Famo Adventure Motorcycling Guide

From the number one Big Cat himself. 24 days to go!!!

296

New post time I think it must be. I’e had a few humbling experiences in the last couple of weeks and my time in Cambodia ended pretty abruptly, sad to say it.

A Petrol Station

Although the roads in Cambodia are horrible, the people are wonderful, except of course the people who continually try to sell me stuff I don’t need. On a bad morning I can get pretty annoyed at being offered lift after lift when all I want to do is walk, and by about the 100th offer I could scream my head off at these people. The best defense is to completely ignore them, because there is no possible way to respond to every single one with a “no thank you”. I have to keep reminding myself that this is the only way they know how to make a living, so every one of my greenbacks they can get a hold of is precious. It also makes genuine interaction very dubious, because you can always see that glint of ‘I just want your money’ in the eyes. You can be walking down the street and 100m ahead of you a tuk-tuk driver will put up his hand, then the other drivers in the area will all raise their hands, and you still have 80m to walk with 5 people waving at you calling out “me sir, me sir”. I’m proud to say that my mum (I met up with my parents in Pnom Penh) has discovered a way to adapt her years of primary school teaching to the task of ‘tuk-tuk driver control’. Goes a little something like this:

Mum and Dad get out of the bus, immediately surrounded by 10 tuk-tuk drivers:

All Tuk-tuk drivers (hands in air): Pick me, pick me, I was here first!
Mum: Okay, I’m NOT going to choose ANYONE until there is silence
(tuk-tuk drivers immediately shut-up, all looking at mum and bobbing up and down on their toes. Some have their hands over their mouths)
Mum: Right, who was here FIRST?
(hands go up, grunting noises)
Tuk-tuk driver: Me, I was here fi-
Mum: Silence!
(hands pumping the air, more grunting noises)
Mum: Okay, now who was here LAST?
(everyone is silent, look around at each other, one tuk-tuk driver puts his hand up)
Tuk-tuk driver: me
Mum: You can be our driver then
(entire crowd groans)

I thought that was a pretty interesting way of dealing with the situation. I know I’ve fallen for that one before a few times.

So, first day I arrived I did a stupid westerner thing and decided to sort out some of my money in front of the national museum. I was immediately surrounded by about 15 beggars with their hands out, jostling me. I pretty much had to run away and think about what I may have done wrong: my genius genes hadn’t kicked in that day I don’t think. To tell you the truth, I’m becoming less and less willing to give money to people who hold their hand out at me, as horrible as that may seem. I’m a reasonably generous person, but the whole idea of Small Child with Sad Eyes looks suspiciously like exploitation and the Mother with Baby seems even worse. There is generally a third party who gets most of the money, something like a beggar’s pimp. I think because of that, it is always better to give money to foundations and charities that have boxes set up around the place. They at least try to encourage people away from living on the streets.

Mum and Daughter

Some kids, I gave them a juicebox and a toblerone, kid on far right has a coconut!

Pnom Penh is a big, rough, bustling place with garbage strewn everywhere and drains spewing foul-smells at the unwary person who happens to walk over one. It isn’t the prettiest town in South-East Asia by far, however it has got some charm about it and you can find some nice places amidst the jumble.

Old Victorian?? Architecture

Compared to Thailand, the country is very poor and the sense of national pride very weak. Back in the early seventies, Cambodia was cruising along a path to westernization, with popular music and fashion playing a big role in everyday Pnom Penh life. In 1975, thanks to the Khmer Rouge party, this was all destroyed. The communist Khmer Rouge believed that the only way to put Cambodia on the map was to create a purely agrarian society, in which every man, woman and child worked on the land. The crops produced would be used to better the economy and help fight the terrible Youn, or Vietnamese, who were raping and murdering the Cambodian people. This was all propaganda, and the money from the workers in the fields was used to buy guns that were mainly used to kill Cambodian people. The Khmer Rouge soldiers were often very young, and sometimes were even brainwashed so much by the purveyors of propaganda that they informed on their own family as dissidents, sending parents, brothers and sisters to certain death. The party leader, Pol Pot, had first learnt Marxist theories in Paris and thought that they could be adapted to Cambodia to better the country. Unfortunately, he also believed that all professionals, intellectuals, artists, and people who worked for the previous Lon Nol government should be murdered. Over 4 years, almost 2 million Cambodians were killed by their own government and since the overthrow of the Khmer Rouge, there have been no formal trials of the party leaders.

Mass graves at the Killing Fields

The effects of the Khmer Rouge genocide are still being felt today. Many prisoners and soldiers of the regime are still alive today, however very few of the people in charge of killing have come forward. When you walk around Pnom Penh and look into the eyes of the older people on the street, you could be looking into the eyes of someone who saw their entire family murdered, or you could be looking at someone who killed 50 people. The woman who took us on a tour of the Toul Sleng prison had trouble composing herself. She had escaped into Vietnam, but had lost most of her family. Walking around the prison and seeing the beds where people had been tortured and beaten was a very humbling experience, as was reading the responses of ex prison guards, who had been given the choice of becoming a murderer, or being tortured to death. The days spent exploring the prison and killing fields were dark, and overshadowed all other attempts at seeing national monuments in Pnom Penh.

Toul Sleng Prison

After Pnom Penh, my parents had planned to head up to Siam Reap and the temples of Angkor. I decided to follow them and rode my bike the 300km in a day. Unfortunately, the night I arrived I came down with a bad case of food poisoning and ended up spending the next four days in bed. We’d planned a day trip of the temples for the day after I arrived but I couldn’t join them. They left the day after that, so my meet-up with the olds wasn’t so good. I self-diagnosed and administered some drugs and spent the four days watching incredible amounts of Hollywood crap on the cable TV channel. On day four I tried to do a tour of the Angkor temples but ended up having to race home feeling awful. I did see sunrise and some pretty cool ruins, but felt too horrible to go on. Feeling ill in a country that doesn’t have wonderful medical facilities is another humbling experience and I decided that, as I still wasn’t feeling 100%, I’d race back to Bangkok in order to be near a proper hospital if all went wrong. I was also keen to find a mechanic for my bike, as I’d noticed a leak coming from the countershaft.

