slowly and carefully, then compared every document to every other document and the computer screen, to ensure my name and other details were identical in all cases.
The same confusion arose with the Chip and Pin payment once again. This time, not content with the Spanish equivalent of “transaction confirmed by PIN”, she asked me to sign the receipt. Then she fished out my first payment receipt and had me sign that one just to be sure. I know all of this was completely unnecessary but it seemed so much simpler to just sign than debate it. This permit cost about $30 US dollars.
Then some lengthy discussion broke out in Spanish. Various permits and pieces of paper were handed about, discussed, disapproving looks exchanged, tempers flared, one girl whose job seemed to be standing around, looked apologetically at me as if to say “sorry about these crazy people”. Finally, after maybe 20 minutes of standing at the counter handing my documents back and forth through the glass more times than I remember, I was handed my completed paperwork. I checked that I had all my own documents, and now a new vehicle import sticker. I was set. Muchas gracias, I bowed with my hands palm to palm as if praying, and left the office.
I decided a victory cigarette was in order. I checked the time and realised the process had taken a little over 90 minutes. Wow. Arriving early in the day was good advice I had read somewhere! I rolled a smoke, checked with the assault rifle armed military fella if I could smoke there, and lit up.
A few minutes later a girl from the Banjercito office came out and asked me for something. I wasn’t sure what, so I volunteered the import sticker. She said something along the lines of, could she take it back inside for a few minutes. I smiled, of course, no problema. A few minutes passed. I responsibly disposed of my cigarette butt in a nearby barrel. I sat and waited a few more minutes.
Finally the girl who had served me returned with my sticker and asked if she could borrow my debit card just one last time. At least, that’s what I assume she said. She took my card and ran a pencil over the name section to take an imprint on one of her many pieces of paper.
When I was first given the import sticker they asked me to verify the VIN number and if it was correct, I was good to go. Now the girl wanted to double check the VIN herself I think. I pointed it out on the bike and made some sort of “same same” remark.
I asked about sticking the permit on the bike. The instructions say stick the permit behind the rear view mirror on the inside of the windshield. No such location exists on my motorcycle and everywhere on the bike is exposed to the elements. She didn’t seem concerned and swiftly stuck the permit on the underside of my windscreen. I tried to ask about rain but my Spanish and hand signals weren’t up to it. By this point I decided to take what I could get and leave before I was asked for my card once more.
I donned my gear, buttoned up, and rolled out from the border following the well marked route to Monterrey. Yee haa, I was once again in the Republic of Mexico, and it was warm. Viva Mexico!
It’s been a while since my last update, about 2’000 miles and 24 days. I’ll try to catch up on the trip since leaving Elkins, West Virginia.
My next stop was Lexington, Kentucky which was a halfway stop towards St Louis, Missouri. I discovered ready made, ready rolled pizza bases in Lexintgon. We made pizza by opening a can, spreading the base on a tray, and adding toppings. It was pretty darn tasty. Leaving Lexington I passed through 4 states on my way to St Louis. I woke up in Kentucky, had lunch in Indiana, stopped for gas in Illinois and arrived in Missouri.
I was headed to St Louis to see Liz, a friend I met in Guadalajara, Mexico. Liz was back home in St Louis, the home of Budweiser beer I discovered. I had a great time staying with Liz and her parents, Brian and Lynn McKenna. Lynn’s cooking is the stuff of legend. Brian is a retired police officer and now trains policemen to prepare for violent encounters. Made for some really interesting conversations.
St Louis is the home of Anheuser Busch, the brewers of Budweiser. The brewery tour was really interesting. An hour long tour of the facility including 2 free drinks at the end of it. I was impressed by the little details. Anheuser Busch give wood chips used in the brewing process to local parks. They run a stable of Clydesdale horses and Budweiser wagons that tour the country for parades and so on. The tour itself employs close to 40 people in the down season, and a ton of technology. Without bragging about it, Anheuser Busch seemed like reasonably responsible corporate citizens. Of course, maybe that’s the whole point of the tour, to create that appearance!
My next destination was Caitlin’s farm in rural Arkansas. I broke the ride with a stop in Springfield, Missouri. I stayed with Braden and Micah who were excellent hosts. We ate some of the saltiest, most stomach pain inducing bar food I’ve ever consumed at the local Wing Shack. A truly mid-western experience! Then Micah took me to a Springfield college party. Good times. Thanks guys.
Rural north-west Arkansas is really something to behold. There’s a very special kind of freedom enjoyed by the people in this part of the world. Life is so remote out there that enforcement of the law is sporradic at best. With an Arkansas state ID one can walk into a gun shop, pass a NICS background check, and purchase a rifle or handgun immediately, without permit or registration. Sale of firearms between individuals is largely uncontrolled and unrecorded.
The culture I experienced in rural Arkansas reminded me of my travels through rural, upstate New York. There’s a real survivalist mentality in a lot of rural America. The landscape is often harsh, with cold, snow covered winters. The “state” doesn’t provide much to the really rural households. Keeping roads cleared of snow, fallen trees, and so on often falls to the locals themselves. It’s simply not practical to maintain such an extensive infrastructure in places so remote.
Often descended from Scots and Irish, these people are from hardy stock. The people who choose to remain in these parts of the world survive under conditions that most other people choose to leave. Winter life is physically hard, cold and dark. Electricity, telephone and roads are about the only national infrastructure that reaches all the way out into the deepest forest. There’s no water mains, sewage, gas or rubbish collection. Houses are responsible for their own water supply, hauling their own trash and any gas is from bottles.
If the apocalypse comes, the folks who live in the woods in north-west Arkansas are well prepared for it. People out here pride themselves on hunting, persevering and surviving.
