Lagosian Diaries

My first million?

2011-12-18T12:41:00.000-08:00

Sitting on the hippy bus, looking for ways to annoy the fellow passengers - the ones who are easily annoyed anyway, I came up with an idea that might just be the one to make me my millions.

The object in question was a Pringles box, an empty one at that, but my mind got wondering to the overlanding I did in Africa where you sometimes had to perform No 2s, in the middle of the bush. Taking a crap outside does have it's difficulties, namely balancing properly and accuracy of your shooting. Add in to the mix the risk of squirting and outside pooing can be problematic in the extreme.

So it was, that I figured out the recycled Pringles box could be of use here. Not only can you sit directly on it when performing, but it should catch all your doobies, irrespective of the angle they are sent out. The Pringles box becomes a catch all box that leaves you happy to crap without the worries of unwanted dribbles / squirts or more hitting your legs or your clothes. Additionally the risk of splash back is all but eliminated with this wonderful new invention, this being a grave possibility when the ground is hard but the poo is soft.

So having decided that the Pringles box has a future, we next debated the potential names. My suggesiton, catch-it-all was poo pooed (sorry) by the market researchers, which was a bit miffing given "Shit in a tin" was the only alternative we had at that point.

Bus shortly after the creative juices were in full flow and we stumbled on 2 brilliant names, "Portapoo" and "Crap and nap". Both of these names came about when considering the potential uses of the box, with Festivals being an obvious option, given the appalling state of the public toilets. Crap and nap could be marketed at the "in tent" toilet goer who doesn't fancy leaving the tent and walking the half mile to the toilets in the night time. Portapoo simply plays on Portaloo and would enable the toilet goer to go behind a tree and avoid the queues, as well as being a cleaner experience that risking the toilets available.

So there it is people, Catch-it-all, Shit in a tin, Portapoo or Crap n Nap. Feel free to add comments on the suitability of names and keep an eye out for this genuius product making it's way onto the Dragons Den. We may not ever get this into production but hey, many great ideas take a while to get going and are often only truly appreciated when the inventor has passed on.

Bungees and posh twats...

2011-12-16T09:53:00.000-08:00

Time for a rant. I know it doesn’t always make for the best reading, but rant I must, that or say something rude and probably offend some of those around me, so rant I will. If you are easily offended by bad language, rudeness or my judgemental comments best skip to the next blog, hopefully I will be in a better mood by then!

Things started well enough this week with some white water rafting and a bungee jump. The white water rafting was a grade 3, so nothing too dangerous, but great fun nonetheless. To be honest, anything much stronger would have scared me and I like thrills, but not to the point when I think I am going to die, which brings us nicely to the bungee.

It is nearly 3 years since my last bungee. I say my last bungee loosely as I paid my money, got strapped up, went to the edge, looked down and then simply walked off the bridge, over Victoria falls, having made the mistake of looking down. This one was much smaller, but still big enough to have me shitting myself in the build up. Unlike last time, I managed to avoid looking down and hey presto, I found myself diving off a bridge with just an elastic band tied around my ankles to save me from death.

As you go over the edge, it is very scary stuff, and the water down below approaches fairly fast. Staring death in the face, putting your life in the hands of an elastic band and jumping off a bridge is easy though, compared to the challenge of biting your tongue, when presented with the past few days I have endured. I mean endured too, as we have ended up on a horse riding ranch, where the 3 people looking after us are from the one group of people I can’t stand, the English upper classes. Or to be more accurate, the condescending snobs of the English upper classes, recognising not all the upper classes are that way.

Things started badly for me, when we got invited to a wine tasting by the owner of the ranch. This guy was from a wealthy Anglo-Argentinian family and the reason for the wine tasting seemed to be so he could tell us all about his family and his roots. In passing he proceeded to inform us of the Argentinian wines we were drinking whilst returning whenever possible to tell us all about his life and how he had come to own a 600 acre farm of cows and horses. His hard work started when Daddy sent him to private school in the UK. Next up, Daddy got him a job at an international bank that sent him over the world for 12 years, before Daddy died, and he inherited Daddy’s 600 acre farm. Yes, you may have spotted the common theme here, one of doing SFA and Daddy giving you everything on a plate.

The thing is, I have met many pretentious wankers in my time, worked with many too, but to listen to this guy and not interrupt was painful enough, but I was actually paying for the privilege. Worse than his “look at me, aren’t I wonderful” lecture, was his tutting when I was the sole person to hold my hand up and say I am not a wine drinker. The patronising wanker actually tutted at me, as if drinking wine is somehow superior to drinking beer. Here’s the thing mate, wine was introduced to the modern world by the Romans, who I seem to recall also shagged horses among other things. Beer was introduced to the modern world by monks, closely linked to the heavens. So why should wine be considered superior to beer? Beer is drank by millions more people, but oh yeah, they are the commoners. Twat.

After hearing how Daddy enabled this prick to spend his life so wonderfully, sampling wine, riding horses all day, we were then introduced to his two British guides, who were peas from a similar pod. The “Gap yah” student Ellie proudly introduced herself and announced that her claim to fame was she had never ventured north of Nottingham. She was actually proud of the fact that she has never got the silver spoon out of her arse and ventured to Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield or Newcastle, 5 cities that all offer amazing nights out, local culture etc, never mind venturing to wonderous sights of the Peak or Lake districts. I guess to go to such northern places might mean meeting working class oiks and heaven knows what one might catch something off these people.

Henry was little better, though I switched off and went to do the washing up when he started a story with “The other day when I was at the Polo club…”. Polo? How have you got through life with starting stories with “When I was at the Polo club” and not been punched? Bell end.

What was more annoying than having to breathe the same air as these three, was the fawning of most of the passengers over them. What on earth is the attraction of talking to people who come from a different world, look down on the rest of us, and spend their spare time playing Polo or riding horses? Ellie, the “Gap yah” girl, had only just finished Uni. Well I know when I finished Uni. I had only one thought on my mind, getting a job and paying off the debts I had accrued. The idea of going to Argentina to volunteer to work on a ranch (for free) wasn’t even an option, the bankwere putting my overdraft onto a commercial rate and sadly Daddy wasn’t going to fund a free loading trip for me.

Boy do these people get on my tits, and the idea of overlanding is to meet local Argentinians, not British aristos and “Gap yah” students. I think you have the message by now, but let me say that come the revolution, sticking these fuckers heads on poles isn’t going to make the world any worse I can assure you. The plum in mouth, private school educated, Polo playing “elite” will be top of my list for sure.

Feel better for that, and well done if you are still with me. I will be heading home shortly, back via a short stop In Buenos Aires. I did try and hire a motorbike in Salta, which would have meant I could have missed the wine tasting / horse riding extravaganza but sadly this wasn’t possible. So I will get just a couple of days in BA, and then I will be home for crimbo, so feel free to buy me a drink when I am back. I have nothing against wine, but a beer if you don’t mind, followed by some Boxing day footie and a nice curry. Beer, football, curry and motorbikes. Proper tastes for proper people. I know it’s only been three days living with the other half (well camping in their gardens) but boy I can’t wait.

Argentina

2011-12-10T13:44:00.000-08:00

Ever go out and feel underdressed?

Well that's a permanent feeling for me in Argentina. Ok, so I know I am not the smartest turned out traveler in the world (or non traveler come to think of it) but the local ladies are seriously stylish in these parts. Everything is pressed in, accentuated when appropriate, highlighted for all to admire, this really is heaven for an admirer of the opposite sex.

Shame I grabbed the first thing to hand before hitting town last night, a dodgy Hawawian shirt that meant I stood out like a carnivore at a vegetarian convention, no one was rude to my face, but boy could you tell they were thinking "What is this idiot doing in these parts?"

Aside from the beautiful women, we are also expecting lots of nice food and wine which is handy, given that the accommodation when we arrived in Salta was lacking, or rather the toilet and shower rooms were, with just one bathroom between 12 of us! That on its own isn't so bad, until you factor in that half the 12 were girls, the sort of whom have brought hair straighteners and hair dryers on an overlanding trip. They might not get to do their hair every day, indeed two days camping had left us all a bit grubby, but a clean bathroom, a working plug and a chance to tart themselves up was never likely to be missed and/or taken quickly.

So rather than wait for 6 girls to get ready (it was Friday night and the pub was open) I didn't mess around and just booked in the nearest hotel I could find, £45 being the price of a good nights sleep (rather than 6 to a room) and the prospect of a shower some time this millennium. Not to mention the price of a pint.

The newbies on the hippy bus are a mixed bag, the most bizarre being a 71 year old from Aus who you wouldn't think was day under 78. It's just like having your senile old granma with you, who handily needs helping everywhere. Now senile old grandmothers (SOGs) are usually farmed off to the old people's home, for their own good, but our SOG has no kids, so seemingly no-one has stepped in taken the long overdue step. She really has fallen through the Aussie safety net right onto our laps. Australia might be able to cope with her, and she might be able with Australia, but I ask you...an overlanding trip in the developing world? This is just a holiday too far for the poor SOG.

Maybe we could take her to a local old people's home and leave her there? She won't know the difference and given the lack of spoken English by the locals, we should be away before anyone notices. Ok, so I am a bit harsh but I kid you not, she can't cross the road on her own, cope with money, make a simple decision like "Should I eat chips or French Fries". One example, she went to Chile for 2 days, needing money for dinners (about £20 each), water, tips, breakfasts, shopping etc and asks me if £25 will be enough...then looks at me as if I am being unkind when I respond "No". Would she rather I lie and have her run out of money as she did, in Peru, and Bolivia, twice.

I genuinely hope she makes it to Beunos Aires alive, as her untimely death would surely hold us up, given the fact that we'd probably have to report it, then find a doctor, ship her out etc. The likelihood of an untimely ending is growing by the road crossing, as the frustration of the rest of us means death by strangulation is a distinct possibility. Luckily I don't have to room or tent with her, but I might keep an eye out in case one of the girls requests an extra pillow one night.

Euthanasia isn't something one should joke about (or probably blog about) but the beauty of blogs is that you can get away with shit you can't normally. The clincher for me is her taste in music. We actually have to listen to classical music every so often, which in itself I can cope with, but I am banned from my requests for NWA's "Fuck da police" (we have a police officer on the trip) as the trip leaders think this might upset her.

Ok enough, I am only messing. I like to vent on my blog so I can continue to be polite and understanding in reality, and I do like old people generally, especially when they leave you money in their wills. Stop, I am joking. Old people do offer a lot to the world, in their wisdom, knowledge, and the fact that they fought in the war, and judging by the age of our SOG, she probably served in the Crimean too.

Salt Flats in Bolivia

2011-12-06T02:58:00.000-08:00

The Salt flats in Bolivia are amazing things, quite simply mile upon mile of flats, salt ones! Made famous by the top gear team, they offer the opportunity for lots of clever photos, for which it helps to have a camera. (Use google images for Bolivian Salt flats if you have no idea what this is all about)

I think I might actually get a camera on my return to the UK, as my sulking over the theft of my last camera has now lasted 6 years and is perhaps time to bite the bullet and risk it again. My other annoyance with cameras is that I am a bit rubbish with them and also, that you look like an American tourist when you carry one. But then again in Lagos, when I return in Jan/Feb, I do kind of stick out, despite my bronzed toned. Plus I reckon I could do some awesome collections there - What you can buy in a go slow, Nigerian signs, Lagos buses and my contender for the 2012 booker prize, Lagos bogs in all their glory.