Angkor Wat on Sunrise

Tree Chewing Up the Temple

The final experience that made me all humbled out in Cambodia was my 40km/h stack on the dirt highway back to the border town of Poipet. I don’t know how it happened, maybe I used my front brake at the wrong time, I think I hit a rock that flicked my wheel sideways but in the end I found myself on the ground. The panniers are a good thing and I’m glad I had’t shipped them back to Australia. They provide me with a little cubby-hole to sit in if the bike falls on its side, so I got away with a bruised knee and dented pride from the 25 Cambodian farmers stood gaping at the stupid Westerner on his arse. The car behind me, thanks for stopping by the way, hooted its horn until I managed to get someone to help me lift the bike and push it off the side of the road. I took it easy after that and realized how close I’d come to experience the title of my last post. I’m a careful rider, but sometimes these things happen and make you think, maybe I could go 10km/h slower and take in a bit more scenery.

Some Traffic – Icecream Van

More Traffic – Dead Pig on a bike

So, back in Bangkok I took my bike to Dynamik Motors and had the guy there do some routine maintenance. He fixed my oil leak and sorted out my growing valve clearance. I asked him if I could stay and learn how it is done, but I had to leave when I saw his guys with their hands in my bike’s motor: It was worse than watching myself operated on.

I met some Canadians and went to the National Museum with a cool American girl called Greta. We found it amusing watching the superwoman prowess of the scantily-clad Thai girl in the Indy bar, who seemed to change costumes at the drop of a hat. First skirts, then shirts with stripes and skin-tight tights. Very classy! I also ran into a lovely couple from the states who were heading up to Laos for some motorbike touring. Hopefully I can meet up again with Steve and Wan in the next couple of weeks. Steve works as a HIV doctor and has been living in Southern China. He went to a conference on the spread of diseases across Myanmar borders in Bangkok yesterday, which sounded interesting. Wan showed me where to find the best Pad Thai in town, second-to-none!

Tomorrow I ride to the Thai-Laos border and head into Laos for a couple of weeks. I’m looking forward to some scenic riding, something I haven’t seen on the trip since Australia. I’ll loop down the Thai-Burma border and then finish for a short stop in Chang Mai. I’ve decided the best way to get to India will be to fly the bike to Kathmandu. It seems easier than attempting to illegally ride through southern China. When I get back to Bangkok from Chang Mai, I’ll need to organise the bike shipping etc.

I hope everyone is well. Thank you to all those who are keeping in touch or are thinking of me. I go through patches of loneliness when I spend a while without “clicking” with people, but I know these times are passing. I’m reading The Power of One, which I’d always disregarded for being “The Power of One” damn my cinicism, the book is amazing and very inspirational. I’m looking forward to getting to Spain and meeting up with Steve and Tati and settling in for a bit, however I’m also mega-excited about everything that will happen along the way. Please also, if you feel adventurous, come and meet me along the way in India or wherever (I’m looking at you Rob H, Carly!!!)

Stay well all,
Love
Dameaux

Yesterday I had one of the most dangerous riding experiences of my short riding career. I don’t think I was very well prepared for the drastic change in road conditions between Thailand and Cambodia, but i suppose the sights at the border led me someway along the path to forseeing the madness, by then it was a bit too late to turn back.

The border experience was pretty laid back, usually the bike pushes its way through the lines, with moto-driving officials keen to raise their repoire (face) with the young guy on the big bike. This was the first border at which I was asked for all of the documentation I conscientiously collected before departing Australia. Drivers license, vehicle ownership document, registration certificate, carnet, passport etc.

Into the Cambodian section of the checkpoint and on past the 200 hand-drawn carts full of what looked like heshan. The visa/entrance was very easy and after 10 minutes I headed to the customs building. Everyone I looked at pointed to upstairs, and heading upstairs I found a door marked “Administration” with noone in it. Asking some young guy who was also looking for The Administrator, I was informed that he would be back at 2:00pm (in 3 hours time), which would severely affect my planned Poi Pet to Pnom Penh hell-run planned for the afternoon. Luckily we caught him just before his lunch break and he gave us audience for a few moments.

The young guy and his mate, plus two others who were joking and laughing, immediately ran into the office, took out large sheafs of paper and began a stamp-a-thon with some rubber stamps that The Administrator must horde in his office. My customs experience was to a background of thump, thump-thump, thump thump!! of the guys, branding whatever important forms they were in charge of with whatever important seal the government of Cambodia deemed necessary. I like to think these guys were primary school teachers and The Administrator, at the customs checkpoint in Poi Pet, holds the only smiley-face stamp left in the whole of Cambodia.

The first thing The Administrator asks is “Do you have a Carnet”. The next thing he did was to take my Carnet and efficiently stamp it and fill in the details correctly, not once threatening to tear off the wrong slip or sign the wrong dotted line. I liked that very much and felt a bit upset that a lot of stuff has bee written about the Cambodians not knowing what to do with the Carnet. He was a wily chap, with a sneaky look. I caught him looking up at me with the severity of someone trying to work out if a person should be trusted. He asked me “Do you speak Russian”, to which I answered “no”, he then said that my middle name (Michael) was the same as Mikhael Gorbachev, once president of Russia and the guy who started the fall of the Soviet Union. I’m unsure whether or not The Administrator had particular leftist leanings, however his collection of books on economics and business seemed to hint otherwise. Perhaps he was trying to determine whether or not I was a dissident, a sympathiser or just someone with Russian-loving parents. I assured him I was none of the above. With a word and a glance down his nose, he reduced the volume of the stampers and similarly dismissed me from his office. I would have preferred to stay there for a bit, he seemed like one of those guys with some interesting stories to tell. On my way out I let him know that between Australia and here, he was the only customs official who knew what to do with a Carnet, which made him smile very broadly.

My aim was to get from Poi Pet to Pnom Penh before dark and it was midday already. I estimated the distance to be 400km and a maximum time before sunset of about 6 hours. The first road proved to be a mental transportation back two or more months to the unsealed roads of outback Queensland. Mainly potholed to hell with stretches of unsealed, churned gravel / clay. I let my tyres down and rode down the verge. The problem being that the bullock carts tend to stay on the verge. So I cut to the inside, the problem being the oncoming trucks drive straight down the centre. My average speed was reduced from 120km/hr on Thai roads to about 40km/hr.