For a long time I assumed that rural was synonymous with hillbilly and redneck. In truth, I met some very liberal, open minded, well travelled, globally aware, almost hippies in rural parts. I think many people are attracted to the practical, daily freedoms enjoyed in these parts. When you live 10 or 15 miles off the nearest tar road, government bureaucracy has a slightly different flavour to it. Building regulations, planning laws, production and posession of contraband, they’re considerably more theoretical out in the depth of the Arkansas woods.
Personally, I had a great time on the farm with Caitlin, Matt, Jeff and Megan. I fired a handgun for the first time, a silver 38 special revolver. I also fired Matt’s 1943 M1 rifle. The rifle saw action in World War 2, Korea and Vietnam. Matt has a bayonettte, weapons belt and harness to match, mostly original issue.
After 5 days on the farm, trying to find a break in the weather, I said my goodbyes and set sail for Memphis, Tennesse.
In Memphis I stayed with the folks who live at De Cleyre. The house itself has a really interesting history and the folks I met there were, without exception, fascinating human beings. The house is cooperatively owned by the people who lived there. It was purchased in 1998 with a mortgage from another cooperative. The current residents pay rent towards the mortgage and upkeep. I was amazed to learn that of the current residents, Allyson is the longest standing and has only lived there for less than 3 years. So everyone who lived in the house over the years has paid a contribution towards the mortgage, then moved on. Amazing.
Terance calls the house “the experiment”. In many ways, De Cleyre is a fascinating experiment. A fairly unstructured model of cooperative living. There are a couple of fundamental house rules, any resident can ask any guest to leave for example. Otherwise, things generally seemd to “just work”. I enjoyed most of my meals in Memphis at the house, they were prepared by various people and shared. Before leaving I left a huge bag of brown rice to contribute to communal supplies. Not all meals were communal, nor did all the residents eat all the meals. In a wonderful example of the magic of chaos, those who were hungry ate, it all came together naturally, without planning.
I drank a local beer, danced on Beale Street while listening to Marc Cohn’s Walking in Memphis, smoked a Marlboro red and didn’t go to Graceland. I had a great time in Memphis on all fronts.
After 2 nights, I left Memphis on the final leg of my pilgrimage to the capital of country music, Nashville, Tennessee. My first night in Nashville I stayed with Yvonne aka The Travelling Vegetarian. We ate some amazing Ethiopian food. The centre piece of the meal for me was the bread, called Injera. Thin, bubbly like a pancake, soft and pliable, like a pancake only a little more stretchy. The meal was a collection of vegetable dishes served on a large piece of Injera with a side basket of Injera. The bread is the plate, the eating utensil and a large part of the meal.
The next couple of nights I stayed with Irina. On Saturday afternoon we took off into downtown Nashvile to tour the city. On the Shelby Street Bridge we happened upon what appeared to be the filming of a country music video. Music would blast while a fella walked down the bridge carrying his guitar case. The camera was on a little set of rails, it all looked very professional to me. Turns out it was Shane Yellowbird, a Canadian country singer, filming something for his break into the US.
Saturday night Irina and I took to the streets of downtown Nashville in search of country music and line dancing. Both were found at the Wild Horse Salloon. We paid the $5 cover just in time for the last line dancing lesson of the night at 8:45pm. Now I feel like I know how those poor Japanese tourists must have felt at their first ceilidh. I found line dancing to be a lot harder than it looked. We put in a valiant effort all the same!
From Nashville I rode 200 miles straight south down I65 to Birmingham, Alabama. I’m staying with Richey, Julio and Pari in Birmingham, this update comes to you from their couch.
Apparently 1 in 7 people in Alabama has a connection to the University of Alabama at Birmingham. There are almost 20’000 staff and another 20’000 students at UAB in Birmingham. I feel like Birmingham is a college town and perhaps not truly indicative of the state of Alabama as a whole.
I arrived in Birmingham just a few days before thanksgiving, a huge holiday in the US. Everyone on my list for Atlanta had said they would be away over thanksgiving. I was conscious that I might have trouble finding somewhere to stay. Richey said I was welcome to stay in Birmingham for thanksgiving. They were having a party and were expecting 10 to 15 people. Perfect.
Thanksgiving was a great day. I was on turkey duty. It worked out well. I pumped it full of seasoning with a giant syringe then roasted it in a browning bag. Came out juciy and flavourful, result. I took inspiration from my mother’s masterful roasting of chickens over the years.
Today I say goodbye to new friends in Birmingham. I’m heading for Jackson, Mississippi tonight and then New Orleans, Louisiana on Sunday.
I have taken some photos on this leg of the trip but I’ve yet to sort and upload them. I’ll try to put them on the map once they’re ready.
I arrived in Philadelphia on Sunday afternoon. Phillip had kindly offered me a place to stay. I was in for a treat. Phillip’s Jamaican hospitality was quite spectacular. He cooked, cooked and cooked some more. I was treated to great food, an education on baseball, and hearty conversation.
Sunday afternoon I had assembled a motorcycle gang. I’d invited a few locals to ride. Vicky took my passenger spot and Vasily brought Danni on his bike. Our gang of two motorcycles and four people was born!
We drove around the art gallery that Rocky famously runs up the steps to reach. We parked our bikes at the top of the steps soaked up the view. All the while the words to Bruce Springsteen’s Streets of Philadelphia were running through my head. Glorious!
From Philadelphia I cruised southwards to Alexandria to visit Margaret. Alexandria is a suburb of Washington DC. The District of Columbia itself is quite small, so the surrounding towns in Baltimore and Virginia are effectively suburbs of DC, albeit across state borders.
Margaret invited me to Alexandria about a year ago. I made a point to stop through on my trip south. I’m really glad I did. Margaret and Brett were wonderful hosts, I’m very grateful to them and their family, I had a wonderful time. Margaret is an incredible cook, I ate more homemade cookies and chocolate cake than I can remember. I perpetually stuffed myself with great food while I was visiting.