Anyhow, the flats were awesome and I briefly had a couple of the younguns going about the pepper flats nearby and also the Salt leopard who, like his cousin the snow leopard, had adapted his appearance to blend in. Sadly both wind ups were scuppered by more kindly overlanders unappreciative of the BlueLagoseque windups that I occasionally partake in. Anyone recall the paralysing grasshopper that left a group of 18 year old "Gap yah" students rigid with fear in Kenya?

We got shots of overlanders coming out of beer bottles, fighting dinosaurs, standing in each others hands, all the usual stuff but great fun nonetheless. Next time I'll try and get there midday, as the shadows do give some of the pictures away which is a real shame. But they still looked seriously cool and I should get tagged on some on FB shortly for those who are interested.

Nothing much else to report other than a well executed theft of our tour leaders lap top in La Paz. Two guys were waiting and when we got to the truck, one approached Dave (the Dog) about a problem round the back of the truck. Another then leaned in an made off with the goods. So far that is the 3rd victim of crime, all of them pretty talented individuals and all them causing a lot more harm than the $200 they would earn the thieves. I had heard South America was bad for crime against tourists but it really is everywhere in the cities. Contrast that to the store holders who tell you when you have overpaid and it shows that not all humanity is bad, as you sometimes think sadly, when yet another person has lost a camera.

Last thing to report was the train museum. Now on one side, this was the worst museum ever, as it was simply a dozen rusted trains, untouched from 120 years ago without any signs, information, guides or tours. But on the other hand, what genius came up with the idea of calling a scrap yard of rusting old locomotives a museum? Put up a sign, charge the tourists 50p each and hey presto, an income for 3 or 4 people who can sit around near the entrance collecting the tolls from the wealthy and supporting families who would otherwise go without.

Robin hood would be proud and robbing they were, but I have never smiled so much when being relieved of my money than I did at the train museum. The entrepreneurial spirit at its best!

A Bolivian coup...

2011-12-02T17:35:00.001-08:00

Mark and I headed off to the local prison made famous by the visits / tours offered by inmates to make a few extra quid. The local inmates are not provided with food during their stay so they rely on visiting family and or other means (drug dealing / tour guiding) to make enough money for food and other essentials. Around five years ago a book (and film) recounted in detail some of the goings on and the prison was much more closely guarded from then on.

Recent reports however indicated that the tourism had restarted and we headed down hopeful of being able to join the family visitors queuing up to visit their loved ones. We got to the prison and decided it best to look like tourists, hoping one of the touts / facilitators would spot us. Being white is not quite enough, though thankfully our western clothing meant we were 90% there. The final touch involved us looking at the map, a sure sign of a visitor in our opinion.

After a few minutes, and having exhausted the stands of a nearby University exhibition, we approached two policemen on traffic duty, right by the queue for the prison visitors. “Ola, Amigo, Soeak English?” “We want to visit the prison!”

Sadly our response was along the lines of only families, so we went on our way, without so much as a sniff of the insides. We did see a delivery of some new prisoners, and many visitors patiently waiting, but aside from that, the morning proved an anti-climax in the prison visiting front.

By this evening, am just back, we had a surreal experience, as there was clearly some bother outside. I first got a little suspicious as the streets had gone quiet, not a normal sign in my experience. We then heard a series of the crackers heard at the riot a few days earlier, my guess that they were coming from the main square, some 500 yards from my hotel. I viewed the streets around 7ish and saw a number of people running anxiously, I guess having witnessed some disturbances judging by their faces.

So before heading off, I asked the hotel staff if it was safe to go outside to which we got an unsatisfying “we don’t know” in response. Sensibly we abandoned plans for a nice restaurant across town instead dining at a nearby Italian. The night got most bizarre though when we spotted a news report including words such as Militia and there being lots of flashing lights. Could it be that there had been a coup? It wouldn’t be the first in these parts but it turned out the story was about the Christmas lights being turned on! Healthy awareness or paranoia, we were happy that Bolivia and finally got round to sorting out its Christmas lighting.

Last thing to report, was one of the overlanders was apparently robbed by a thief pretending to be a policeman. He ushered her into a car and after driving some distance relieved her of the contents of her handbag. A useful reminder to never trust a policeman…

World's most dangerous road...

2011-12-02T11:58:00.000-08:00

The world’s most dangerous road

According to the BBC, this road, near La Paz, recorded an average 200-300 deaths per year, before a new road was built, taking away most of the traffic, but doing nothing for the dangerous drops, gravelly road surface or the potholes that seem to be more frequent than the flat bits.

The idea of riding the world’s most dangerous road on a mountain bike definitely had me thinking twice, but what the heck, how many times do you get to ride the World’s most dangerous road? Some of the group opted for solid ground but 16 of us headed up to see just what all the fuss is about. The deal was simple, get a bus to the top, ride a bike to the bottom, don’t fall off.

We got to the top for a 9am departure, which was early for a few reasons. Sensibly most of us had kept off the beers the night before, and the cold air soon snapped us out of our early morning daze. There was snow around us and the air was fresh, so we opted for lots of layers as we started the first stages, a 20km cycle down well tarmacked roads that allegedly got upto speeds of 80kph or 50mph in real money. I reckon we touched 40mph at most, but it was still pretty quick to be sweeping round bends.

I managed to take the title for the faster down hiller, though arguments abounded whether weight was an advantage, or just my superior streamlining and technical abilities. Still, the ”Fast as Bolt cycling club” has its founder member and I will be signing autographs later. Particularly miffed was young Kiwi Mark, who I pass one handed and waving as he gave it all he had to keep up with the master downhiller.

The uphill stretch was sensibly missed out by a few of us, rising uphill is hard at the best of times, but 5 miles up, when you are cycling at altitude, no way my lungs would cope with that.

The final and longest section was onto the actual old road, gravel, rocks, waterfalls, one river, countless hairpins, lots of memorials to dead motorists, rockslides etc. This was the point where the road started to twist and turn, the surface deteriorate and the drops become deadly. The guide was very good and stopped us every 10 minutes or so to tell us about the deaths at a particular point, the dangerous bends ahead and to give us the chance to get our breath back and stretch our arms and legs. The gravel was pretty much constant and the rocks described as “babies heads” seemed to be on every bend at times.

Luckily the bikes were up to the battering they were taking as we flew down the hills, round the bends confident no cars would be coming up hill, after the guide mentioned heavy rain had caused a landslide the previous day, as well as leaving the load littered with more stones / rocks than usual. We did have one crash, though she got off with a bump to the head and a load of superficial bleeding and cuts to her face and arms. Not good, but could have been much worse if she had crashed over the edge rather than just onto the tarmac.

......

Rioting La Paz style

2011-11-30T04:11:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Bolivia, and what a welcome we were given.

Things didn’t exactly start well when 4 of our party of 20, had trouble at the border. Two of the gang had lost the white slip which was given to them on arrival, which is the document the immigration officials use to assess the date of arrival and number of days a visitor is permitted to stay. Stamping this in a passport is of course the norm, but then demanding fees for lost forms wouldn’t be possible, some traits of African officialdom sadly all too apparent here.

Next up was an Australian who had only been given a 15 day stay but had stayed for 19. Here, I think she was fortunate with the local bribery system as a $15 fine (supposed to be $1 per day) is still significantly better than the deportation stamp one might expect from some countries, the UK and Australia among them.

The harshest crossing though was for Theresa, one of the pair of the very well presented, and quite cute, Australian ladies who was the victim of a stolen bag in Cusco. As well as losing a camera and credit cards, she unfortunately also lost her passport, along with entry paper etc. That she had a second, diplomatic passport, accompanied by a police report of the stolen passport and a photocopy of the stolen passport and entry papers were not enough for the officious official who saw the opportunity for some dash. Unluckily for him, Theresa is an old hand having worked in the developing world for over 4 years, and understood exactly how to play the game. Lots of patience, lots of smiles, lots of shrugs and the official soon worked out that a bribe wouldn’t be coming anytime soon.

So it was with some relief that we all made it into Bolivia and on to the beauty that is Lake Titicaca. The town on Copacabana failed to live upto it’s name, but was pleasant enough in its own way. Bolivia is as cheap as chips and we drank beer at £1.60 a pint, tourist prices I’m sure, but still a fraction of the price back home. Also took in a trip out onto the lake to visit a community of 1000 or so who live on islands made of reeds. These guys have a medical centre, a school, and are entrepreneurial enough to have set up a bar and a small hotel for tourists. As ever, the locals demonstrate their ingenuity at coming up with ways to make a few quid.

But it is fair to say the real fun started when we hit La Paz, the 2m strong capital city of Bolivia. Bolivia itself is famous for a few things, such as harbouring Nazis, radical politics and coups and we got a wee taste of Bolivian politics when we entered the outskirts. I had heard only the day before from a Brit living in Argentina that things were a bit twitchy at the moment, after a new president had encouraged his people to stand up for their rights at a local level. This apparently meant that some communities were blocking roads when their perceived injustices remained unaddressed.

I have no idea what was behind the issue that we stumbled on, but let me take you through the sights we saw and the reactions from all around. Things started to look a bit different when we noticed groups of young men running in between the near stationary traffic, in the same direction we were going. Some were covering their faces and next we started to hear fire crackers being thrown around. Initially I wasn’t overly worried as the youth seemed to be doing more running round that actual rioting. The road was two lanes both ways and there was a reservation in between.

Next up it became clear there was the potential for trouble as you could see a group of youths, maybe 100 strong, having a standoff with fully tooled up riot police. Next, the lads grew bolder, they all started to cover up their faces and soon started throwing rocks at the police line. The police retaliated with rounds of tear gas and this was pretty effective at pushing the rioters back, though some bolder rioters did kick the tear gas back in the direction of the police lines.

Whilst this was going on, the mood on the truck had gone from one of interest, to “let’s photo this, this could make CNN later”. One of two were a bit more worried, insisting we put up the windows and one screaming to the driver that everyone else was heading down side roads except our truck and a bus in front of us. When we eventually did turn off the road it became apparent that a pretty tasty riot was developing and we hastily carried on our way, on a parallel road where every other fleeing motorist has also headed,

By Lagos standards it was pretty tame, no live firing, no machetes, no vehicles on fire, but still, a feisty little scene for the hippy bus passengers to enjoy on our arrival to La Paz. To show just how normal and run of the mill this evidently is, we encountered around 20 marketers dressed as Zebra within 2 minutes (and within earshot of the riot) still working away without a care in the world. Can you imagine rioters being tear gassed in London and on a parallel street, life carrying on as normal?

OK, nothing much else to report. In the next few days I hope to cycle “The death road”, which is a tourist must and Le Paz hosts the jail that you can pay to get into and have a tour by the inmates…they are apparently in charge and the authorities simply leave them to it. After recent events, it could be an interesting few days!

The Amazon

2011-11-22T14:54:00.000-08:00

I had no idea before, but boy do I know about the Amazon basin now. It turns out, that when you go over the Andes, as you do, you drop quickly into tropical rain forest. The rain forest in question, being the edge of the Amazon rain forest!

I picked up the bike on Sunday morning and decided it best to pay for a guide. To go alone would mean relying on Peruvian road signs, a tourist map, no Spanish and very little mechanical knowledge if things go wrong. So I opted for a three day tour to the “jungle”. Now, being an A Level geographer, I guess I should have worked out that jungle means wet, but then again, the rainy season isn’t due for another month (I had checked that) so I was hoping for dry conditions.