From Bunchy Munchy (creative liberty with names), the road conditions improved and potholes seemed to be regularly repaired. My average speed increased to 100km/hr but the trouble didn’t end. In one day I have seen every single cliche seen by a Western tourist in regards to crazy Asian roads. I witnessed:

Trucks overloaded to bursting with rice, grain, people
A prison vehicle full of condemned Cambodians (heading god-knows where)
Toyota Hilux ute with at least 30 people in the back
Man on pushbike
Man on pushbike with wife
Man on pushbike with wife and child (weaving madly)
Child in pristine school uniform on pushbike 100 times too large (weaving madly)
Man on pushbike with bunch of sticks on head
Toothless granny on pushbike
Cows
Bullock carts
Strange directional tractor engine with articulated wagon
Chickens
Four schoolgirls on a scooter
One Lorry (the most rectangular vehicle on the road)
Hand-pulled cart
About 20 cars

The nature of these tranportation variants is usually very unpredictable, the larger objects moving faster and generally staying on track, the smaller object moving slowly but liable to change direction in an instant. This reverses a few things so riding flat-out at an oncoming truck is relatively safe compared to riding flat-out up to a cyclist in order to overtake. Once in a small town along the way I almost hit a man with his daughter on a scooter. My new front tyre was the difference between life and death when I broke hard. They had simply swerved two-metres to the right, directly into my path as I approached behind. The second near-death experience was to spare the life of a family of chicks that had strayed onto the road. I screeched to a halt and watched the guy sitting by the side of the road shake his head as if “why would you bother stopping”.

I arrived in Pnom Penh just on dusk and all my nightmares of city traffic I’d expected to see in Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur were realised. No streetlights, heavy smog, intense speed and a right-of-way awarded to size came down to a hair raising ride. Oh yeah, they ride on the opposite side of the road here too. I pretty much stuck to my now-ritual method of navigating a big city for the first time: drive directly into the centre, stop and then have a coffee, then find somewhere to stay. The longer you prolong it, the harder it seems to get.

So, the name Cambodian Highways Kill is appropriate as I’ve heard a couple of eye-witness accounts of serious accident on the road and from my experience yesterday, it doesn’t surprise me. Also, I saw a scooter rider (with girl side-saddle on back) very nearly die while riding into the guesthouse in Pnom Penh. I hope riding doesn’t ever get much harder than this. The funniest thing I experienced was a man coming up to me in the street and asking me if I wanted to shoot an AK47 at a bunch of chickens. I said no thanks. I wonder what he would have thought of me nearly dying trying not to hit the little chicks crossing the road.

Sa Wat Dii KRAB!!! Sing it, don’t say it. The Thai language is a difficult one to grasp as it has different intonations: low-pitch, medium-pitch, high-pitch, rising and falling. So, to say Sa Wat Dii Krab, you start off with the Sa (low-pitch) then the Wat (low-pitch) then the Dii (medium-pitch) then the KHRAB (high-pitch). You start off low and then let it rise to a big, loud KHRAB that means you really really want to say g’day. If you get any of these tones wrong, then the folk you’re speaking to will stare at you blankly, look at each other, laugh and then say something along the lines of “Hey, check out this crazy Farang trying to speak Thai”. Farang means foreigner and I hear it a million times a day when I do something stupid. It isn’t a curse (Thais don’t curse), it’s more of a joke at your expense but definitely light-hearted, good-humoured and not intended to insult (I don’t think..). When I first heard it flung at me I’d get ever so slightly perturbed (don’t you know who I am?! I’m a world motorcycle adventurer of great fame and fortune!), but it didn’t take long to realise that Thais don’t really care too much about who you were before you arrived in Thailand, or who you’ll be when you leave, they do things differently to us. As difficult as it was, I had to come to terms with the fact that I actually was an outsider, and that foreigner name-calling was generally carried out with the least of ill will.

I like Thai people very much, everything they do in life has to be interwoven with an element of fun, it is almost a law. If you approach any kind of situation with a bit of cheek, they love it and you’ll find yourself laughing along to whatever prank they’re pulling. When I was at university, a Thai guy who lived in a flat I used to visit, Ed, used to crack me up so much. I can see his smile in so many of the people I meet every day.

So, onto the diary…

The last post had me hanging out in Kuala Lumpur. Heading north from KL, my first stop was a massive internet cafe in Ipoh where nearly 100 Malays were playing online games. The best part about this place was its location: right beside an awesome veggie restaurant. I had a few bytes (sorry) and then left for an island called Penang. Penang was a let down but to tell you the truth I didn’t give it much of a chance, riding into the capital Georgetown was harrowing due to the spaghetti-like concoction of narrow, one-way streets. I was so exhausted after the massive week before, I slept for 12 hours solid, woke up in the morning and drove straight back out of Georgetown. I wanted to get to Thailand VERY badly.

At the border, I had to explain to the Malaysian customs how to exit-stamp my Carnet. This is starting to become a routine activity as I don’t believe many of the customs officials around this area have actually seen the document before. They let me into no mans land (the 500 or so metres between two countries) and I made my way gingerly to the Thai border. This was my first overland border crossing with the bike and I had no real idea what to expect. A generous group of Thai officials grouped together and had an argument about what to do with my carnet and eventually the most official looking, or the guy with the most badges anyway, decided I didn’t need an entry stamp if my plans were to continue on to Cambodia. I tried to protest but he would have nothing of it and made me line up in the vehicle importation line for a customs guarantee slip, that I would need to show at the border on my exit. Just as the slip was being finalised and I was about to leave, a (more) senior official came into the office, saw my carnet and decided it needed to be stamped. This made me happy, as I didn’t want to explain to the carnet issuers any indiscrepencies in the document. I wonder who trains these officials?? All of this took about an hour and then I was set free onto the beckoning streets of southern Thailand.

The first destination was Hat Yai, made famous in the news by a spate of bombs in September 2006, in which four people were killed and about 82 injured. It is suspected the six bombs were set off by the South Thailand Insurgency, an islamic seperatist movement in the Pattani province of southern Thailand. The Pattanis are basically a society detached from both Thailand and Malaysia, who for the last 70 years have been trying to gain independence in their provence. The only aftermath of the bombings I could see was a contingency of armed military throughout the town. One army guy I came across was standing in front of the shopping centre that was targeted and that I was planning to have a look in. I realised as I walked towards the guard that he was standing in front of the entrance to a dress shop and decided I had enough dresses to last me my trip to Spain (none). I spun on my heels and walked away but I heard him shout and beckon for me to come back, thinking he’d scared me off. I didn’t want to be rude so I went into the dress shop and browsed for a few minutes, much to the glee of the shopkeepers. I think the soldier winked at me as I left the shop.