On Friday night I had my first Bhangra experience in Washington DC. Wow. I don’t think my words could possibly do justice to this traditional north Indian dance. Instead I’ll share this video I found on YouTube. Picture the upstairs room of a bar packed with maybe 100 people dancing something like this, with a little less somersaulting.
After 4 nights of creature comfort, family home cooking and general relaxation, I left Alexandria and began the 900 mile ride west to St Louis, Missouri. My friend Andrew Chant said I simply had to visit West Virginia. He’d looked at Google Earth and was blown away by extent of the forest. So off into West Virginia I went.
Just before I closed my laptop in Alexandria, I got an message from Kristina inviting me to stay in Elkins. I had sent a few messages asking for places to stay in Elkins and Charleston. Kristina was the first person to accept and she got back to me in perfect time. I set off with Elkins in mind.
Just before leaving New York, I had ordered a few things for the bike. My chain was making some seriously painful sounds, so one of the things I ordered was a new chain and sprockets. JD recommended I replace the chain as soon as possible. He didn’t think the chain would make it the 1’100 miles to St Louis. I was optimistic. He was right!
The chain was delivered to Alexandria so I set off with a replacement chain and sprockets in my luggage. Some 120 miles into the day I turned off the main highway onto the old road. The old road had looked smaller, more winding and potentially more interesting on the map. A mile or two off the highway, there was a loud grinding noise. I dumped the clutch, braked hard and pulled over. I looked down to see the chain dragging on the ground.
The chain was intact, but no longer riding on the rear sprocket. Ok, I thought, I can fix this. I have all the tools to tighten the chain, no big deal. After a bit of wrestling to get the bike on the side stand, then the centre stand, I got the tools out and tightened the chain. It was super loose, so I figured that had caused the derailment. After 20 minutes or so, I was back on the road, we were off.
Not so fast. About 2 miles further, I heard a much louder, much gnarlier grinding noise. I dropped the clutch, but the noise kept up. I slammed the brakes hard and stopped on a gentle hill. This time the chain was caught between the sprocket and the wheel. Not good. After some wrestling I worked the chain free.
Then I got the chain back on and tightened it even more. I started off slowly. I’d heard some unhealthy noises from the chain in New York. Now with the chain so tight the same noise was back. I was about 80 miles from my target for the night, it was almost 3pm, and I had no more than 3 hours of daylight left. The bike sounded really bad above 30 mph, so I spent the best part of 3 hours enjoying the scenery at a very leisurely pace.
I was riding through pretty hilly country. I took it easy on the uphills so as not to stress the chain. On the downhills I put the bike into neutral, turned the engine off, and let gravity do the work. There were points where I reached nearly 50 mph on the downhills.
Just a little after dark, around 6pm, I rolled into Elkins. We had made it. The chain was intact, still attached, and the bike kept moving forwards, albeit slowly. Happy days.
My t-mobile cell phone has no service in Elkins. I’d asked Kristina for her phone number so I could call when I got into town. I wasn’t sure when or if I’d be stopping. Expecting my cell phone to work was a flaw in my plan. No worries, I found a payphone and the $1 for a 3 minute call wasn’t too extortionate. A few minutes later I arrived the house, just in time to meet the housemates, most of whom were in the kitchen cooking dinner. Score.
West Virginia and Elkins have been interesting. Fairly typical of rural USA I think. I’m reminded of visits to Saranac Lake in upstate New York, or Cherryfield, Maine, the blueberry capital of the USA.
There seems to be a mix of people born here and people moved here. The incomers have chosen to come to this place for a reason. Usually people move to places like this for the natural setting, the rural country life and in some measure, I think, to change the world. It takes a special type of person to choose to live in a redneck rural town like this.
I haven’t delved very deeply into the culture here, but I expect I’d find the same uneducated ignorance I’ve seen in other rural north American settings. Those words sound harsher than I mean them to be. I mean uneducated and ignorant in the factual sense, limited access to education and lacking in knowledge.
As I write this, my fives hosts in Elkins are sitting in their living room playing traditional, local Appalachian music. I’m certainly not sure of this, but my guess is that this type of music is kept alive by a mixture of incomers and fairly small group of “intellectual” locals. It seems like a first-world-wide phenomenon. Local culture is given up by the majority of locals while a group of well meaning incomers struggles to keep it alive.
Personally, I feel grateful to be sitting in a house of five musicians listening to them play in their living room. There’s something I like about folk music. Particularly when it’s played live.
Tomorrow I’ll continue eastwards saying farewell to Elkins and passing from West Virginia into Kentucky. I’ve put a few requests out for places to stay in Lexington, I’m waiting to hear. Either way, I have camping gear. It’s pretty damn cold to be camping, but I’m confident I’ll survive.
I’ll sign off with a few pictures from this leg of the trip.
Note: I’m working on the gallery. I’m hoping to launch some improvements soon and make it easier for me to upload images. In the meantime, apologies for any hassles browsing the photos.
I’m thinking about the places I’d like to visit in the eastern United States. I’ve plotted a route that I might loosely follow. I’m working on my real-time map. Soon you’ll be able to compare this route projection with my actual route, updated live.
Since receiving my spot messenger I’ve been looking at mapping. I’d like to create a live route map that documents my travels. I’ve taken inspiration from Mark Beaumont’s map. Mark is cycling from Anchorage, Alaska to Ushuaia, Argentina, you can read more on his site.
The spot will update my location every 10 minutes. For $50 a year Spot will give me a map that shows my current location plus, I believe, up to 30 days of history. Example. I’d like to show my whole trip, more than 30 days of history. A little hacking turned up this. It’s the feed that drives spot’s map. Hopefully with a little jiggery-pokery, I can use the feed to create my own map with pieces added.