Things started well as we climbed the Andes at around 3500m. The off-roading started fairly quickly and I was soon sitting a fairly happy 50 kph on roads I know I would have ridden at barely 20 kph on my CBF. The Honda Falcon (400 cc) came with stubby offroad tyres and seems to drive very well in gravel / dust / pot holes or whatever the road threw at us. The obstacles became more bizarre as we ascended, cows, lots of dogs, horses, sheep, Lama to name but a few. There wasn’t much traffic around and after a couple of hours we descended to a town where we took lunch.

No problems so far and we set off for the climb to a peak of 5360m. This is higher than the whole of Europe, and I definitely noticed my breathing getting a bit shorter and the bike struggling a bit too. We stopped at the peak to admire the view, but not long, as it was pretty cold . No snow but probably down to 5 degrees. I jumped back on the bike and unfortunately the side stand gave way and the bike fell on top of me. One broken indicator was the only damage (apart from pride) and we noted that the stand was in softish mud, thus causing the problem. Next time I would make sure the bike was on something more secure when I stopped.

We headed down the back of the mountain and I soon started to realise that we were in tropical rain forest. The previously barren landscape turned green and the trees got bigger and more dense. Eventually we arrived at our hotel, and I started to appreciate just how dense the forest was. The steep hills were covered with trees and I hadn’t seen any bare ground for over an hour. The mist hung in the trees too and it had been raining for half an hour or so. This was a bugger as I had not packed any spare trousers, just the jeans I was in, plus 2 changes of undies / t-shirts.

I managed to taste tarmac again, or would have if there were any. We came down a flight of stairs on the bikes then veered hard left down onto a patch of grass. Keen not to mess it up, I stopped at the point of turning and placed my foot down to allow me to edge down. Unfortunately the flower bed where I put my foot was nothing of the sort, rather the top of some foot high plants. Down I went and down came the bike again! Luckily no damage this time but I was far from happy. Crashes number 6 and 7 in the same day. Not good.

Monday saw us head on down the valley and the road got more technical as we were regularly crossing the bottom of waterfalls and the road surface was getting worse. Going down is sometimes harder as your speed can run away from you too. The most bizarre barrier was a vine, that swung and smacked me in the head (or helmet) fro m the side.

We got to the bottom, did some more trails , river crossings and then headed off to see the Amazon. We were up high and got a beautiful view of a couple of rivers joining. The rain was again starting and we headed back to the digs, though as were by now without helmet, jackets and gloves (I know) – the torrential rain made for an interesting 15 minutes ride.

Things kind of worked out, as I hoped to dry my jeans before the long ride back to Cusco. We went to bed ready for an 8am start, but things all went a bit mental around 2am. It seemed the rainy season was starting early and I awoke to a full on tropical rainstorm. I know these well from my time in Africa, and 5 hours of heavy rain, thunder and lightning had me wondering how on earth we would make it back. The rain might have eased up, but I knew the 100 km or so to the mountain peak would be very treacherous as the road would be bearing the brunt of the rain from the previous few hours.

The day started badly as my guides bike had not held up to the rain and had fallen onto mine and knackered my mirrors. He had done the same as me in not ensuring it was properly held up, though neither of us expected 5 hours of torrential rain. Still, 2-1 in the dropped bike stakes, 2-2 if you count them both as they were both knocked over.

My fears were right and the wet road, huge puddles and waterfalls became harder and harder as we ascended. One waterfall actually covered the road (rather than just the pool) so we had to ride with water hitting our helmets! Soon however I realised that what had gone on so far was just an aperitif. We came round a bend to see some backed up vehicles and it was clear there was a problem ahead. We passed them until we got to a tight bend that had a bus stuck trying to get over what was basically a mudslide. There were about 20 guys with shovels trying to dig a route through, but everytime they got close, the mud would simply slide down again.

My guide reckoned he could get across and I opted to walk, ankle deep in wet slurry and amazingly he managed it before returning to take my bike across too. The slide was probably about 10 feet high and 30 ft long, and walking across was an effort, never mind riding a bike. The bus was going nowhere anytime soon, and we rode on feeling sorry for the guys stuck for the foreseeable future.

30 minutes later and the scene was repeated, only this time there was much more traffic. It turned out that most of the trucks / buses had been stuck overnight and the passengers were looking very weary, whilst digging through the slide. It was similar to the previous one and again, my guide got both bikes across. What was different though was the 15 strong lorry / bus queue on the other side and we had to get past these vehicles which were basically taking up the whole road, with 100 meter drops on one side, and the side of the mountain of the other.

Some were easily passed, other required a steady hand as there was maybe a bike width plus 12 inches to play with. When the gap was just too small, we had to go round the mountain side, which meant putting the bike into foliage and riding through, or watching the guide do it anyway. He managed to drop his bike when mistaking some foliage for a bed, just as I had two days earlier. 3-2 to the beginner and I was feeling a bit better, whilst remaining very grateful for his assistance. It took about 30 minutes to get past all the lorries and eventually we resumed our ascent out of the rain forest and into the Andes.

Landslides 3 and 5 I managed to do myself (they were half the size) and I opted to let my guide do landslide 4, as there was a huge drop right by the route through. We managed to reach the 5360 peak after 5 hours of gruelling riding, undoubtedly the hardest roads I’ve ever ridden. After that, the descent to the valley, dinner and final couple of peaks were a piece of cake, though I was keen not to get complacent as they were still difficult roads.

But we has conquered the Andes and the rain forest in one day. Had the rain continued past 7am, I have no doubt we would not have made it. What that would mean I am not sure, but I would hope the one of the buses would have taken in two wet riders and we would have remained at the mercy of mother nature for a short while yet. Still, we did make it and the shower I just jumped out of was the best I have ever had.

So, there you have it, the Inca trail, or three days riding some of the toughest roads in the world in some of the harshest conditions. Feck me that was fun! I’d never off roaded before but I guess if you are going to do it, do it in style.

Lima to Cusco

2011-11-18T14:17:00.000-08:00

The hippy bus set off early from Lima. When I say early I mean it too, 5.30 packed and ready to go. To a normal person, this means shower and pack your bag the night before and set the alarm for 5.25am. For a German room mate, this means set the alarm for 4.30 to enable you to repack, reorder your pants and socks given the slightly different itinerary being planned. BlueLagos managed to negotiate a 15 minute delay in the alarm, so I had the pleasure of a 4.45 alarm call before heading off to breakfast.

Lima is a typical Capital City in many respects. Hustling or overcrowded depending on your viewpoint. I like the hussle and edge of a city, whilst recognising the advantages of life on the road / in the bush too. The city is the only place for decent shopping, laundry and changing money etc so I am expecting a weekly night somewhere worth staying, with the odd bush camp and rural venues the rest of the time. The beauty of overlanding is you can get to these remote places very easily.
From Lima, we had three nights bushcamping, one in a desert, one just camping in a resort garden and the last one, on a beach. All three offered the chance to relax, talk some shit, build a bonfire and maybe just laugh a little at the posh girls worrying about the state of their finger nails.

The posher older girls are making an effort though one confided to me today she’d much sooner be at a 5* hotel. Done a few 5* nights when I worked in the corporate and would take a bushcamp any day. Just you, the fire, the desert and the stars. There’s something beautiful in that experience that all the money and all the best restaurants in the world don’t come close too.

Ok, so the first proper place we visit are some Islands off the coast, called the Islas Ballestas. These are referred to as the “poor man’s Galapagos” and at $40 a trip, certainly a lot cheaper than the well visited later. As well as seeing seals, penguins, sealions, pelicans and cormorants, we get to witness first hand my favourite thing, a demonstration of the ingenuity and entrepreneurship that is found throughout the world. I am not referring to the $40 a tourist boatmen, the restaurateur who fed us or the stall holder selling bits n bobs to the tourists, no the Islas Ballestas is home to the business of bird shit trading!

Every 8 years, when sufficient bird shit has accumulated on the rocks of the Islands, a small team of workers go for 3 months and do nothing else other than “harvest” the bird shit which is then bagged up and sold to European and Australian farmers. The shit gets to a depth of 1m and someone worked out this would be economical to pay workers to scrape it, bag it and to then ship it to a willing market of farmers looking for alternative fertilisers. I could wax lyrical again about the ingenuity of people but I think it speaks for itself.

The downside of all the birdshit is the pungent smell and it was pretty strong. As ever, the “pretty girls” turned their noses up, but no more than that to be fair. I also did my usual “where’s the harpoon?” when we saw some sea life, though without the usual gasps of disgust your average American dolphin or whale watched displays.
So after the beauty of the wildlife came some culture / history and we were lucky to see an archeological site containing the remains of old “mummies” in a burial site from before Inca times. The burial grounds we toured had people buried in clothes, hair still in tact, still preserved due to the very dry climate in these parts.

The second mummy – named an Ice Maiden, was preserved by Ice, after she was sacrificed by the Incas at a Volcano, presumably to stop the Volcano from erupting. During the tour the guide explained how the dead bodies could be said to be men or women, firstly from hips, secondly from the clothing and lastly from the jaws. With tears in my eyes, I enquired whether the jaws were simply more worn down on the women, thus undoing all the good work I'd done on the hippy bus establishing my “modern man” credentials in one foul swoop.

The nightlife in Peru was sampled by yours truly in Arequipa which promised a nightlife "not for the light hearted". Some of the group were going out for dinner but I felt it silly to not sample such an opportunity. Either way, I stumbled on a rocking club that was playing all sorts of music. I caught up with the two young lads from Aus and NZ and got them down there, after the guidebook recommended spots had been fairly disappointing. Anyhow, I got them down there, had some girls dancing, some beers down our necks, but as they say, you can lead a horse to water…. I left them for 1 minute, popping into the toilet to return to a scenario of “Nick, if we don’t leave now, it’s kicking off in a minute.” It seemed one of the Peruvians had taken exception to one of the Antipodeans moves and Latin Machismo was to rear it’s head. We opted to leave sharpish, a wise move that saved us from a kicking later on no doubt.

Arequipa is a beautiful place with lots of stunning colonial buildings, but all is not lost though for those worrying about me, as demonstrated when we arrived at some colonial building on a bus tour, and we spotted some quad bikes. Tough call, but 20 mins on a quad beats another historic building and we span around for a little.

Interesting fact of the day for those that don’t know, altitude causes a few things, shortness of breath, dizziness etc. but the funniest one is an excess of wind. I only found out this morning and I swear my German roomie has been putting the smells in the room all down to me!

Peru footie shirt purchased and I soon hope to have the name Cubillas on the back. If you need to ask, then you are either too young, not into your footie, or need to spend more time with Scots developing your ability to take the mick, indeed I am really looking forward to wearing it the next time Scotland play.