Raining in Hat Yai

That night I met two English guys and we went out for a feed of traditional Thai, no wait, I had a hamburger. Oooooh western food so good after eating Malay food for weeks. Seeing as though Malaysia is a dry country, and by that I mean a country that taxes alcohol to the extreme, what do I do as soon as I’m confronted with the opportunity to purchase large amounts of cheap cheap Thai beer… buy a small outback property’s dam worth of it and lap it up like the dehydrated cow that I am!! Oooh, big mistake and a huge hangover the next day meant movement was kept to a minimum and shuffling my mode of transport. I tried haggling for a power converter but I didn’t have the energy hehe. After the trembling and sweats ceased, helped by an early-evening of drinking coke and watching the second Harry Potter film at the local Irish bar, I went to bed and had my first “disgusting” experience…

Bed bugs! I woke up at about 2am (after feeling a strange disturbance in the force) and could smell a very buggy smell, kind of like mild stinkbug smell. Then I discovered that my body was itchy. I immediately knew what was going on and launched out of bed, throwing on the light and scanning the mattress. No need to be quick, the sheet was swarming with the things, with maybe 50 ranging in size from a millimetre long to about the size of a ladybug. I shuddered, braced myself, picked up my sandal and went to work exterminating the little blood-suckers. I’m not a violent man, if a dog bites me on the arse I’ll turn the other cheek, but anything that feeds on me, then makes me itchy, while I’m asleep and defenseless, must be taken care of. The first one swatted exploded in a little ball of crimson as the blood, my blood, was liberated and drawn into the fabric of the sheet. By the end I could see about 50 little smears of blood all over the blanket. I crawled into the foetal position and rocked back and forward until the morning moaning “unclean, unclean”.

Bored of Hat Yai, I decided to head up to the island of Koh Pahangan for Christmas / New Year. The ride up to Surat Thani, the mainland town that the ferries service, was a nice introduction to Thai motorways. The Thais seem to be a lot more relaxed on the road than the Malays (no Mat Rempit!) and the cars are all brand new Toyota Hilux utes and Nissan Pathfinders. From what I can grasp, this is due to them being built in Thailand, therefore incurring no import duty and making them cheap to afford. The same reason why everyone in Malaysia drives a Proton. The quirky thing about the Hilux situation is the number of people they can carry. A King-Cab ute will have five people in the front and an equal amount in the tray, allowing for some pretty awesome games to be played while riding behind them on the highway. Most won’t smile unless you wave, some will laugh and some will look the other way completely. My favourite is to ride past with head down behind the faring pretending I’m on a race bike, they love it because the bike looks so ludicrously heavy!

Anyway, into Surat Thani and I met a girl from Finland in the street. She took me to her hostel and I booked in for the night, literally just a place to rest your head with a matress on the floor and rudimentary ammenities. The owners let me store my bike in the kitchen, keeping my mind at ease for the evening. The next day I caught the ferry to Koh-Phangan. At each ticket office I asked repeatedly if they had a place that I could safely leave my bike during the ferry trip, as I didn’t want it falling over from the movement in the swell. The all assured me it would be okay and when I wheeled the bike on, I realised they had absolutely no provision for bikes and every surface, including the ground, was smooth. The ferry guys decided to chock the engine with the wedges of wood used to stop cars rolling and I used a ratchet tie-down to add some extra safety. My fears were groundless and the bike seemed to be rock-solid for the three hour duration of the trip. The roads in Koh Phangan were mostly okay, some were horrid, rutted, steep, dirt tracks and the path down to the hostel (Hua Laem resort) was a nightmare. The resort is run by a Norwegian guy called Tom, who lives there with his Thai girlfriend and has just taken out a 10 year lease on the place. I think he’s the most chilled out guy I’ve ever met. The Bungalows were “inspirationally situated” on the beach and the sound of the surf washed in throughout the day and night.

Ferry to Koh Phangan

Hat Rin is the party capital of Thailand, hosting the notorious Koh-Phangan full-moon parties. The drop-in bar is located directly on the main beach and tables, chairs and mats are provided for the revellers. Each night kicks off at about 10:30pm and begins with some slower music, quiet drinking and a warm-up fire-twirling show by a hanful of Thai guys. As the night progresses, the music gets faster, the crowd revel harder and the fire twirling more extreme. The papa-twirler stands on a chair and swings these 6-foot long burning ropes in arcs behind his head making him look like an angel. Then out comes the most dangerous device to a drunken farang ever invented… the burning ring of fire. The fire twirlers grab this big rope ring and set it on fire, hold it up by wires on either side and encourage the drunk tourists to dive through it. This became my undoing and I ended up spending Christmas eve lying in bed with an incredibly sore back taking painkillers and anti-inflammatories. Christmas eve in my room alone reading a book and not being able to move. Priceless!

Firetwirler, Haad Rin beach

Christmas day my back eased up a bit and I walked into town. By evening it was in pretty good shape and I went out for traditional christmas dinner with an awesome Canadian couple I met at the resort. We played pool for a couple of hours and then ventured (me very timidly) down to the drop-in bar for the party. Drinks seemed to cure my back and the night became morning before I knew it. A great night was had, although I lost my watch sometime during the night.

I spent the rest of my time on Koh Phangan under intense Thai massage therapy (becomes an addiction) and headed back to Surat Thani to try and reach Bangkok for New Years eve.

Temple at Prachuap Kirri Kahn, on the way to Bangkok

Monkeys!!! On the way up to the above temple

I had a strong desire to travel to Bangkok via a national park so stopped for a night at the Keang Krachan NP. What I thought would be a quiet little camp turned out to be 24 hours of complete and utter madness. As I rounded the bend onto the lakeside camping ground, about 5000 tents appeared and riding through the melee to find a suitable spot to pitch, I realised that everyone else in the ground was Thai. I pulled up and was immediately taken under the wing of a crazy Thai man who imposed too much hospitality on me, became upset when I suggested I wanted to go find my own dinner and proceeded to sit outside my tent all night and burn things… a bad night’s sleep needless to say.

Keang Krachan National Park campsite

I woke up at 5am and packed my gear up ready for the trip up to Phanoen Thung mountain. I rode the 30km to the park’s entrance and was told “No Entry for Motorcycles” by the guard. I think I may have snapped at them because the main guy refused to speak to me after a while (no-sleep and an early morning didn’t put me in the best mood). I went back to the small restaurant serving breakfast about 200m before the entrance and put on my best “dejected farang who’d come to Thailand specifically to see this mountain” face. I was quickly picked up by a group of 7 Thai girls and allowed to store my bike behind the local cooking-oil-merchant’s barrels. She said she’d take good care of it.