I’d like to show the following:
Is there anything else you would like to see on the map? Are you familiar with open source mapping? Do you want to help me put this together? Do you know of any mapping services I could use? Thanks in advance for your help.
Here’s a random picture from a flickr search for maps to brighten your screen.
Lucy and I left New York City yesterday headed for Ashford, Connecticut to meet Cuzin John. En-route we stopped in my third Portland in the United States. This was Portland, Connecticut rather than Portland, Maine or Portland, Oregon.
We arrived in Ashford around 4:30pm to visit Cuzin John. I met Cuzin Bob at a blueberry farm in Maine last week. Cuzin Bob suggested I’d enjoy meeting Cuzin John and told me a little about his place. John lives on 30 acres of land in north eastern Connecticut. They’re almost totally “off the grid” here. Solar and wind power, on-site sewage, well water. Most of their food is grown here on the land. It’s an amazing place.
I’ve learned lots about solar power, batteries, the pros and cons of wires, and more. I’m grateful to Cuzin Bob for the introduction and Cuzin John for his hospitality. I’ll write more on these topics in the future.
This afternoon we’re heading for Boston to stay with Emma and her merry band of roommates. We’ll probably head back towards New York City on Friday.
I just stepped outside and snapped some pics. Here’s a shot of the house nestling in the trees.
Tthe solar array that powers the whole house year round, with a minimal assistance from a wind turbine.
Now the front of the house with Lucy reading on the deck. On the right hand side of this picture you can see the solar water heating that provides all the hot water in summer and pre-heats the water in the darker months. To the left of that is a small gate with an outdoor shower where I washed this morning. Then the left most part of the house is a screen room, see the last picture below.
Here’s the view from behind Lucy looking out at the garden over the deck. The vegetable garden is the first enclosure and the second is the vineyard.
Here’s the inside of the screen room. The windows are insect screens rather than glass, so the breeze blows gently through the whole room. It feels like it would be a wonderful place to sit in the summertime.
James asked for more pictures, so more pictures I offer you.
To start with here’s a few scenic shots on the route from Quebec City to Baie Ste Catherine.
The fourth photo in the set was taken from the bike while in motion.
At Baie Ste Catherine the road runs right onto the ferry dock. There is no bridge across the water to Tadoussac, so 3 boats operate in constant rotation ferrying vehicles back and forth. The crossing is free and takes about 10 minutes. Here’s a shot looking at the oncoming boat as we cross the water.
From Tadoussac it was a short 45 minute ride to Les Escoumins to catch a boat across the river to Trois Pistoles on the other side. Pierre-Yves told me the west side of the river is a lot more beautiful, so I rode up that side to Les Escoumins before crossing over to continue on the east side of the river. It was a beautiful ride, thanks for the advice PY. Here’s a shot of Bessy tied down on the ferry across the river.
I landed in Trois Pistoles around 4:30pm. I had made an early start from Quebec after a short night’s sleep so I was pretty tired on the boat. I rode an hour or two further north looking for places to camp. The coastline north of Trois Pistoles is quite densely populated. There was a house, a town, a shop or some other building every few kilometres. In search of a quiet spot to camp, I turned off the main road into the forest on a dirt road. After another couple of turns on logging roads, I found a clearing where I set up camp for the night.
The next morning I decided to head out of the forest on a different road from the one I came in on. I figured I would find my way out eventually! After riding for a while I realised I’d better be careful of how much fuel I had. I stopped to ask directions at some houses in the middle of nowhere. Nobody was home.
Here’s a shot looking at the bike from between the houses. We were very much in the middle of the forest!
Following the road to the right in the picture above I came to a stop sign. Are those bullet holes? Why yes it appears they are!
At this cross roads, I noticed signs marking quad bike trail 30 trans-Quebec. I figured that would be fun to follow, so I set off on the trail eastwards. As I turned left from the stop sign above, this was the view. I thought it was striking just how deep in the forest I seemed to be.
This is the trail I was following.
After following the trail eastwards for a while, I came upon a road. I decided to check my GPS and follow the roads again. Then I also realised that I had been heading eastwards, which was taking me away from the coast, not towards it. It had lead me back onto the road and so then I turned northwards and set off back on the tarmac heading for the coastal road again.
Further north I was amazed to see a whole field of stopped windmills. All of them were stationary. There seemed to be a wind blowing where I was standing, but not one blade turning. It was quite an enchanting sight.
A little further up the road I saw a couple of people trying to push a car onto the road. They had missed the corner coming out of a lay by and the rear right wheel had dropped into a ditch. I stopped to lend a hand. They’d built up a pile of rocks under the wheel. We piled a few more onto the pile and the car came out like a charm. Looked like there was no damage. They were from Ottawa heading up to Gaspe camping. Here’s the view from the spot where they got stuck with them in the foreground. I forget their names.
Random lighthouse, I had James in mind when I stopped to take this picture.
Here’s a couple of scenic shots somewhere on the west side from Gaspe down to PEI. I’m not sure if these are in Quebec or New Brunswick.
Here’s Confederation Bridge that links mainland Canada with Prince Edward Island. It’s an amazing structure, 13 km long. As I rode towards the bridge, it seemed to stretch all the way to the horizon. I took several photos from the bike as I crossed the bridge, but none of them captured the sensation of driving across. The bridge seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of me. At $17 for a motorcycle, I think the bridge is worth a drive. You only pay to leave PEI, either by ferry or bridge. The ferry is $39 to leave, the bridge $17. If I had arrived by ferry and left by bridge I’d have saved $22! I’ll catch the ferry off the island tomorrow morning for Pictou, Nova Scotia.
On the island I took one of my hosts, Megan, out for her first ride on a motorcycle. She was nervous at first but having a blast by the end of the afternoon. We went to New Glasgow. I had seen New Glasgow on the map in Nova Scotia, apparently there is also a New Glasgow on Prince Edward Island. I was curious to compare it to the original.