Last post (Especially for Brandon if he is reading) - I finally managed to upset a yank, well a Canadian, but close enough. "Arsehole" was her comment, though not in front of me, rather, just loud enough so I could hear it. "Got something to say then please say it to my face, like I am doing you now, you stupid cow" was my brief response. Nothing more said, but rather funny nonetheless. Can't be arsed to go into all the details but am not sad she is leaving us in Cusco. But if you are ever on an Air Canada flight and you see a gobby, ignorant, opinionated, 40 something stewardess moaning about an "Arsehole brit" in South America, be sure to send my regards :-)

All aboard, the hippy bus

2011-11-14T04:28:00.000-08:00

Have now seen the future of UK airlines, on the assumption that we are always a few years behind our American cousins, and it isn’t pretty. Especially if judged by the two crew who were trying to sell me a sandwich flying from SF to LA. I have flown BA, SouthWest Airlines, American Airlines and LAN (from Chile) and can confirm they are merely differentiated merely by their degrees of shitness, SouthWest taking the prize for charging for your bags (on a 3000 mile flight) which meant every passenger taking on as much hand luggage as possible, the inevitable fighting to get some luggage space was not too similar to a bus in the developing world. Amazing how far we have progressed recently.

Even more irritating to the egalitarian traveler, always early to ensure he gets a seat etc, is the boarding systems used by the One World partners to BA. They have a boarding by smugness system that starts off with our “platinum” card members and first class flyers. The strutting of the well traveled executives and overpaid is followed by the Gold card members and business travelers. Next up came frequent flyers, but the thing is, these three groups made up close to 75% of the passengers. When the young, old and infirm were allowed to board, they had to battle past the brief case wielding hoards with their only priority being over the last sad sullen bunch, who faced the longest “walk of shame” known to man.

First you trundle to the stewardess who recognises cattle / sheep when she sees it. Down the tunnel where the random engineer is looking at the final collection with disdain. The warm greeting,glass of cold fruit juice (or even Champagne) and a complimentary newspaper has all been replaced with a sneering “Down the back, on your right”. By now the first class travelers have smug twat actually tattooed in their brow, such is the length of time that have been lording it over the peasants of business class, frequent traveler and the farmyard collection near the end. The Business section don’t have quite the swagger of the first class set, but they know they are a class above, that your seat will be significantly smaller and they are stretching their legs for all their worth.

So the walk of shame enters the cattle truck at the end, and the young parents of babies, old people and infirm are all doing their best to make this the longest boarding in history, and when eventually you get to your seat, some ten maybe fifteen minutes after you were due to arrive, you find some American has used up all the overspace in a 3 mile radius. Of course you could just politely take out his bag, put yours in, but confrontation is not the way for the British traveller and we simply shrug our shoulders and vow to slag the prick off on our anonymous blog instead. Well, it’s that or “C’mon then, Which of you arseholes owns this pathetic excuse of a bag? No, ok, it’s going on the floor then and if anyone wants a row, bring it on Yankee boy”.

Enough, the flight wasn’t that bad, it took off and landed and we got to the right airport, something BA don’t always seem able to do. My luggage also turned up with is always a bonus when flying with KLM I find. Upon arrival, the walk of shame is not repeated of course, as the smug and smugger still, are purposefully marching off to the their really important meeting arranging to sell the next batch of photocopiers of whatever it is that keeps them motivated to not throw themselves in front of train, so exciting is their life.

Anyhow, I finally get to Peru to join the hippy bus, and I have to report I am rather enjoying it. Out of 17 passengers and 2 crew, you expect a few knobbers, but with the exception of one irritatingly directive Canadian air stewardess, every passenger seems ok. There’s a nice mixture too, some quite young, a few middle aged ones with only one more mature lady and she is well up for it, joining in the dune sand boarding whilst I and a few others sat out. The trip leader is, as expected a bit of dood, but a likeable one and his being an ex medic and an ex DJ means we are in safe hands and get to listen to some cool sounds on the bus too!

There’s a couple of pretty young English girls who are a bit posh, but not overly so. A couple of mid 30s Aussie chicks who are also quite pretty,Milfs being the lads term, but like the two young English girls, I don’t think they are quite suited to overlanding. They are always too well turned out for starters! Make up on, nails done etc. which looks good, but when you’ve got tents to put up, dinners to cook, in the desert, it’s a kind of grubby existence and you're best is just to accept it and not fight it imho. But they are not complaining which is great and seem to be enjoying it at the moment.

The funniest two are a young Aussie and Kiwi who got really pissed on the first camping night and not realising how sound travels in the desert, proceeding to do their “Who would you shag?” conversation covering the assessing all 12 females on the trip! Next morning they were mortified when they realised that every word had been heard by just about every passenger, lol. It’s a conversation boys have (Indeed I joined in the next night – but in whispered tones) and I expect the girls do too, though it’s not one you want the world to hear!

Next up are two English nurses in their 30s, one 35, one 32. I know this because I messed up in answering the “How old do I look?” question with failing to remove the obligatory 10 years. So the 32 year old has the right hump with me! I remembered the take off 10 rule later, though I think 12 was a bit young for one of the younger girls. We have 3 Germans on the trip who are very, well, German. Germans are German and they have their own seats, haven’t invaded our bit yet, though we are obviously ready for an out of the blue advancement. Luckily we have no Polish travellers to get them started though.

There are others of course but I don’t want to go through everyone, just to say the standard of traveller is much better than feared and there is no one I don’t like, which is very unusual for me.

Will try and blog a bit about the trip next time, but just to say that Peru is very pretty in parts, but also could do with a good “clean up”. I suspect the effects of the Earthquake are still impacting the environment here though so I won’t be too judgemental. The Peruvians themselves also seem really pleasant and it’s such a shame I can’t speak any Spanish.

Early days but fingers crossed it’s going to be a great trip. Already had three bush camps and I love it under the stars with a fire, talking bollocks and sharing travellers stories. Bring it on.

Cross lines

2011-11-06T21:03:00.000-08:00

Managed to escape the 6 inch snow fall in the Sierra mountains that put paid to my hopes of seeing the Yosemite National park. The Yosemites are in the Rockies that run north south for most of California, about 100 miles inland from and paralell to the coastine. I woke up to 6 inches of snow plus the news that all the passes across the mountains (including my route into the park) were closed and would remain so for the foreseeable future. So I had to head 200 miles back down the valley to a lowish path across the highlands and back to LA and the coast. I was staying at 8500 feet, was driving a rear wheel car (shit in the snow) and had no snow chains. So when I awoke to see the car covered in snow I’ll admit to being a little worried for my route out. The first 30 miles or so did officially require snow chains, but I went for it anyway, figuring I’d risk it and get down to the valley before more snow came in, a wise decision as the news reported another 12 inches of snow on Saturday night.

The additional 400 miles driving were pretty tiring and I got to the edges of San Francisco on Saturday tired and ready for a pint. On my arrival I quickly worked out why the hotel I booked was half the price of the more central ones, primarily because the area I was staying in was a shit hole. This became clearer still when I went for a drink at Carlito’s bar, google map’s nearest bar, in fact the only nearby bar, though the fact that there no comments, in the usual way google maps helps you with places to visit, did make me wonder.

Nonetheless I popped down and I guess the reason for no comments is that it isn’t the sort of local you’d admit to using, given that it seemed to be a borderline brothel, full of Mexican’s drinking hard liquor and the bar staff cantily clad at best, and seemingly overly interested in shaking my hand. I don’t think that is all they wanted to shake, but one quick beer and I sloped off back to my motel, swearing next time I’d spend a bit more and make sure I wasn’t in the worst part of town.

The morning was spent doing some laundry and speaking to a couple of Filipinos who are quite numerous in this part of town. America does seem to have lots of racial groups in certain areas, probably a factor of migrants heading to neighbourhoods were they already have contacts. The exact same thing happens in London, for example the Korean community in New Malden who once settled, attracted many other Korean migrants. California is awash with Hispanics in particular and many fields I passed had Hispanic fruit pickers earning a few quid for the hard graft under a hot sun.

But the segregation of old is long gone, and I really put my put in it at the American football game I went to see, Oakland raiders vs Denver Broncos. The American football crowd is fairly mixed racially with plenty of black and Hispanic fans sat all around. Talking to the guy next to me after watching a punch up by some fans, and interested in the lack of fan segregation, I asked how come they don’t segregate at the football, like they do in England? He says that segregation isn’t allowed and I ask how come? It keeps everyone safer and whilst it would be nicer to all sit together, reality is people would fight if we didn’t have segregation. He then gave me a seriously funny look and stated that segregation was banned over 50 years ago and he couldn’t believe we still treated people like that in the UK! Realising the cross lines I quickly explained that I meant fan segregation not colour segregation as he had thought.

As for the football itself, well the fan base is fairly low end, not so dissimilar to a football crowd back home. The fans spend a lot of the time eating and drinking, but not so bad as a baseball crowd. The fans sort of jeer the opposition a lot and cheer the runs and throws of their own team. The big difference is the lack of songs, something football fans do better than any other fans in my humble opinion. “Let’s go Raiders let’s go” is not the most poetic of songs and I can’t see myself using it in a Literacy lesson as I once did “Scoucer Tommy” (Look it up if you don’t know the song – it’s quite deep in parts)

Anyhow, I was impressed with the American train system which is easy to use, cheap, reliable and comfortable. I managed to get a ticket at the stadium and my only complaint is the cost of food and beer at the stadium. So high in fact that the American tailgate party so popular at the baseball is evidently an American football thing too, though the cold weather has to impact on this as it gets colder.

Alcatraz booked for tomorrow and then I head off for the next leg of my adventure, to Peru to pick up the hippy / overland bus. Will be fun.

Grand Canyon

2011-11-02T16:39:00.000-07:00

Not often I’m lost for words (yeah yeah) but the Grand Canyon is way too Grand for me to get close to doing it justice here. The colours, shapes, contours are mystical in a way I can’t describe, so I’ll just say make sure you go there once in your life. It really is up there with the Namib desert and an East African safari as places you won’t fail to be impressed with.

I was looking forward to winding up the locals, in the way that Oscar Wilde once infamously observed that whilst the Niagara falls weren’t bad , they’d be far better if the water went up instead of down! But try as I might, I just couldn’t take the piss. The Canyon is jaw dropping in it’s beauty and BlueLagos with a dropped jaw is impotent in the yank piss taking stakes. I didn’t even get a start, just didn’t have the heart to try. The Canyon has a kind of mystical and spiritual strength that is over powering. The Canyon just leaves you smiling, wherever you looked, you smiled, and everywhere I looked, there were smiling people as blown away by the Canyon as me.

So not much to write really. I did the Helicopter ride and isn’t it always the way that you get some muppet who is so petrified of flying in a Helicopter, that they sit there gripping really hard at their hands and occasionally closing their eyes whenever the Helicopter is thrown about by the winds. Quite how grasping your hands will help in a crash I'll never know, but the lack of handles to grip onto meant this muppet was also pushing hard with his legs away to keep his weight from the door, evidently thinking “what if it pops open?” Anyhow, at the end of the flight, I apologised to those near me for my muppet like behaviour and swore blind I’d never get in another Helicopter again.

I was very impressed with the guide who took me and two others round in the morning telling us a few stories about the Canyon and life as a guide. The best was the yank who, on a sunset tour, enquired that as it was cloudy, might the sun not set tonight? Another classic was the lady who enquired at what height do the Deer turn into Elk? Glad the yanks can laugh at themselves, which is kind of handy at times I guess. The guide was quite a cool dood and he knew his football, or at least he would have done had he not called it soccer. I put him right on Rooney’s shinner last year and convinced him he couldn’t be a Man U fan as everyone detests them in England. I think I got through as he took my email for when he visits London to sort out Fulham tickets. I didn’t have the heart to tell I’m off to Nigeria shortly.