In the back of the ute, heading up the mountain

I jumped into the back of the ute with four of the girls and we headed into the park. What a crazy ride!! In the dark, five people in the back of the ute, 30km to drive and it took 2.5 hours. The rode was bumper to bumper with hundreds of cars trying to get up the mountain for sunrise. We ended up getting to the top at about 8 o’clock, with the sun already in the sky, to be greeted by about 500 Thai sightseers. This is the deal with Bangkok. The city is so congested and so busy, bumper to bumper traffic throughout the day and incredibly cramped living conditions, that when the Bangkok dwellers comes to take a holiday, they somehow, whether subconsiously or on purpose, recreate their daily living conditions. The trip back down was no better, as the road was one way and the rangers hadn’t cleared the cars heading up before allowing the return traffic through. By the end of the trip I was absolutely filthy, covered in dust and ready to get the hell out of the national park.

Mist in the valley (the sight everyone comes to see)

A dusty group at the top of the hill

Heading down the mountain

That afternoon I rode into Bangkok, found a hostel, had a shower, had a chat with the girl at the hostel and realised to my dismay that it was New Years Eve. We walked into Khao San road and heralded in the new year with an unenthusiastic (exhausted) wave of a beer bottle. Home to bed then to get over the day’s activities. I’ve realised now that the hostel I’m staying in is a bit “different”. Kind of on the cheap side, small rooms available for rent by the hour, many foreigners who’ve been there for years, allowed to bring girls home… You get the idea, it’s the Bangkok Hotel California. I’d considered leaving but the price is about $3 a night and the people are pretty friendly. I’d really like to be with some other backpackers though because I don’t really feel like I fit in with these folk, lovely as they are.

Bangkok lane.

A former backpacker hostel that someone accidentally burnt down

The Tuk Tuks in Bangkok are too expensive, catch a cab instead!!

Having a chat

Farang next door please!

Well, that brings me up to yesterday, when I bought myself a new front tire for my bike. I bought a brand new Dunlop Trailmax (same as the old tire) for about $60 AU, which is a bargain. My next step will be to travel into Cambodia and try to meet up with my parents after not having seen them for a few months. I’ll tour up into Laos and then back into Northern Thailand, Chang Mai and Chang Rai come highly recommended and I’d love to visit some hill tribes on my bike.

One last thing, I have a very big dilemma ahead of me that I’m trying to get my head around. I have absolutely no idea how I’ll get from Thailand to India. The road through Myanmar is definitely closed to overland travelers, which leaves only a couple of options. Very rarely does China allow unaccompanied overland travelers through its southern borders, however once into China, the trip through the southern provinces into Tibet, Nepal and then down into India would be a mini “trip of a lifetime”. If I can swing this I’d love to give it a go. The other option is to fly to Khatmandu or India and ride from there, however I’m not too keen on flying anywhere. The last option may be a boat across the Bay of Bengal into Bangladesh, but I haven’t read any stories of travelers pulling this off. If anyone has any suggestions, I’d love to hear them.

Thanks again for reading, its a bit of a long one but I hope you’re enjoying the tales. Will let you know how I go in Cambodia / Laos in a couple of weeks.

Love always
Damo

Welcome to Malaysia! Here’s a “quick” rundown on what’s been going on in the last few weeks (photos to come when I track down my cable). Some of it may seem a bit spurious and nonsensical, but then thats what holidays are about right? I arrived in Kuala Lumpur on the 6th at about 1am, checked into Anjung KL guesthouse and promptly met four Australian guys. I also met an Aussie girl called Jacqueline (from Melbourne). We spent a few days sightseeing around KL and I became friendly with Jacq and we started hanging out. Day 1 we saw the Petronas twin towers and did some further moseying around the orchard gardens, then day 2 we caught a bus down to Melaka two hours south of KL.

In the Orchard Gardens

Melaka

Melaka was a former Portugese colony and Jacqueline was interested in seeing the old churches. We missed the last bus home but managed to detour through Seramban and back into KL. She caught a train to Singapore the next day to visit a friend for a week. As we were sitting on a bench in Melaka, we hatched a plan for me to cruise down to Singapore on my bike, pick her up and come back to KL (in time for her flight to Japan). It was all a bit crazy because at that time my bike hadn’t even arrived in Malaysia.




Prayer House in KL

Tuesday afternoon I was scammed. The touts here are few and far between but this one was a corker. I was walking from the hostel to BB Plaza and met a Chinese guy who expressed an interest in Australia. He said that his sister wanted to travel in Perth and that I could give him some tips about the country. He also said he was a musician and was about to go to practise although his voice was bad from a big night of drinking. He asked me if I wanted to learn a Malay song and I said sure (always willing to try new things).

He called a cab and we jumped in (me, him and his “1st cousin”). We drove for maybe 20 minutes into the suburbs and stopped at a really nice house where I was introduced to his “uncle”. The uncle was very friendly and they gave me coffee and fruit but then the original guy who was supposed to be rehearsing disappeared, which I thought was strange and they left me with the uncle. He started talking about how he worked at Star City casino in Australia and that he was a blackjack dealer at Genting casino just outside of KL, after which he offered me a free slot machine card and said that I could get 2 days free credits from the machines. I took it but by this time was wondering where the music was…

The “uncle” then said that with my help, we could win a lot of money and all I needed to do was learn a few tricks of cheating. He asked if I was keen to try and I said okay (I had no intention of cheating at a casino by the way, I was just interested in what was going on and had a half-fascination with the fact that I was being scammed, hoping that I could cut and run when it got too heavy). So we went into this little back room with a desk covered in a towel and he took a pack of cards out of the top drawer. I sat across from him and the first cousin sat beside me, trying to rub against me. Her moustache was quite disconcerting.

Okay, so “uncle” taught me how to read the top card during the deal and how to identify the dealer’s card through his finger signals. He asked me if I was ready to take $5000 USD to the casino and take 25% of what we won through the scam. I said to him “Sorry mate, I should have told you earlier but gambling is against my religion”. He said no worries, all I had to do was hand money from a bag to his rich Bruneian friend and he’d place the bets. All I had to do was indicate whether or not we wanted to match the current bet. I said “No, you don’t understand, I’m not interested in losing all of my money to you freaks, I have to get back to the guesthouse.” They said okay and he took the slot machine card he gave me and sent me on my way (not before trying to get me into their car to go see the sick mother – the reason why they were cheating in the first place). I got back into town and freaked out completely (how stupid could I be to get involved in a scam, it could have been dangerous, I could have had a gun pulled on me and lost my passport etc). The next day I was careful walking around in case I ran into the gangsters again.