We stopped for a bite to eat at the Prince Edward Island Preserve Company, New Glasgow. The tea room is in a wonderful spot. We got a great seat looking at this amazing river view.
Megan ordered a cup of tea which I thought was quite spectacular.
From the window I had seem a man in a kilt driving people around in a golf cart. As we left, I spotted the cart again and stopped to take a picture. The driver is Bruce MacNaughton, owner and host. I mentioned (as the good brotherly salesman) that my brother sells kilts, and Bruce said customers regularly ask where they can buy a kilt. I smelled some business to be done. Bruce gave me a card and I made an email introduction to my bro at BuyAKilt.com.
Then Bruce emailed me back to ask if I’d spend some time with him talking about social networking. I’m heading back to New Glasgow as soon as I finish this post to meet with Bruce.
On the way back to Charlottetown from New Glasgow I snappd this picture of the PEI coastline. I’ve been taken by how similar in landscape this part of Canada is to Scotland. I’m looking forward to visiting Nova Scotia tomorrow.
I’ve been busy at MEC today. I bought a stove, a 1l fuel bottle, fuel, a pot / pan set, and two dry bags, a 20l one for my laptop and a 5l one for the stove.
The stove is in two parts, a fuel pump and a burner. The burner fits very nicely inside the pot set, without the lid in place. The snap shut handle of the pot holds the stove in place nicely. The pump can travel inside the fuel bottle, so the whole thing has packed down remarkably small. I’m really pleased to have my laptop inside a dry bag inside my waterproof cases. Any spills in there and the laptop will still be dry.
Here’s a video of the first burn on the stove. We made tea, it worked like a charm.
I’m leaving Quebec City tomorrow. I may be off the grid for a while as I’m now fully equipped to camp and cook wild! I’m heading for Les Escoumins to catch a boat over to Trois Pistoles, then up by way of Gaspes and back down to Charlottetown, PEI. Here’s a map of my proposed route courtesy of Google.
This post has been a long time coming. What seems like a lifetime ago, back in July, I was in Saskatchewan. In my opinion, Saskatchewan is a little slice of magic, a little gem in the otherwise flat, desolate Canadian prairie. It stands between Alberta and Manitoba as a vision of what is possible on the prairie. Take note neighbouring provinces I say!
It all started at Ness Creek. I arrived the day before the festival started looking to volunteer in exchange for my entrance fee. Volunteering really made the festival what it was. I had a great time, met amazing people, and took away wonderful memories. A friend once told me that going to Burning Man every year is like going home to see the familiy for xmas. I really got a sense of that at Ness Creek. For the week I was there, I was part of a family. A familiy that meets every year in the same place at the same time to create something together. I experienced a wonderful sense of belonging and participation.
The whole experience was made more intense by the fact that I was in the height of a recent spell of depression. I didn’t realise it at the time, but afterwards, after the depression suddenly lifted, I now see it more clearly. The intense emtional experience followed by the harsh solitude of the open road was a very tough transition. I decided not to go to Burning Man this year because I think the transition would be even more intense.
After Ness Creek I ended up at the Forget Summer Arts Festival. These were two very different festivals. Ness Creek is 4’000 young party goers gathering in the forest in a drug fuelled party that goes on well through 6am. At Forget (pronounced in French, like forjay), the main stage finished at 11pm on Saturday night. Forget was a small festival, a few hundred people, put on by members of the local community. It was really fascinating to get an inside view of how the event was produced.
I caught the last year at Forget, the festival has become too much work for the organisers. I really felt that during my time there. People seemed to be straining to keep up with all the tasks they had set themselves. It was an admirable effort and a great event. I also believe it could also have been half as much work, but that’s a post for another day.
Here’s a few snaps and some tales from Ness Creek. I didn’t take any pictures at Forget. To start with, here’s the view of the creek from the bridge. Ness Creek really is a beautiful spot.
That picture was taken from this bridge.
I spent a lot of time with Mark and Amy, father and daughter. Amy is very proud of having built this jeep out of several other jeeps for her dad. Girl power!
This photo gives you a bit of a feel for the festival during daylight hours. This is the main stage.
Here’s my friend Malika on stage.
Here’s me earning my keep as a volunteer.
I heard a Scottish fiddle onstage. Given my volunteering status, I had a backstage pass. So I went backstage afterwards to meet the girls from Pacific Curls, two Kiwis and a Scot. Lo and behold, Sarah Beattie, the Scottish fiddler, went to school with my cousins in a small Scottish town called Inverurie. Here I was at a festival in the Canadian wilderness, some 3’681 miles from Inverurie, and I meet someone who went to school with my cousins, amazing.
Here’s Sarah and the gals on stage.
Finally, here’s a picture of the sun setting (or was it rising?) over the car park. This relays a little of the magic that I felt at Ness Creek.
I spent the day with the awesome folks at Dual Sport Plus in Stoney Creek, just outside Toronto. I was told that Les, who owns the shop, is a KLR master. He’s a fellow KLR rider and very knowledgeable. He’s ridden KLRs all over the Americas I understand.
In the afternoon I spotted what I suspected was a Google street view car. I was correct. I snapped a few pics.
Turns out the driver was in the shop talking motorbikes. The car is about $16k he said, the cameras and computer equipment $80k! Quite the setup. There are 9 cameras on the vehicle. Four pointing forward / back / left / right, four diagonally and one upwards. Here’s a close up.
Rick is the mechanic at Dual Sport Plus. He’s also a fine fellow and was very helpful today. He talked me thorugh the doohickey upgrade. That’s the technical term! Here’s Rick reading the manual.
In addition to the doohickey upgrade I also changed the oil, switched to a re-usable oil filter, replaced the brake and clutch levers, upgraded the gear shifter pedal and gave the bike a bit of a clean. Here’s a photo once we’ve got the side of the engine off.