So some facts about the Canyon, 5m visitors a year come and see it. It is over 240 miles long, on average 10 miles across, 1 mile deep and takes 5 hours to drive from one side to the other. This year 21 visitors died with the most common causes are getting blown off the top and hikers getting in trouble, primarily as the 7000ft height catches a few out who are not acclimatised to the altitude. There are just 500 people living in the town near the entrance and 2000 more temporary workers. The nearest permanent other settlement is some 54 miles away.

I was actually impressed with the amount of coverage the native Americans got in the various bits of literature / movie / from the guide. The Indians were here long before the Europeans “discovered” the Canyon and on previous visits to America I always felt as if that part of their history was ignored. Maybe it’s a function of being out West (where the Indians are more numerous that in the East) but the Americans seem to have woken up to this part of their history and culture. The guide took us to an ancient Indian settlement where the tribe stayed in the winter months before migrating in the summer. I spotted quite a few Casinos on the drive from San Diego and these are typically on the Indian reservations and are a significant source of income to the local tribes. But apparently those who stay near the Canyon don’t have any Casino’s and happily tourism is an alternative income that means they can avoid the more tacky world of gambling.

I was going to go to Vegas but decided against it, sitting in a McCafe about 100 miles away. A bus load on their way tp Vegas pulled up, and it dawned on me just how shitty the world of gambling is. The rich and wealthy investors and financial backers making millions from the desperados of society, jumping on a bus to go 400 miles just to throw their money after a dream that will never materialise. I have previously visited Atlantic City near New York and decided I wasn't going to go along with this nonsense. It's a sight worth seeing once, if only to ensure you never fall so low as to need a bet for a fix or worse, to pay a bill. Sad people, sad places, sad days. Not for me I'm glad to say.

On a happier note, some more funny signs worth sharing, with the top one being a poster on route, advertising the “5th Annual Holiday Golf Cart Parade.” This is worrying on a number of levels, namely who came up with the idea to decorate Golf Carts and hold a parade with prizes for the best decorations? Worse, just how dull has your life got to be, that you enter this contest? How many of these dullards are there, that this event then becomes an annual event? Five years running strong? Rural America actually scares me when I see signs like this, which a lover of the pun might observe, are right up there with gun stores in their ability to waste lives.

Last thing to report - minus 5 this morning, ouch! The desert gets hot, but boy does it get cold too. So the hood stayed up on the car for most of the day, as I head West back towards the sea and the warmer lowlands.

American diversity

2011-10-30T17:31:00.001-07:00

I set off early this morning, thinking 300 odd miles would be a slog. As it happens, the highways were fairly empty and I made the grandly titled “Lake Hasavu City” by early afternoon. The journey from San Diego had it all and it clearly demonstrated the huge amount of diversity in the environmental surrounds, in an incredibly short time span. This morning, I left the beautiful suburbs of San Diego, a city blessed with beaches, marinas and surrounded with hills, thus enabling the San Diegans to make use of the water, beach or hills all year round really. It is now the end of October and the weather is still in the upper 20s. I can’t see it really getting cold in these parts, and the climate allows for outdoor sports all year round.

So I set off from San Diego and after a little more than 30 minutes in, and the highway is cutting through the hills that are the foothills to the Rockies. San Diego and it’s environs seemed to have a lot of military zones (I stumbled into a Naval base yesterday and had to perform a hasty u-turn, which I managed without overly upsetting the marine on guard duty) and looking at the map the Navy bases and US Marine training ground, cover large tracts of Southern California. Luckily there’s enough space to go round and it set the mind racing when I saw another DIPS warning sign this morning. I spent ages figuring it out in the car, speculating on loads of combinations of Department of International? Inland? Interstate / Protection ? Protectorate / Security? State. I worked it out later and a free pint if you too can work it out before you get to the end of the blog.

The mountain scenery was amazing and there were some awesome colours as the sun rose above the horizon, facing me as I drove due east. Initially just the silhouette of the mountain contours before a series of brown, grey and a beautiful red landscape emerged under a blue sky. At times the rocks looked lunar like, as the vegetation struggled to assert itself in solid grey boulders. After the beauty of the Rockies came the yellowish sand dunes near Glamis, where hundreds of RVs (Big White Recreation Vehicles) were parked up and the inhabitants were busy dune bashing in their buggies and ATVs. Next came miles of classic desert with a series of highland lakes, that make you wonder why they haven’t evaporated, given the lack of vegetation all around. I should have studied harder at Geology, but water features were never my strong point.

But I can now see why American’s don’t travel. The answer is, they do travel, just that they choose to travel within the USA. The number of RVs I have seen, on the road, parked at the various beauty spots, parked up in the many camping sites and the huge number of RV storages sites, is incredible. These beasts are omnipresent and it is clear that the RV is a very popular vehicle here in the states. Looking at the house adverts, parking for RV is as essential to the American house buyer as a garden is to the British one. The RV is used as a mobile home and attached I have seen many cars (they tow them), motorbikes, jetskis and boats. The RV allows the American to visit the great outdoors and visit it, they do. The sheer size of America, the diverse and accessible range of outdoor activities and the all year round climate mean that everything you could ever want in terms of the outdoors, is right here, and it’s not far from a freeway, so you can stay in your RV, mod cons and all, whilst accessing it.

So it is with the Lake Hasavu City, a City on a Lake that is easily accessible to boats and jetskis . But Lake Hasavu City is also famous for one other thing, something that allows the British visitor to be rather smug, even more smug than usual in fact. Yes, this is the City where you will find London Bridge, as paid for, shipped and rebuilt in 1971 by the locals, as a tourist attraction. According to my teacher at Primary school, and all we all know teachers are never wrong, the numpties apparently thought they were getting Tower Bridge, but they bought the wrong one! So it was with a great big smile and my England hat proudly worn that I strolled around the surrounds. Amazingly there was no reference to the fact that they bought the wrong one, something I would think would make it even more of a tourist attraction.

Ok, so now that I have dissed a whole nation due to one silly mistake (I wonder when they realised though, surely they got all the bits out and noticed they didn’t seem to have any moving parts?) , I’d better hold my hand up to being a prime numnut myself. It was only after seeing a third sign for the DIPS area that I noticed that the road seemed a bit up and down, and so it was. “Hidden dips” would be more appropriate but the yanks just plank a sign that shouts “DIPS” at you! Come on admit it, I’m not the only numnut am I?

Signs of America

2011-10-29T08:56:00.000-07:00

Now obviously some Americans are a bit dim, just as some Brits are a bit dim. How else could you hope to explain Peter Andre? But after a week in the states, I fear some septics may just be on another level of fuckwitdom altogether.

Exhibit 1: Sign seen on a door in San Diego. Warning – this door opens inwards.
Well given that most doors open inwards or outwards, it’s kind of a 50:50 chance really. Most nations simply place a pull or push sign for the “in a hurry” door opener, who is worried about the time lost pushing when he should have been pulling the door. Of course it could open both ways, in which case it doesn’t really matter as push or pull, it’s going to open. The alternative would be that the door doesn’t open at all, but then it would be a wall and any hint of door instructions would be inappropriate, if a little amusing.

Exhibit 2: A radio advert heard by your truly that started with “If your child catches fire, you should help them”.
No shit? Thank heavens for the helpful American public information advert that advises you to assist your kids if they catch fire. The alternative? Let them burn, how else will they learn? To be fair I can half hear my dad now, “BlueLagos, that will teach you to set yourself on fire” and it is a sure way to make sure your child understands the consequences of setting themselves on fire. They are pretty unlikely to do it again, especially if the fire is so intense that it kills them. More savoury would be minor facial burns that would give them a daily reminder every time they look in the mirror. Severe hand burns might mean they are unable to play with matches / light fires or whatever it was that caused them to set themselves alight. Either way, thanks to the radio, such callous parenting is no longer an option for the average American, radio listening parent.

Exhibit 3: Step 6 on the how to fill your car with petrol guide, “Please remove nozzle before you drive away”.
This might seem clear to anyone with at least two brain cells, but seemingly some Americans have a dominant brain cell that scared all the others away. There is actually a youtube clip of a female driver who forgot to remove said nozzle and then drove away still attached to the pump. Sadly for the garage owner, the car then pulled down the actual pump. Fair to say some people should simply not be allowed outside, never mind given the keys to a vehicle and allowed to drive round the block.

So at first appearances, it seems that some Americans are prone to walking into doors, abandoning their on fire children and driving away from petrol stations with the pump still attached to their car, but it would be unfair to label a whole nation as morons. I have met plenty of Americans capable of opening doors without instructions and exiting petrol stations safely. I haven’t yet had the opportunity to test the “do not leave you child on fire” advice, but I am hopeful there too.

Enough, I am in danger of over generalising, which is a trait I know I suffer from. I actually like the average American, who is helpful and polite in a way your average Londoner is not. They always have time for you and your stupid questions (Foreigner walks into a diner and tries to order breakfast…How you like your eggs? Cooked? How you take your coffee? In a mug?) and don’t take offence despite my best efforts to be superior. It doesn’t take much effort on my part of course, but they don’t suffer snobbishness like we do in the UK.

I am also starting to empathise a little for the oversized Americans as eating well in America is proving far from easy. Temptation is everywhere in form of fast food outlets, but upon spotting a “fresh food” sign, I pulled into a Petrol station and the chance for some healthyish grub. It turns out the American “fresh food” counter in a petrol station consists of fresh hot dogs and corn dogs. You got any sandwiches I enquired, which they did, a cold slab of sausage in a burger bun with a poached egg. Wouldn’t have minded if it were hot, but cold? Wtf?

I should also mention the rather amusing and very clever sign on the "Out of the closet" shop in Long beach, that signposted "Parking in the rear". That just had to be intentional and in one swoop, proving Americans can take the mick too.

So West coast American so far, stunning scenery, polite and law abiding drivers, stupid signs and radio adverts, nice and helpful people, seriously unhealthy food. Oh yeah, and I got a new haircut. Finally went for the Mohican. I asked for a Mohawk but the barber didn’t know the difference! And here’s the best thing about Americans, they see it and they smile. Can you imagine the tuts and shaken heads in London if you walked around with a Mohican? I can, because I have. The Brits are so quick to make negative judgements, especially based on someone’s appearance. Mohican, must be a grungy protester type. Probably has a tent at St Pauls and went to support the Gypsies at Dale farm. No doubt unemployed and looking at him, unemployable too.

Yeah, yeah. Americans don’t do this. Not it the same way as we Brits do, and that is refreshingly nice. Yep, this is one Mohican who has a job, just happens to have a few weeks off before it starts so is enjoying a nice little trip in North and South America before it starts.

New openings

2011-10-26T20:04:00.000-07:00

No job for 6 months and then I get offered one within two days of arriving in California. Ok, so being a drug mule for some space cadet I met on a beach near Santa Monica may not be the best career path, but even so, it was nice to be asked. The dude in question seemed genuine enough and didn’t take offense at my declining his kind offer. On the drive along the Pacific Highway I had previosuly successfully managed to avoid trouble and I had only stopped for a quick pit stop, but it seems the usual drugs routes to the UK for his Marijuana were fully filled and he did say he only needed 10 kilos taking.

Later I was thinking what if I had negotiated a price, taken the dope and then fucked off back to San Francisco to sell it? Was he really going to track me down and find me? Silly ideas aside, I have a job for January so won’t be jeopardising that for a few quid that might land me up in jail for a long time. And lets be honest, with a pretty face like mine, I’d not be able to bend over in the showers for a long time.