Step forward a week and I met an Iranian guy who fell for the same scam but actually lost money. The actual scam (I opted out too early to find this out) involves having a first practice game at the uncle’s house against a loser “friend” who just turns up. You have to buy into the game and you’re told you’re guaranteed to win because you know how to cheat. The friend loses loses loses and you start to get cocky, winning about RM8000. The friend looks dejected and the uncle says “We’ll just play this hand and then call it quits”. The uncle deals and you have 21, the friend has 20 (a surefire win for you) UNTIL… The friend raises the bet to FORTY TWO THOUSAND US DOLLARS. That’s right, wads and wads of cash come spewing out of his bag and the only way you can win the hand is to match his bet. He’s muscled you out of the game, the bastard! The uncle then persuades you to withdraw all of the money from your bank account to match the bet. Now the scam goes that there’s no way you have enough money to ever match the friend, so you’re offered assistance but never enough to match. You’ve now lost your buy-in (US$300 in the case of the Iranian guy) because every time you ask for it back, they say you have to come up with the matching bet.

After speaking with the Iranian dude, I felt a bit better that I didn’t lose any money and I suppose it must happen about 2 times a day to unwary tourists. I don’t think they are violent, they just want to rip you off big time. Anyway, the moral of the story is to keep your money to yourself, and not think that it’s possible to win big at some stranger’s backyard gambling den in the middle of a foreign city. I seriously wonder what the outcome would be if the Iranian guy had enough money to muscle the friend out of the game, payback?! I don’t think so.




Me, Azmi and Wan

So, on the Sunday (11th) I headed out to the airport in a taxi and tracked down the cargo sheds. I paid for the taxi driver to come into the customs area and we found the place at which I was to collect my bike. It was midday and a bit of asking around revealed my bike’s flight was due in at 2:40pm, so I sat down to wait. I walked outside for some fresh air and bumped into three Indian Malays and started chatting about my bike journey, they introduced me to a Maori/Malay guy called Saleh and we immediately hit it off due to our mutual love of fishing (Sometimes I “pad out” my interests to keep the conversations going). He happened to be the operations manager of the cargo shed from which I was to collect my bike, so he took me inside to wait and I met some of the MASCargo guys. Saleh introduced me to Azmi and he said that he’d be happy to look after me for the day and make sure I received my bike safely. It was funny to see these guys working while their boss Saleh played game after game of Zuma on his computer.

Amzi is a Malay, 28 years old and married with two sons. He took charge of the bike situation and fast tracked it through the cargo queuing system. It took about 45 minutes and when it finally came through I grabbed my air waybill and Azmi accompanied me to the customs office where I paid some duty on the bike. We headed back to the cargo bays and forklifted the bike to the loading area. By this time there were maybe 20 workers watching me tear the crate apart and nervously put my bike’s bits back on in the right order. Some were very helpful, putting the mirrors back on for me, a few kept saying “Mat-Rempit” (an underground motorcycling craze in Malaysia where the members ride 125cc mini motorcycles at about 130km/hr through the streets of Malay towns. Azmi told me he was former Mat-Rempit. The name literally means Ram It! i.e. go really fast) some of the workers were laughing at me and I found out the next day that they thought my disproportionately long second toe was humerous. All I cared about was getting my bike together. By the time I could leave, it was about 6pm and I was exhausted. It had started raining and Azmi offered me a place to stay for the evening to save me riding back into KL, I was very thankful. After the bike was rideable, I went back to customs to get my Cartnet stamped and I found out that I didn’t have to pay the original duty of AU$30. The customs boss was skeptical of my intentions and explained to me that I should have just had the carnet stamped. Oh well, they finally set me free and I rode towards the customs gate. The final challenge was a gauntlet of officials, each wanting to show their power by asking what I had in my boxes. I tiredly obliged at each point and at about 7:30pm I finally hit the road out of the airport.

Azmi was waiting for me with his wife Wan at the first fuel station and I followed him through the rain back to his house in Nilai (half way between Sepang airport and KL). The first comment he made when we arrived was about how small the house was and I said it was perfect (honestly a really nice house). He leant me a shirt and we went to have Satay Kajang, the best satay in Malaysia. Azmi’s wife Wan has studied Microelectronic Engineering at university and is now a lecturer so we had some things in common. They are hoping to move to Perth at the start of 2008 so that Wan can do her PhD. After a great night I fell asleep exhausted. The next day Azmi took me on a tour of some Malay towns. We had Nasi Lamek (Rice, chilli paste, nuts and half an egg) and Roti Cenai (kind of like a pancake with curry sauce) for breakfast. He then took me to Kajang and I bought a spare helmet for the crazy plan to pick Jacqueline up from Singapore. We met up with Wan and had lunch at a large supermarket, took some photos of the Mosque and ministerial buildings at Pudrajaya and then went back to the house. Azmi had to work at 3pm so I left my gear at his house and headed into KL. The ride was very scary, traffic in the city is mayhem and everyone has to get into the tightest spots first. It seems dangerous at first but when you get into the flow, it becomes easy and even a bit of a thrill, people don’t get angry in their cars like in Australia, they just make ground when they push in and lose ground if someone pushes in front of them, no worries either way.




Mosque in Pudrajaya

On Wednesday I headed south to Singapore. The Jacqueline plan was coming together and I’d decided to ride as far south as Johor Bahru (just north of the singapore border) and catch a bus across to Singapore. The distance is about 400km all on motorway but the rain hit 50km north of JB and I had to stop under an overpass. The rain is torrential when it gets going and I decided “one more overpass before stopping”. Of course the rain hit before I got to the “one more overpass” and I was soaked in about 4 minutes. Three of us hung out for about 30mins (me with mega-bike, the others with their 125s “MAT-REMPIT!!!!) and the rain eased up enough to proceed so I kicked on. I wasn’t sure if I’d just stay in JB overnight and head into Singapore the next morning but I eventually decided to head in that night so I left my bike in the bike parking lot at the bus station.