The pieces that we’ve taken off are lying on rags on the floor.
Once we got the engine side open, we discovered the piece we were replacing had split into two. The spring that is supposed to hold tension on the chain had completely vanished. It’s probably buried inside the engine somewhere. Now that I’ve got the upgrade installed, the bike sounds much healthier. It almost purrs now. Accelerating no longer sounds like the engine is destroying itself. Happy days.
Big thanks to Rick and Les. If you find yourself in Toronto needing motorbike assitance I highly recommend Dual Sport Plus.
I had the privilege of riding with a few members of the Canadian Bondslave Motorcycle Club recently. I met Gerry “Shot Put” and Bill “William Tell” by the side of the road. I had just returned to my motorcycle to fix a puncture. Almost as soon as I arrived, Bill and Gerry pulled over. After the wheel was back on the bike, they offered to ride with me to Thunder Bay to make sure I made it in one piece. I was grateful for the escort and excited to try riding with others.
Riding with the Bondslave members was my first group riding experience. As a motorcycle club they have a protocol as to how they ride. They ride in formation, side by side in pairs, in tight rows. Road captain, officers, members, probates, guests. At first I was a little nervous of riding so close to other bikes, but after a while I got used to it settled into the formation. As a guest I was usually riding at the back. It’s a very different experience to ride so closely behind another bike.
Usually while riding I’m pushing my awareness of the road as far as I reasonably can. I’m looking to anticipate turns, vehicles, people, animals, road hazards, and so on. Anything that might require me to take action. Riding in tight formation my attention was more closely focused on the bike in front. I placed a great deal of trust in the rider in front of me, trusting him to see the road for me. I would still look ahead somewhat, but most of my attention was on the rider in front and the road between me and their bike.
The riders use hand and foot signals to communicate. For example, if the rider in front’s left leg floats outwards from his bike, he’s warning you of something on the road. A pat on the head means police. A single finger pointed upwards (singalling 1) and touching his helmet means fall into single file.
The formation and signals seem to be an integral part of the spirit of a motorcycle club. The club has a structure, a purpose, a way in which things are done. There are formal and informal rules about how men conduct themselves within the club. There is a protocol to govern riding with other club members. Protocols about colours (the badges that show club membership) and so on.
I was told that the Bondslave club was founded by a man in prison and that many of the members are recovering alcoholics, recovering drug addicts, ex outlaws, and so on. (I believe an outlaw, in this sense, is a person living a lifestyle outside of the law.) These men have found Jesus and have been saved. One of the men told me he had come face to face with death through a drug induced heart attack. He had lost his wife, his children, his family and his health to alcohol and drug addiction. His journey to find Jesus and the resulting faith had saved his life and returned him to his loved ones.
These words might sound light and airy. These men and their stories are not so. When these men tell me they had been saved, I truly believe them. They told me they had made radical changes in their lives that brought their familys, their health, and much more, back to them. I felt honoured and humbled to hear their stories and share in their journeys.
I met 6 Bondslave members Gerry “Shot Put”, Bill “William Tell”, Barry “2 Speed”, Alf “Petra”, Kerry “Salt” and Mike “Lucky”. Each of these men was kind, generous, friendly and only warm towards me. Gerry and Bill stopped to help me without any request. They went above and beyond offering to ride with me to Thunder Bay. They went to Thunder Bay to visit their brothers there. Alf, local to Thunder Bay, arranged accommodation for us in their club house. He showed us the sights of Thunder Bay. He told fantastic stories of his family and his daughters adventures in Sweden and Finland. He offered the use of his garage where we changed my rear inner tube. Later the same day he noticed my tail light was out. Within a couple of hours he had given me a replacement bulb and a spare to carry.
The members said grace before eating each meal. I couldn’t seem to remember that, so mostly grace was said after I had started! A few years ago I would have felt resistance to the idea of saying grace. Now, it felt meaningful to give reverence before eating. The members also shared a number of prayers with me. Again, I would have strongly resisted this in the past. Today, I feel privileged to have shared in these men’s prayers.
I have a slightly different view of divinity and spirituality than the Bondslave members. However, we share a great deal of common belief. I perceive that Jesus is the vehicle Bondslave members use to embody their spirituality and divinity. My own perception is different in appearance, but remarkably similar in fundamentals.
I would like to thank the 6 Bondslave members I met and rode with for sharing with me. Sharing their company, their stories, their prayers. This is a brotherhood of men that I found to be only positive, only kind and generous beyond compare. Thank you.
Now I’ll share some pictures.
Here’s Gerry, me and Bill, bikes in the background, getting coffee at Tim Hortons as we arrive in Thunder Bay.
Bill posing by the shore!
Bessy parked between some of the Bondslave bikes at the Thunder Bay clubhouse. Barry “2 Speed” sitting on the far bike.
A view over Thunder Bay.
A few of the guys showing their colours.
Now their faces and badges. From left to right Kerry “Salt”, Alf “Petra” (our Thunder Bay host), Bill “William Tell”, Mike “Lucky”, Gerry “Shot Put”.
Before Bill and Gerry left for Winnipeg we had breakfast at Kakabeka falls. It’s a beautiful spot.
Looking back upon this adventure, I’m glad to have had a puncture and not had the tools to fix it. The whole experience turned out to be overwhelmingly positive.
I pulled off the road into a picnic site. It was a beautiful spot. Right on the lakeside, drenched in glorious sunshine.
I was feeling pretty sweet. I ate an apple, used the bathroom, basked in the warmth of the sun for a bit. Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I set off. I blasted out of the car park, maybe a little too quickly.