The scenery along the coast roads is stunning and I am itching whenever I see a bike, though to be honest, the speed limits are so slow, I'd never be able to ride properly whilst staying within the law. I'd happily ride them at twice the speed limit which isn't going to go down well the local plod. I've seen a few bikers including 9 polish bikers all on Goldwings yesterday, but an open top car does have it's advantages, namely the ability to use the boot for whatever takes your fancy.

I broke the journey up today by stopping on the beach in Santa Barbara and joining other Londonbikers in lighting a candle in memory of Martin. Although not at the Blackheath teahut in person, I spoke to a couple of guys on the phone and was told over 80 bikers had gone to the teahut and lit candles before holding a minutes silence. A few days have passed since I heard the news of his death and it still seems like a terrible waste. Still, I won’t go on about it here as I am sure those who want to, know where to read various tributes to a guy who seemed to have made many friends in the biking world.

But I should share an example of my numpty tendancies, starting with my incredible good fortune last night when I had spotted a Candles shop on my home from a bite to eat. So up I get this morning, happy that I'd found such a shop and down I wonder to the shops only to discover it was a Candies store!

Morning yowl...Where’s the Candles?

What Candles?... The ones you sell…being a Candles store and all.

Nah, we sell Candies...What the feck is a Candies when it’s at home? If that is supposed to be the plural of Candy, why would you call it a Candies store and not a Candy store? Like a Drug store or a Liquor store. You don’t see those in the plural do you?

Eh...Besides, your “i” is way too big, looks like a an “l”. Thought you were customer focused in these parts?

You want a Candy or not?...I’m a candle buying customer and no I am not going to buy any sodding Candies. I got a suggestion though, you should rename your shop, the “Candies (not Candles) shop.” That way you would avoid the next candle buying tourist wasting his morning waiting for you to open up only to find you are not as advertised on the sign.

None of the above actually happened of course, but it would have been good to enjoy some American baiting. Instead, having spotted the Candies shop wasn’t as I’d hoped, I rather meakly popped in to some hippy shop down the road that amongst all sorts of trendy stuff, did indeed sell candles – the smelly posh sort that people use to improve the ambiance of their living rooms.

Anyhow, enough of the Candies/Candles mishap, I finally made it as far as Los Angeles today which is as expected, a bit crap to be honest. I have never yet met anyone with a good word to say about the place, but hey ho, it is near lots of other nice places so can’t really be avoided. Just booked 3 nights in San Diego so will be sampling the nightlife down there for the weekend. San Diego does come recommended so am looking forward to it and to a couple of lazy days.

San Diego has some seaworld thing to take in which I am going to try, having avoided Disneyworld and the Universal Studios as they are not really my thing. If they do any Whale watching I will do doubt ask if the trips come with fully loaded harpoons and then feign disgust at the lack of Whale hunting opportunities these days. Winding up Americans is a bit cruel, but then they bombed the feck out of Iraq for 5 years, so I see it is as a small payback, though clearly not nearly enough for all their misdemeanors of the Bush years!

Pimlico Pilot RIP

2011-10-24T18:42:00.000-07:00

A good friend Martin, aka Pimlico Pilot, passed away on Thursday after a bike accident on the A29. Don’t know the details and I am not really wanting to know to be honest. Whether he was 100% the victim of a car driver's mistake or whether his riding was in some way a factor, neither case will bring him back. On a personal level I was hoping to ride with him on Thursday, but the cold snap, a load of stuff to do before my holiday (from where I am posting) and being knackered after my Ireland tour and various late nights out meant I gave it a miss. You do beat yourself up with the "what ifs"…riding in pairs sometimes spurs you on / sometimes holds you back – either way I am thankful neither I nor any other biker witnessed the crash – not sure how any of us could deal with that.

Martin was new to biking and it’s fair to say he took to it like a duck to water. He started on a 125, soon graduated to a 600cc Yamaha before following the Triumph route with him the proud owner of a Sprint and a Daytona. I think Triumph suited him, the traditional British bike for a traditional British gent. Martin took his riding seriously and opted for as much training as he could get, having private lessons, California Superbike track days and successfully completing his IAM training. He was a reflective rider and would often share his knowledge picked up “when I was at the Superbike day” or “My IAM instructor told me”. He did this primarily because he wanted to share his knowledge and skills and he was aware of own riding limitations, happily observing there were more competent riders with a “way of my league” type comment sometimes heard.

On a personal level, what I liked about Martin was how he put everything into his biking. He dedicated much time / money into his bikes / training and riding gear and was very angry whenever he saw a bare armed or legged rider. He was also quick to make his observations known to poor drivers, a trait I share despite knowing it’s not always the most sensible thing to do!

Martin was an incredibly generous man, and he would go out of his way to help you. I could quote many examples but the one that is clearest in my mind was his walking a quarter of a mile in sand to help (he was fully kitted) on a boiling hot day after my bike had got stuck during a Rob inspired bit of "off roading". Laughing after noticing that I had simply left the bike in gear (hence why it wouldn’t start) he then carried my helmet and gloves back the full quarter mile – as I had finally got some momentum up and wasn’t about to stop if at all possible.

To say Martin packed a lot into his year’s biking would be an understatement. As well as countless weekend runs, he also led quite a few weekday lunchtime pootles for those of us lucky enough to be able to go. He loved posting up about those, knowing it would make people jealous, but also I am sure, hoping more people would be able to make the next one. He managed to complete four continental trips in one summer, which must be a record. As well as the Bruges day trip, he did an Alps trips with Rob and Paul, Mo's week long Milau trip with 10 or so riders (we did manage to lose a few but that wasn’t Martin’s fault!) and the Pyrenees trip with Rob and myself.

I roomed with Martin a few times on the Milau trip and I can still hear him whinging about my snoring! He was definitely an old lady, but a good natured one for sure. He was appalled at my queue jumping / car park barrier skipping and autoroute toll skipping and was a stickler for doing things properly. That said, I know he enjoyed his time with us all, even though it is fair to say he was a little bit “better bred” than some of us! He confided to me that he was an “honourable man” on one rideout and I discovered he was actually a baron – it seemed his dad had done something and he inherited his dad’s title! But irrespective of his poshness (and he was posh) I never found him condescending in the slightest. Precise, for sure, opinionated, aren’t we all, but condescending, nope. Once we were on two wheels, we are all equal and I think he liked that side of riding.

Abiding memories…his laughter, such as when he was trying to convince me and Rob that the finger starters we were turning our noses up were in fact something special, or his suggesting that motorbike thermals under football shirts just wasn’t on at dinner in a fine restaurant! The thing is, despite all his protestations that we were letting the side down, he loved it all really.

I’ll finish off with a confession. I don’t like posh people, never have. Especially when they look down their nose at you. But the thing is I did like Martin, a posh bloke, privately educated, a pilot, a baron, a man of taste…yet also a biker, and a down to earth one at that.

So thankyou Martin for the fun and games, the tips and the laughter. I am missing you already and don’t mind admitting there were a few tears when I heard the news. RIP fella and ride free.

Uncovering a cover up

2011-10-18T06:14:00.000-07:00

It is hard to believe on the face of it, but the cover up over the causes of the Hillsborough stadium disaster may soon be about to come out in full. You may wonder how I am so sure there was a cover up, but sure I am. Why? Because I still recall well the aftermath of the events 22 years ago and how the police treated me and my evidence at the time.

Having survived the game, and still shell shocked by the events that had unfolded, I was keen to give my evidence to the police and the subsequent enquiry. I knew a few things were being misrepresented in the media and knew I could add first hand eye witness evidence of what has happened. To start with I knew the gate being shown on the TV wasn’t the one that the fans had gone through. I had been down to the ground the day after the disaster and placed my Ipswich scarf along with the many others, yet I knew that the real gate (Gate C) was not the one with the flowers, as just 24 hours earlier I had been through the gate C myself.

I knew that the gates to the stadium had been opened twice. The first time I had been through the gate myself and I was actually the last person to get in. Separated from my mates I had waited by the gate (inside the stadium) hoping my mates would be through soon. I was there when they were opened again.

I also knew, that the police had opened the gates. I saw it with my own eyes and I had heard the order being given. I was there when it happened, an eye witness who was arguably independent, my not being a Liverpool supporter.

So I contacted the police and two coppers visited my student house in Sheffield. Realising that my evidence was useful, they took my unused ticket and arranged a formal interview with me at the offices where the West Midlands crime squad set up their enquiry. The same West Midlands serious crime squad, who were later disbanded over their parts in fabricating evidence in a series of miscarriages of justice, they were the “independent” source used to collate and present the evidence for the Taylor enquiry.

So about two weeks after the match, with memories still raw, I went down to give my evidence to the police. The first questions centered on my match ticket and how I’d come to get it, how much I’d paid. I’d paid £7 for a £6 terrace ticket, with a quid for a drink for the lad who my fellow (Scouse) student mate had got it from. That set the police interviewer off asking who the tout was. I explained he was nothing of the sort, rather a mate’s mate, who’d got the ticket at face value via a player who he knew well. The policeman demanded to know his name, which I duly gave him, though I explained that as he was dead, he wouldn’t be able to verify exactly where the ticket had come from.

With the wind temporarily taken from his sails, he next started to probe my days drinking. How many pints had I had? What time had I got to the pub? How drunk was I? How could I recall anything if I was drunk? I explained that the two pints I’d had from 12 to 1.30pm were unlikely to make my drunk at 2.20pm when we jumped off the bus near the Leppings lane end. Still, he noted in detail that I’d been drinking since midday with a group of fans.

We proceeded to document the days events, including my assertions that it was Gate C that was opened rather than the gate shown on the TV. I also detailed the complete lack of control and guidance outside the ground and the fact that the gate was opened twice and that I had seen the police open it themselves. This seemed to agitate the police interview who proceeded to start accusing me of fabricating my evidence and claiming I was a student agitator. That I had been wearing a “Free Mandela” t shirt when he first visited my house, was he suggested, a sign that I was clearly an agitator looking to make things up to discredit the police. He asserted that I wasn’t even from Liverpool and would have no reason to be at the match.

The aggression shown towards me was quite shocking and he proceeded to sneer, snigger and contest every point I made. He saw my notes I had made which included the points that the police had initially hindered the "escape", pushing people back over the fence, had refused to open the gate onto the pitch, and been drinking teas whilst people dieing, all indisputable facts that have never been fully exposed.

It is clear to me that the police had a predetermined agenda which was to frame all the evidence to support their case that drunk and ticketless fans had stormed the gates. They fed these lies, and worse, to the press, to the politicians and to Justice Taylor, who put the following in his report

The Police Case at the Inquiry
285. It is a matter of regret that at the hearing, and in their submissions, the South Yorkshire Police were not prepared to concede they were in any respect at fault in what occurred. Mr Duckenfield, under pressure of cross-examination, apologised for blaming the Liverpool fans for causing the deaths. But, that apart, the police case was to blame the fans for being late and drunk, and to blame the Club for failing to monitor the pens. It was argued that the fatal crush was not caused by the influx through gate C but was due to barrier 124a being defective. Such an unrealistic approach gives cause for anxiety as to whether lessons have been learnt. It would have been more seemly and encouraging for the future if responsibility had been faced.

Make no bones about it, the police started feeding their lies before the match had even been abandoned and carried on with this is a concerted effort to falsely blame the fans for their own mistakes.