Getting to Singapore requires a 90min bus ordeal costing RM2.40 (about 80c Aussie). The bus stops at the Malay border (exit clearance), takes you across the causeway and stops at the singapore side (entry clearance) and then takes you into the centre of town. By this time I was walking around like a zombie, too tired to put very much effort into finding accommodation, luckily I stumbled across a wonderful hotel

Damo: Is this a hostel?
Counter: No sir, it’s a HOTEL
Damo: Okay, how much for a room?
Counter: Dormitory S$18 / night
Damo: Sold! (never stayed in a hotel with a dorm before but sometimes it’s wise to keep your mouth shut)

Okay, so was settled by 9pm and put on a load of washing. I called Jacqueline via her friend Lynn and they organised to meet me at midday the next day. Washing finished and I collapsed into a heap.

I met Lynn, who was really lovely and Jacqueline, Lynn and I did some exploring. We went to the cinema and watched a chick flick called The Holiday, was pretty good (I like chick-flicks for some strange reason). Most of Singapore seemed to be a shopping mall. It was raining outside so we spent most of the time walking around the specialty shops. We took a chairlift to the Island of Sentosa and had a go on the Luge. For dinner we had Japanese (Lynn and Jacqueline know each other through their honours year in Japanese studies at Melbourne University) then we went for drinks at Iguana bar, Marghueritas, which aren’t really my cup of tea. I stayed at Lynn’s place with Jacqueline on Thursday night and we prepared ourselves for a long ride the next day.




Lynn and Jacqueline Before the Luge Ride (not motorbike helmets)

The Singapore-Johor Bahru battle was conquered by about 11am and we found my bike as I’d left it but someone had stolen the cable lock that I’d stupidly left cabletied to the back rack (is that irony?). I could see Jacqueline was scared so I didn’t tell her it was my first time giving someone a lift further than 5km. The day went well and we took a detour off the main highway through some small towns (Air Hitam, Batu Pahat). It poured and we got soaked, sheltered under an abandoned café and hammered it back to KL when it looked like we wouldn’t make it (after all Jacq had an early flight in the morning). We arrived on the outskirts at dusk and it was once again pouring rain. We took shelter under an overpass with about 100 other riders and when it cleared, experienced a very hairy ride into the Anjung KL hostel. We got it right though and arrived home at 9pm. Jacq re-packed her bags and we went to the Outback Steakhouse for some food. The word exhausted would barely describe my feeling after three days of riding and sightseeing.

On Saturday morning I helped Jacqueline get her bags to the airport and accompanied her to the airport. We said our goodbyes and I knew I would miss having her around as soon as I turned my back. She’s planning on being in Spain next year sometime so if there’s any chance of meeting up, I’m hoping we can do another motorcycle trip.

Well, that brings me right up to last night. I met an Iranian guy and a Swedish guy. I also bought a ukelele to practise my songs (also influenced by Jacq’s Uke, very cool). The Iranian guy was an amazing guitarist and gave me some rhythms to practise. Tonight I’ll ride over to Amzi’s house and pick up my luggage ready to head north to Thailand. I wish I could send 90% of my luggage home, I really don’t NEED it and think I could survive with just a bag strapped to the back. I’m looking forward to leaving Malaysia, my time here has been amazing but I’m very keen to see what the next country has to offer. I’ll let you know how I go.

I never posted this!!

Straight after the Birdsville track.

Maree

Lake Eyre, definitely more water in it now, innit!

Wilpena Pound

Wilpena pound is a beautiful part of the Flinders Ranges National Park. We rode almost 400km around this place, all on dirt roads. Saw some amazing scenery and had a great steak at a little cafe on the highway.

Riding around the pound is the only way to do it. Park anywhere, go anywhere, see everything.

Barossa Valley

The Barossa Valley is best known for it’s wineries. We went on a wine tour to Penfolds, Wolf Blass, Peter Lehmann’s, but the best was a tiny winery called Gibsons!

The Valley

Wolf Blass

Adelaide

Welcome to the Big City

We arrived in the city, pulled up at the lights and I made a windy-windy-down-your-window sign to the guy at the lights to ask for directions, he ignored me. Welcome to the big city! Murray and I rode around for ages looking for youth hostels, we got lost, I stood out the front of a big department store dressed head to toe in wet-weather gear, covered in red dust, hairy and looking like some kind of bush-nutter. I got some great stares

The Kindness of Strangers

A big thanks to the Crowsley family for putting me up in Adelaide, I had a great time! A few crazy nights out on the town thanks to Amy and friends.

Coopers Brewery

Muzz trying to put boots on my bike after the Coopers tour.

Fuel Economy vs. Boredom

The faster you ride, the less bored you are. These stretches are 500 or so kilometers with maybe one petrol station in the middle, serious riding. I realised the faster I ride, the more fuel my bike uses. Unfortunately this creates a relationship where bored is the cheapest way to travel…

Coober Pedy

Coober Pedy is nuts, they all live underground!

In the middle of nowhere…

are huts in the desert…

and crazy hills…

and an RSL club…

a bus with a funny backside…

and a crashed spaceship…

they live underground…

I LOVE Coober Pedy!

Seriously cool place

Uluru

Blood of a Lonely Wolf

(in the words of Buck 65)
“It’s an egg and spoon race, slow and steady, desert highway, a biento
still i’m stuck, i cant afford it, picture postcard, small momento
echo, shadow, echo, shadow, sterling silver, burning furnace
frozen nowhere, just a kid, i had a friend named deadly earnest
cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my arm
praise the heavens, call the cops, relax, there’s no cause for alarm
diamond rings and little babies, startlements and miracles
i remember pretty faces so severe and lyrical
i’m talking amelia earhart, neko case and frida kahlo
all alone, the way it should be, i don’t even need a shadow
seeds of wisdom, found no purchase, we don’t even have a chance
birthday party, armageddon, long stemmed roses, avalanche
broken fingers, going nowhere fast and screeching to a halt
all that work for nothin’, uh oh, whipping boy it’s all my fault
zoom, kick, persuasion, tech, zoom, kick, persuasion, tech”

Fooluru i.e. !uluru i.e. NOT uluru

Morning

Day – it’s the bad image resizing that makes the rock look jagged

Afternoon

Ooh, steep!

The Olgas

King’s Canyon

I met a Pommie riding a bicycle around the world, cool guy! Doing it for charity. We rode together for like 10 days, it’s hard to imagine but I just kept meeting up with him.

Craig

Tyre Tree

Alice Springs
I spent a week at the Rex’s place, it was great!