I hit the highway and opened her up. I hit 100km/h in no time. As soon as I got up to speed, I felt the back end go squishy. It was gently mushy at first. I rolled off the throttle and the bike slowed down. Then it got really wobbly, the back end felt like it was swinging 6 inches to either side. I looked at the ground and felt sure I was going down. I remembered the advice from my training, brake on the good wheel. I slowed below 30km/h, then slow enough to get my feet near the ground. Finally the bike came to a rest and I was still upright, phew.
I felt relief to be rubber side down. The last few seconds were particularly hairy as the bike seemed to be completely out of control. I didn’t understand what was going on, I just knew something was very wrong. I felt pretty intense fear. Thankfully, it all ended peacefully. It was a puncture in the rear wheel.
With the back tyre completely flat, the bike was sitting much lower to the ground than usual. The side stand was too high to work. I tried to get the bike onto the centre stand, but it was too low and too heavy. While holding the bike upright, I unclipped my bag and dropped it off the bike. It was still too low and too heavy, I tried as hard as I could to get it up on the centre stand, but I couldn’t.
Now I’m standing by the side of the road, holding the bike with one hand, trying to flag down some help with the other. I’m thinking, my choices are either stand here until I get help or drop the bike. If nobody stops, I’ll have to drop the bike eventually. After a few minutes a couple of motorbikes come by and stop. They give me a hand and we get the bike on the stand. Thank you guys.
Ok, now the bike is upright, but I’ve got a nail in my tyre and no tools. It’s Sunday and a holiday weekend. It’ll be Tuesday before bike shops are open. I decide to hitch a ride into Kenora, about 40km back west, and try to buy tools. I have a spare inner tube with me, but no tools. I lock up the bike, grab some gear, and cross the road to hitch. Very quickly a couple of guys pick me up and drop me right at Canadian Tire in Kenora. Big thanks.
Here’s a picture of Bessy as I leave her road side to hitch back into Kenora.
I spent a good hour in Canadian Tire. I went over and over the repair in my head. I made a list of everything I’d need. I double and triple checked the list. I wanted the repair to work first time. Getting back and forth to the bike wasn’t going to be easy.
I bought a beautiful $100 Leatherman multi-tool. It’s a really nice piece of kit. I got an adjustable spanner, an inner tube patch kit, and a bicycle pump. Canadian Tire don’t stock motorcycle tyre levers, so I bought a pry bar instead. It’s somewhat similar, but with sharp edges that threatened to trap the tube if I wasn’t careful. Ideally you want 3 levers, but I figured I could make do with one pry bar and the Leatherman.
In the height of the midday sunshine I walked to the outskirts of town to hitch back to the bike. I was wearing all my bike gear and sweating profusely. I watched dozens of cars go by without stopping. After a while I gave up on that spot and walked back to the gas station. Then I spotted the Greyhound bus station across the road. I went over and asked the driver if I could catch the bus to my bike. He said sure, no problem, he’d give me a ride. Score. Big thanks Jerry and Greyhound.
The puncture was around 10:30am. It’s now 2:30pm as I get back to the bike with the tools. No sooner have I gotten myself setup to start than two bikers pull over. A couple of minutes later, another 4 bikes pull over. Before long there’s a group of people all working on changing the tyre. I really would have struggled on my own, so huge thanks to all the guys who stopped.
The $20 pump fell apart. First the pressure gauge didn’t work at all. Then the handle came completely out of the body. It looked like the glue had melted. The tyre was only partially inflated at this point. Nobody else was carrying a pump. The tyre looked firm enough to ride slowly. After we got the wheel back on, most of the guys got back on the road. The first two to stop, Bill and Gerry, were heading to Thunder Bay. I had in mind to hit Thunder Bay myself. They said they’d ride with me and make sure I got there ok.
We took it really easy to the first gas station with an air hose. I inflated the tyre to the regular pressure, and the bike was good to go. The three of us set off for Thunder Bay in convoy. I’ll talk more about riding with Bill and Gerry in the next post. Right now, two days later, I’m about to leave Thunder Bay heading for Toronto. I expect to arrive in Toronto by Sunday, potentially sooner.
A big thank you to all the people who helped me. I was slow getting tools because I figured any type of break down would make the trip more colourful and introduce me to people. It really did. I’m now glad I have the tools, but I’m also glad I didn’t have them for this break down. The puncture was really a blessing that introduced me to a lot of wonderful people and reminded me of the motorcycling spirit.
On Tuesday 30 June I left Vancouver with Alethia and Elizabeth heading north to Spirit River, some 1’263km or 14 hours 38 minutes away. It was quite the drive. Me on the bike, the girls in the truck. Between lack of cell phone service, misunderstood communication, and running out of gas, it was quite a stressful journey. We went north Tara’s wedding, Alethia’s sister. Finally, we made it to Grande Prairie only an hour late for the stagette.
I joined the boys for the stag the following evening. Most of the night was spent in Showgirls, the local strip bar. I’ve never seen so much cash thrown at women in my life. I reckon the guys spent at least $150 each that night. It was quite an experience. The girls have magnets they use to collect the coins after their show. I was quite impressed, I haven’t seen anything like that in Bangkok.
Tara and Josey were married on Sunday. It was a beautiful day. Sunshine from morning till night, light rain in the small hours. The ceremony and reception was beautiful. Here’s a photo the bride and groom cutting the cake.
After the wedding we spent one night in Grande Prairie then parted company. Alethia and Elizabeth went back to Vancouver and I headed east to Edmonton. It rained, rained and rained some more on my ride to Edmonton. I spent a day in Edmonton with Chris and Jess, thanks guys. Jess was off work sick so we hung out in the house most of the day. I went out to try and buy some gloves, otherwise I spent the whole day in front on the laptop, avoiding the rain.
My road trip really began when I left Grande Prairie. I was on the road alone, with no-one to see and nowhere to be. I started to feel the freedom of the open road. I started taking my time, riding more slowly, stopping more frequently. Aside from the hammering rain, the riding was very pleasant.