So what's next? Personally, I’d like to see charges brought against those who orchestrated the attempts to pervert the course of justice. Fabricating evidence, stolen video tapes, feeding lies to newspapers. This was a coordinated effort and those who led should be held to account.

Rioting Rob's Ridiculous Rideout

2011-07-12T04:15:00.000-07:00

Four bikes twelve borders and three currencies, the Grossglockner Stelvio and Passo di Gavia mountain passes, the B500 and Rob’s self-imposed police detention. Brief highlights of Rioting Rob’s ridiculous rideout to the Alps 2011.

Eight days and 2550 miles later, two riders returned home safe and sound having successfully negotiated all the Alps could throw at us. Riding with Rob is never dull and let’s start by recognising the many hours of meticulous route planning / hotel booking and local knowledge from previous trips, all being brought together to provide everyone with a rare opportunity to ride Alpine roads and passes that we Brits can only dream of.

Saturday morning and we met up at Maidstone Services to refuel the bikes and maybe a bacon butty to set us on our way. As well as Rob I met up with Pat and Paul, two Londonbikers I had yet to meet or ride with. Pat is a 20 year experienced rider, though without much continental riding, Paul a relative newbie (like me) with just a couple of years under his belt.

Unfortunately Paul’s bike had needed bump starting that morning and we all quizzed and scratched heads as to what the problem might be. He had had his bike serviced that week with no problems, since adding a Sat Nav charger to the bike for the trip. We guessed that might be the issue and so Paul opted to carry on with the Sat Nav disconnected hoping the problem would be solved. Paul had continental cover with the AA so the worst case scenario was covered and we headed off for the Eurotunnel and France, fingers firmly crossed.

The rest of the day was mainly spent on the Autoroutes as we headed to our hotel approaching the Black Forrest in Germany. Whilst the Alps are rather inconveniently situated a few hundred miles from Calais, the more adventurous rider can head off to ride the twisties in the black forest on route. Upon arriving tired but not beaten at our hotel early evening, we got lucky in finding a bar showing the Haye - Klitchko world title fight and settled down to an evening of celebrating the new British world champion…Haye giving Klitchko a boxing lesson. Ok, so Haye got battered, but you can’t expect everything to be perfect.

I know it’s a bit un-pc, but I can’t not share the young boy in the pub who seemed to be a fusion of an Irish Wolf hound, Joey Deacon on a bad day and a 70’s disco dancer. Laughing at the afflicted young man wasn’t on the menu though, rather sympathy for his long suffering parents who accompanied the lad, my mischievous mind wondering whether they were 1st or 2nd cousins. Still, as we observed on the night, as physically impaired as he was, he seemed happy enough with his carefree lot, which says something about the rest of us and all our concerns.

Sunday morning was the first real chance to go play and Rob’s meticulous planning found us what can only be described as a private race track though a forest. Quite why this road was even there remained a mystery but who cared? Perfect tarmac, lots of bends, good visibility and the chance to ride…would have been rude not too! We headed on route to Austria and we hit the famous B500, a bikers’ paradise of sweeping bends that is a well maintained road very popular with bikers from all over. Whilst the B500 is an iconic road, luckily it doesn’t suffer from the over policing of some roads in the UK, though it certainly wasn’t free from traffic. The centre of the road sees a bitch of a right hander as you come down a hill, made all the harder by a busy restaurant on the bend full of bikers ideally positioned to view any mishaps. What makes it even harder is that your concentration is pulled away from the pending corner that needs all your attention.

My riding was definitely slower that the other guys, but I don’t suffer with too much of a biking ego, and I was happy enough to ride at my own pace knowing the guys would wait at appropriate times. Trying to keep up is a recipe for disaster imho and I would rather take a bit of mikey taking than take an ambulance home. Sometimes when you have a couple of guys in front, you can use their speed and breaking as additional information to the road/bend ahead, but once they are out of sight, it is best to simply ride at your own pace and forget about catching up. You also risk going into a bend at a speed you are not comfortable with, if the rider is of a higher standard or if he misjudges it. So I opted for riding at my own pace and to enjoy the bends and concentrate on improving my lines, something else that suffers when I ride faster that I am used to.

The early passes of the Volkanbergs were testing and I knew more was to come. Riding good lines in hairpins is critical as the room for error is minimal and the price of a mistake can be expensive. With this in mind I was slower than ever as I learnt a couple of tricks that were to serve me well. (More later)

The Volkanbergs also saw Rob’s most amusing mess up when we were filtering past a tailback in a town. The hold up was long and we opted to overtake motionless traffic including some solid white lines. One of those technically illegal but safe manoeuvres that we seek to avoid, but sometimes do rather than join the cager world of sitting in traffic. At the end of a line of cars was a roadabout and so we slowly approached (less than 10mph) past the stationary traffic to be presented with an angry Austrian Policeman pointing Rob to the side of the road. Rob duly obliged and pulled up, turned off the engine and got off his bike. Sensing a Germanic problem with our riding, I held back seeking to distance myself from this despicable act of illegal riding from our leader.

After a couple of minutes of chatting Rob said he had been told to wait 30 mins as a kind of punishment for the illegal overtaking / queue jumping. This didn’t sound very likely to me, having previously received speeding fines (when working in Germany) for going just 20kph over a speedlimit. I approached the copper and asked if we could go left (the right hand fork being completed blocked by the police…turns out we could go left and that we were in traffic waiting to turn right after a cycling roadrace had finished. We jumped back on the bikes from Rob’s self-imposed "time fine" and headed off as planned off to the mountains.

The early days also sadly saw our demise as Paul’s bike finally gave up the ghost. He made it about 500 miles before the AA came to the rescue and his bike was diagnosed as needing a new generator. In other circumstances we might have held on and re-planned the trip, but hotels were booked and we had to press on. Paul flew back to the UK. a week delay in obtaining parts ruling out any chances of his re-joining the rideout. Most comical moment was Paul's tongue in cheek response to the telephonist “Are there are distinguishing features near where you are stopped?”…”Yeah, I can see a mountain or two”

GrossGlockener was the first of the main passes and we pulled up full of anticipation and trepidation at what the mountain could throw at us. There is definitely a technique in riding hairpins and making progress is often hindered by cars / campervans and even lorries and buses on some passes. The GrossGlockener has something like 28 hairpins, as I observed by the helpful signs at each hairpin. The tunnels offer a different challenge with a sudden change of light and those with dark visors quickly throwing up their visors. The views are spectacular, the drops fearsome and unforgiving, though the GG was well maintained compared to some of the later passes, a good road surface and warning signs on the corners in part justifying the £25 toll fee that seemed a little over the top.

The next four days saw a routine of breakfast at 8, departure 9.30 followed by a Jets like run out at a reasonable pace but with plenty of fag / coffee breaks. Some days we “only” covered 180 miles, but when 100 of them are technically demanded climbs / descents there is no “only” about such a days riding.

A beginners guide for riding the hair pins for those new to these blighters:

Always get your entry line right , as wide as possible is always best. This gives you lots of options and reduces the risk of overrunning a tight bend into the oncoming traffic.

Check out what’s coming the other way and if it is clear you can go for it, if a big bus is approaching and the bend is tight, you can opt to wait before the hairpin and let them go before riding on.

Taking a wide line (and using the other lane) also enables you to cut off the corner early, assuming it is clear to do so.

Things to avoid: (Three F ups from yours truly worth sharing)

A: On a tight right hander, I would frequently take from the left side of the road. This is fine, but don’t do as I did on one and forget you are riding on the right and so need to get back on the right if anything is coming. The look of “Fecking idiot” I got from the bikers coming the other way said it all.

B: If a camper in front stops, whilst you might think how polite it is of him to let you past, it might just be cos there’s a fecking huge lorry coming down the hill a bit fast. I can report that quickly swinging back in and then stalling your bike isn’t an ideal way of getting out of this mess.

C: Not so much a F up, but a beware….I had a Swiss car reverse onto the road on hair pin turn. Luckily I was taking it easy but if you are going flat out this sort of thing is going to end up in tears. The passes are fun but also full of dangers, so riding within your limits makes a lot of sense.

The most technical pass by far was the Passo di Gavia. Riding this requires good visibility, good bike control, good lines and a sensible attitude to speed. So riding this in the wet was always going to be difficult and so it proved. Perhaps the biggest surprise were the tunnels without any lighting. Other passes had much better surfaces, wider roads and proper warning signs, this pass was a matter of survival rather than fun, but survive we did, to agree on a new “We rode the Passo di Gavia in the wet” massive, Rob, Nick and Pat being the founder members!

The famous and panoramic Stelvio pass was riden too, in damp gear and I managed to get the arse ache with a robbing hot dog seller at the top…£5 for a hot dog? You are taking the piss mate! The route down from Italy to Switzerland saw a less maintained road covered in parts with cows, cow shit and gravel, including one bend totally gravelled up. Thursday was our toughest day, half a dozen passes, in crappy weather in parts, but we had ridden all the Alps could throw at us, and on a personal level, I was keeping up for most of it, a bit improvement as my confidence rose on the passes.

Friday saw more passes in Switzerland before on one of the last descents of the day, Pat took a low speed tumble on a hairpin. Luckily I wasn’t tight behind as the risk of running in the back would have been very high, rather I was 30 secs behind and was able to slow the traffic going down before jumping off the bike and getting to Pat just as he was getting his bike up. He took 15 minutes to check the bike, get his head together and take some deep breaths before we carried on, within 5 minutes his back to his winding best.

The trip finished with Pat heading off as planned to Strasbourg whilst Rob and I headed for Cockem before the run to the Tunnel and run home. Pat texted on Saturday night to report he has broken his hand (He had ridden with it for 2 days) and was now in plaster! Amazing how the adrenalin kicks in and hides the injuries.

So a trip with some amazing roads, probably not for a newbie rider, but if you can ride a Jets rideout with confidence you’ll be fine. I tried working on Rob’s plans for next year (for the Pyrenees) but I suspect he’ll stick with the Alpine roads, his having invested so much time and effort to planning his routes and distances, it would be an ideal rideout for any aspiring Londonbikers wanting to sample some amazing roads.

Last one

2011-05-21T06:42:00.001-07:00

Cheerio - that's me done...

Lagos Bikers

2011-01-16T12:38:00.000-08:00

So Friday night, I leave work on the dot and head off to the pub for a much needed pint. Been a long week and I am looking forward to winding down with a cold cider, some good company in a relaxing atmosphere. As I am in Lagos, Pat’s bar will have to do, but they at least do sell cold Cider and there is the chance of bumping into a couple of Aussies who I am looking forward to seeking out following their humbling in the Ashes.

The thing about the Aussies is that when they win, they rip the piss mercilessly and having been to two Ashes trips I have been waiting a long time to give them some shit of their own. My last time in Aus for the cricket, I left after the fourth day of the Sydney test just as we were about to win. The customs guy wouldn’t stamp my passport until I explained why I was leaving early, that as we had got dicked in 3 days in the other tests, I had assumed the same would happen again. “Here, Shane, get a load of this Pom, he’s missing them win cos he thought they’d lose and now he can’t change his flight! Poor bugger’s gonna miss their only win of the tour…sad Pommie bastard!”

Sadly Shane’s response was something along the line of “I’ve got to get Brad to see this bloke, this is hilarious” and so it went on until what was close to the whole night shift at the emigration and customs sections of the Sydney airport, had had a good laugh at my expense before they finally allowed me to pass through. They even got Australia’s top actor, Bouncer, to enjoy the moment, that or he was just sniffing my bags for drugs.

Anyhow, it’s Friday night and I’ve got some Aussies to wind up and we are making good progress until about 1/2 mile from the pub, when the traffic gridlocks like I've never seen before. We get to Bar beach and all of a sudden everything stops. Initially the Lagosians are not perturbed by this and simply make 2 lanes into five lanes as an attempt to get there quicker, but the five lanes need to get back to two at the next junction. Getting round the junction takes forever and as we finally inch round, I spot another pub and opt to pop out for a drink, hoping the Friday night traffic might clear whilst I while away half an hour or so.

To no avail...I come out and it's barely moved. Options are to sit out the go-slow, walk to the pub or jump on an Ocada (motorbike taxi)...so BlueLagos made his first Lagos motorbike ride on the back of a 125 motorbike taxi! First things first and I have to negotiate the price, the greedy little buggers wanting double the normal 50Naira (20p) as it was busy, plus a bit of skin tax (whiteman paying more). Having stopped about 5 Ocada (some wanted 200N – I told them to do one) I finally agreed a 100n fare and jumped on the back for the half mile trip through the traffic that at this stage was simply not moving.

What followed could only be described as the closest thing to a Kamikaze run I’ve ever done, a mixture of fear and elation as the air hits your hot body cooling you down whilst the adrenalin pumps as we weaved in and out at breakneck speed in what seemed to be a mass race of Ocadas desperate for the next fare.

The traffic was a typical Lagos mix of big private 4x4 cars with their expats or rich locals sat regally in the back, yellow taxis that were doing no business at all (given the traffic people were walking), some big buses that were pretty empty and in the middle of this scrum of traffic were the many Ocada, typically a 125cc Chinese built geared bike that looked battered and bruised with rattles and questionable brakes and tyres. The Lagos Ocada do have two important adaptations made to them, the specially narrowed handle bars (for ease of squeezing through gaps) and the horn, which is super loud, to make sure people know you are there when you are about to sweep in front of them from an unseen position.

My Ocada driver, given clear instructions to take it easy, started off fine, as we were left squeezing between the traffic and the curb and we even pulled up next to a bus where I waved at the bus driver who had jokingly earlier nearly run me over and given me a loud blast of his horn (cos he could) – “Oyibo (whiteman) – you go Oyibo!” he now shouted as my Taxi rider inched upto his open door…this seemed to spur my rider into action and we sped off and managed to get round some potholes, up and down a curb or two, round some redundant traffic police before nearly being taken out by another Ocada coming in from a side road.

We pulled aside and my driver gave him a death stare before I added one or two fingers of my own to make the point firmer. Oblivious as most other Lagos riders are to those around him he just shrugged his shoulders seemingly unaware of the near accident a matter of seconds earlier. Next up, my guy had to navigate a police car driving the wrong way against the traffic without getting clubbed, whipped, shot or simply driven off the road by the speeding dignitary who must have been doing at least 25 maybe 30 yards an hour at that point. The fact that the police car wasn’t moving didn’t stop them giving the Ocada riders lots of grief and apparently we were the cause of the hold up, rather than the national convention of the ruling PDP party at the nearby Tinubu Square in Ikoyi, which had meant all local roads were shut to keep the politicians safe.

Finally having dodged the police car, we again went up the curb with my guy now determined to knock over some pedestrians, I guess the quicker he dropped me off, the sooner he could earn his next double rate 100n, which was the going rate tonight. The roundabout at the end of the road was misnamed tonight as no one was going anywhere and we skipped round to be faced with yet more solitary traffic on the way down to Pat’s bar, just a few more meters down the road. By now, my arms were aching, as I was hanging on for dear life as the guy literally went four car lengths before swapping lanes and we zigzagged our way down the stationary traffic dodging the boys selling cold drinks, yet more traffic policeman, countless pedestrians and an endless stream of bikes rushing to get the next fare. My guy managed to hit the curb a couple of times but we couldn’t fall off as we simply bounced into a car and I held up my hand apologetically waving at the angry car driver whilst my rider decided against stopping, opting to try and ride even quicker than he was already doing.

The end was near when we encountered our most hazardous moment as we sped down the path between the pedestrians and the parked cars of a big bank when wham, we are facing a “hole” in the pavement that it turned out, was merely a series of blocks over a sewage drain. As is the way, one the blocks had collapsed leaving us with a 3 ft long hole down into a drain full of open sewage. No doubt the bike would have flipped had we tried to ride it, and luckily and quite by chance, we had a gap in the traffic to jump back into as my guy swerved round the hole before slamming on the brakes, just ahead of running into the back of another car. We only touched the bumper and the driver jumped out to the left, so my guy swerved to the right before getting back on the path and carrying on as if nothing had happened.

A minute later and we finally got to my destination and I disembarked the bike having spent no more than 5 minutes taking my life in my hands to, for no other reason than to get to the pub a bit quicker. That it took my driver 2 hours 20 minutes before he “flashed me” (Nigerian phrase meaning he buzzed my phone and hung up) showed how mental the traffic was (the worst I’ve seen on this trip) and the 100n seemed money well spent compared to two hours plus in a traffic jam. But the truth is, we had about 6 near misses in five minutes, hit a couple of cars, bounced the curb, nearly got whipped by a policeman and came perilously close to ending up down a sewage drain. All of this happened whilst I am sat on the back with no protective clothing on.

I know of two Lagosian expats who still bare the scars of Ocada accidents, one still limping to this day after breaking his leg….so as much as it was fun, I will be leaving them to it for the foreseeable future. But respect to the passengers and the bikers themselves who put up with some of the worst roads, irresponsible traffic, unsigned pot holes in paths and gun wielding police…it really makes the London commute seem like a day in the park.

As it turned out the Aussies weren’t in the bar, but I did catch up with one of them later over the weekend. He told me the story how on Christmas Eve, his earlier flight having been cancelled because of the weather, he got drunk, took two “ladies” home for the night, woke up with a sore head and realised he had been robbed of $2,000. He seemed genuinely depressed about the whole thing, missing out on his Christmas trip home and losing a load of cash in the process, even I didn’t have the heart to the take the piss, guess I will have to wait until next weekend for that.

Cheerio to school

2010-06-30T09:53:00.000-07:00

Today was my last day at school, and a sad one. My class have been fantastic this year and it's not often you get such a great bunch all geared up for learning and for preparing for secondary school. Got lots of pressies including the obligatory Curlywurlies, I clearly taught them something well!

I am confident they are ready for secondary and I think my rather brusque manner is quite good at helping them become more independent, something they will need soon enough. The rather more delicate, caring and "happy clappy" approach of some of my colleagues is definitely a positive, but too much will leave pupils unable to work independently and ill prepared for the harsh realities of secondary school. I guess it's all about balance and our differing styles compliment each other at different times. I know there are times when a female member of staff is much better at handling tears and upset and times when a BlueLagos style "get on with it" is just as important in helping kids to develop. The skill (which you don't always get right) is knowing the time for each approach, hopefully we get it right more often than we do wrong.

Got some really nice cards and gifts, not just from my own pupils, and the pick was definitely the ITFC pennant signed by all the current players. Our kids are from one of Surrey's pockets of "urban deprivation", yet show me a teacher from a rich school where a parent would go to that trouble for an early departing teacher! Give me the kids of West Molesey over those of leafy Surrey anyday. We might have one or two more troubled kids and some are clearly more needy than average, but I didn't become a teacher to, and never intend to teach privileged rich kids. I just hope all the effort I made around raising aspirations pays some dividends...one or two for sure might still end up burger flipping in McDonalds, but hopefully many more will get through University and after the that, the world is their Oyster, as I told them many times.

So cheerio to my school and to all the wonderfully supportive staff and kids. I recall going back to my class after the Easter break, the last time they had seen me was when I dashed off, with tears running down my cheeks, as I had sped off to join my family at my mother's deathbed just before the holiday break. The children were thoughtful, supportive and caring and really opened my eyes to how mature some of them are. A great bunch, some great colleagues and as those who have read my previous blogs know, I don't give out such praise without meaning it!

Welcome

2010-06-09T10:50:00.000-07:00

Welcome to BlueLagos's blog for friends and family and to follow my travels.

Following a rather bizarre contact in January, I have accepted a job in Lagos with a multinational company and I am due to travel out around July 1st. I will call them MNC from now on, not their real name, but I don't fancy getting sacked for disclosing something I shouldn't. I will be working as the FD / CFO or whatever I am required to be called for the local company to get me the Visa. The office is based in the northern suburbs of Lagos, not far from my old stamping grounds of Ikeja.

So how did I get the job? Long story but 8 years ago I was working for Guinness/Diageo in Nigeria and attended a mate's wedding in Melbourne Australia. I must have made an impression on one of the guests as he tracked me down in January this year, enquiring if I might be interested in an opportunity in Lagos. He is now a high flying executive in MNC and his business unit was looking for a finance body to oversee the transition of a local business they were buying and ensure it had robust finance controls and processes etc. I said I'd be happy to talk and 2 interviews, a few emails, and some hard negotiating later and I find myself 3 weeks from starting a new chapter in my career.

So what of teaching? Well my current plan is to return to teaching when I finish my contract. Initial discussions were for a permanent position returning to work for MNC in the UK, but I pushed for a fixed term job knowing I would probably be able to push harder for a better salary. So at present, I am definitely looking for a teaching post upon my return, though I am old enough to know that things rarely pan out exactly as you hope, especially in an environment like West Africa.

The new job though, is a world away from teaching. There are going to be lots of challenges and frustrations, but lots of upsides too. One of the big attractions is the number and variety of countries I am covering. As well as living and working in Lagos, Nigeria, I am due to cover offices in Accra - Ghana, Douala - Cameroon, Kinshasa - DRC, and Nairobi - Kenya. We also have offices in Cote d'ivoire and Senegal though I am not 100% sure of their exact locations at the moment. I will need to ensure that all the subsidiaries are accounting in a proper manner and that financial controls are up to scratch. There will also be capacity / capability issues (corporate speak for people) to deal with - i.e. Assessing the local managers and either training them and/or recruiting new ones.

Anyhow, all I really wanted to do today was set up the blog so I could link it to a couple of places. I intend to keep a record of some of my adventures and no doubt, use it to vent some of the frustrations I am bound to have! Try not to be too judgemental of me. I will at times be way too quick to jump to conclusions and be quite cutting and unforgiving myself. I will also be quite blunt and to the point at times, but let's be honest, that's why you love me! I would definitely suggest this is only read by adults, or that adults proof read it first in case there is any unsuitable language or topics. Nigeria is a place where experience tells me I will sadly come across death, corruption, poverty and violence on a regular basis. So the topics will sometimes be quite hard hitting. That said, the uplifting nature, the determination and amazing resourcefulness of your average Lagosian will I am sure come through too.

Three weeks until I travel and I have been busy shopping as accommodation in Lagos is likely to be unfurnished. I have been in touch with a couple of old contacts still in Lagos and plan to check out my options once I arrive. Am not expecting a palace, but will expect a safe and secure apartment. If I can't sleep easy at night, it won't be good and armed robbers are a real concern in Lagos. I got arm robbed myself in the last of my 4 years in Lagos, and will hope to avoid a repetition this time.

Enough