From Edmonton my next stop was Saskatoon. Here’s a Bessy against the Saskatchewan horizon.
A self portrait of me suited and booted.
In Saskatoon I stayed with Gina for a couple of nights. We had some fascinating conversations. Gina is the gardener at a hotel in Saskatoon. Here she is tending to her flock.
After staying at Gina’s I was invited to spend the weekend with Thomas and his family at their cabin. Laura, Thomas’s mother, throws one fantastic party. There were 8 of us in total and Laura had brought and prepared enough food for a small army. We were very well fed, I had a wonderful weekend.It was at the cabin I found out about the Ness Creek festival. More on the festivals later.
I took Laura for a ride on the motorcycle. She said on her 50th birthday she decided to try 50 new things, and having done that, she was well into her second 50. It was her first time on a motorcycle and we hit 100km/h, one more for her list.
Here’s the sun setting over the garden at the cabin.
There was a magnificent rainbow over the neighbouring cabins.
While riding in Saskatchewan I saw a sign that said “Point of Interest 1km”. In keeping with my new leisurely pace, I stopped to check it out. I was expecting something of natural beauty, or a building perhaps. No, this is the point of interest.
If you look closely, it’s not just a parking space, there is also a plaque.
I forget that modern Canadian history is somewhat shorter than Scottish history. It seems Canadians are interested in any type of history, no matter how trivial. The plaque says something along the lines of “a buffalo crossed the road here in 1806″. Fascinating point of interest!
It was clear at the wedding in northern Alberta that this was oil country. Young men, big trucks, lots of cash, not much to do. This scene is typical of the Alberta and southern Saskatchewan and Manitoba landscape.
My route across Canada followed the Yellowhead highway to Saskatoon. Most of the way the highway is flanked by a train line. Occassionally I saw seemingly endless trains of one sort or another. Every so often the train line would be punctuated by a towering grain elevator. These serve as the local hubs of the rural grain industry. Farmers deliver and sell their grain to the elevators to be slowly hauled to the sea for export.
I saw this train from a distance and stopped to catch a picture. I tried pacing a train and it seemed to be travelling around 50km/h. A little too fast to run and jump aboard I think.
After leaving Saskatchewan my next stop was Brandon, Manitoba. I was in Brandon to meet family. I knew their names from Christmas cards containing Canadian calendars. It was great to meet them in person. Here’s Mary, Kathy, Andy and I at Clear Lake.
Young Andy lives on a farm outside Brandon. I’m told he was excited about a younger cousin arriving from Scotland. Their last Scottish visitor was in his seventies! He was kind enough to share his trampoline.
I took both Mary and Andy for rides on the bike. Andy seemed to have a blast, he told his parents he wants his own motorbike.
After Brandon I went back to Saskatchewan for a couple of weeks and two festivals. I’ll post more on them later. Now I’ve been back in Brandon for a week hanging out with family and doing various bits of motorcycle maintenance. I’m very grateful to Kathy and Mary for their wonderful hospitality and to Mary’s husband Dan for the use of his workshop. I think I’ll leave Brandon tomorrow continuing eastwards. I’ve been invited to Prince Edward Island, so I might make it all the way to Nova Scotia. I’ll be interested to compare the so-called new Scotland with the original.
I feel like I’m on the road now. I still have one client to maintain during July and August, but otherwise I’m not working. I look forward to the complete freedom to drop off the grid for weeks at a time come September. Bring on full retirement.
I showered this afternoon to find some very onerous looking white spots on my penis. Regular readers will know I have the herpes virus, but these are different. Uh oh. I somewhat frantically hit the internet in search of a sexual health centre in Vancouver. I found one open on Saturday afternoon. I called to be told that they had taken their quota of new patients for the day. I’d have to wait until Tuesday to visit that clinic (training on Monday). They suggested I try a “walk in clinic”.
I had no idea what a walk in clinic was. Apparently it’s a doctor for people who don’t have a doctor. Or rather, who don’t have an existing relationship with a doctor. Further internet research turned up 3 in my area. One closed, one had stopped taking patients for the day. It seemed the Victoria Drive clinic was for me. Alas, as a foreigner without medical insurance, to see a doctor costs $100. A sexual health clinic on Monday would be free. I’m going to Vancouver Island tomorrow. I didn’t want to lose any time in diagnosing my new-found symptoms so a $100 doctor visit it was.
It’s amazing how inaccessible a medical system can seem as a foreigner. Medical professionals use terms that are probably commonplace to locals, but meant nothing to me. I was unsure what the clinic was called, what to search for, and how to know when I’d found the “official” web site. The idea of not being treated because a quota had been met sounded deeply unsettling when my own health was at stake.
After a bit of paperwork, payment and an hour or so of waiting I saw Dr Imperial. He was quite interested in my Kindle. We started on the right note. He mentioned that he used to work at a specialist STD clinic. I felt reassured. I asked about a herpes type specific blood test. He said I’d get a free test at the Vancouver STD Clinic. I’ll look into that later in the week. In the meantime, he demonstrated a firm knowledge of my immediate symptoms. It was not herpes, not genital warts and not syphilis. Good news. It was most likely a topical or fungal infection. He prescribed cream and it should clear up in a week.
I figure it’ll clear up in a week with the cream or 7 days without. I’ll hold onto the prescription note for a few days. If it doesn’t clear up of its own accord, I’ll fill the prescription next week.
I felt quite unsettled to discover white lesion looking things in the shower this afternoon. So much so I completely forgot I had rice and apples cooking on the stove. Ken turned the pot off before anything disastrous happened. I was quite preoccupied.
Now, four or five hours later, I feel quite settled that it’s a small matter, and will clear up soon. $100 seems like a small price to pay for peace of mind.
As I ponder the wonders of health and wellbeing, here’s a reminder of nature’s stunning beauty.