Look After Your Baby (buy her shoes, oil her chains)
Bought my baby a new tyre

It’s official, the hardest part of riding a motorcycle around the world is keeping an online diary. Instead of buying a hard-backed journal, I decided at the last minute to go for the A4, spiral bound, explode in your bag, get destroyed by the mistingest of rains, eaten by the mangiest of dogs, unsturdiest piece of stationary on the market. A typical night sees me in my tent lying on my side with head torch on scribbling what I can remember about the day through the heat, concussion, hangover. Okay, I admit, sometimes I may have, just possibly let it slip and not written anything. Luckily, what I have written down should be enough, with the assistance of a few photos, to describe how amazing this trip has been so far.

Brisbane

Best place for me to start is Brisbane. Murray and I left on Monday October 16 after a weekend of last minute bike preparation which involved Murray breaking his bike to a point where it would be difficult to continue. A bit of ingenuity and some swearing helped him get it fixed and happy with our bikes; we organized to meet up at Murray’s girlfriend Sinead’s place before leaving.

Bunya Mountains

Monday we departed from Sinead’s and headed up towards the North Coast and had our first introduction to dirt road about two hours into the trip. The dirt was amazing, soft, forgiving through dense, lush forests. My bike and I handled it well and before long I was considering myself a pro dirt-rider. We arrived at the Bunya Mountains on a high just on nightfall; the sunshine would have best been described as dappled. I was very proud to have made it safely through the first day. Murray’s brother Cameron arrived moments before dark having traveled from home near Toowoomba so we headed to the restaurant for a few beers and hit the hay reasonably early. In the morning we headed off down the mountain and ran into our first spot of bother. Some light, misting rain was affecting visibility and as Murray rounded a corner, a 4WD traveling in the centre of the road met him on the bend. He rode off the edge on the hill-side (not the cliff side) and fell off facing back up the hill. The car didn’t stop and I came around the bend to see Murray on the ground under the bike, very unnerving for us both on day two.

Our Bunya Mountains campsite.

Murray’s grazed leg from the fall.

We ate a fry-up breakfast in Dalby and approached Dalby Moto for some help with Murray’s battered bike, which they fixed for a tenner and we met an older guy on a very expensive BMW. I asked him if he wanted to swap bikes but the answer was no for some strange reason. Determined to ride a reasonable distance by the end of the day, we sped on through the decreasing scenery towards the increasingly drought-stricken farmland. Unfortunately Cameron had to leave us at Miles because the bros doesn’t have a very large tank range and the stretches were getting longer between fuel stops. Murray’s brother was great company and we all got along well together. He was good for a laugh and it would have been fun to have him with us for a few more days. I met a girl on the checkout at the local supermarket that noticed my Grates shirt and told me she’d seen them at the Big Day Out, I was glad to see some people in the outback are listening to Triple J.

Roma
Roma was uneventful except for the BBQ, pool and our first encounter with “Grey Nomads”. Grey nomads are elderly (usually retired, always very friendly) folk traveling around Australia in 4WD’s pulling a caravan. This particular couple was from Germany, at that time still a novelty so I labeled them “ze germans” a la Snatch. We headed off from Roma early and made it to Injune before deciding on a “back” route through a place called Arcadia Valley. It was shown on the map as dirt track and Murray and I were keen to do some more dirt riding because the hour we’d spent off-roading a couple of days before had turned us into professionals, or so we though.

Injune information centre.

The bikes, barely worn in.

The second stack of the trip was a result of my over-confidence in riding on the dirt. With my new status of pro dirt-biker to back me up, I had no problems riding straight off the bitumen onto the sand-covered road at about 80km/hr without checking the surface. As soon as I rode onto the sand I knew something was up and I now know what a “tank slapper” is. The handlebars slap from side to side against the tank and the bike swerves violently. Not knowing how to deal with it I let go of the handlebars and put my hands over my eyes, which was a big mistake and I went down on the road, smashing my head against the ground and seeing stars for a few seconds. I stayed down, performed a mental check of all the bits of my body that existed before the crash and tried to work out whether or not they were still there. Murray came running over and I jumped up in a cloud of dust. He described the crash as looking something like bike-ballet mixed with a dust storm. I was quite shaken and worried for the bike, however it was nowhere near as bad as I thought my first crash would be, and in the following days I would come to grudgingly accept falling off as a necessary part of my off-road riding education. You can see in the picture Murray holding the bike up, the embarrassingly short distance I’d traveled off the bitumen before falling and if you look very closely, the swerve marks and massive slide I did before coming to a stop. From this point on we were proud to see ourselves as the hard men of adventure motorcycling.

Falling off, Murray looking about as dazed as I was.

More bike falling over action

Pretty nasty bushfire country

Very hot and dry

poser…

Carnarvon Gorge

We had a great day exploring Carnarvan gorge and listening to the Grey Nomads swapping feats of caravan endurance. We met ze germans again and had to buy some fuel off other Grey Nomads due to a slight miscalculation and one Grey Nomad had a shirt with slogan “Do it yourself, I’m retired!” which became our motto for the next few days.

Chillin’ by my pond.

Ferntree Gully.

Aboriginal art gallery.

Emerald

Next stop was Emerald where I met up with Gav and Fi Lotz, friends of the family since when I was young. They have two incredibly cute young boys, Carl and Mikey and we all had a BBQ and chatted about farming and remote-control cars. This was the first maintenance day and I changed my air filter. I also sent a large box of unneeded junk back to my parents for storage.

Below Mikey learns to ride the KLR! Get in son!!

Longreach

On the way to Longreach I devised a method of cruise control that involved tying a piece of rope around the handlebars and pulling it down alongside the throttle. With my right hand free, I could then attach my camera to my backpack and take photos while riding. Somewhere along the line we must have fuelled up at a place that sold syrup instead of petrol because Murray and my bike began misfiring. A short trip to the Honda and Kawasaki dealerships in Longreach sorted out the problem.

Murray easy-ridin’ down the highway

Ingenious cruise control via piece of rope

A knowledgeable (if slightly dead) tree in Barcaldine

Our place of lunch, Barcaldine

Longreach’s claim to fame is the Stockman’s Hall of Fame and I wasn’t disappointed. The Hall is a museum filled with info about everything that has happened in the Australian outback since before European settlement. More impressive still was the Qantas founders’ museum, not because of the info but for the massive jumbo jet someone decided to land in the middle of the desert. We paid for a tour through the plane, which I loved. We also happened to meet a very friendly older biker in the campground called John who was traveling on a slick-looking BMW and kept enthusing about how great our modest bikes were.

This movie shows how fun Longreach is.

The star of the show!

A storm brewing on the horizon.

The campsite.

A jumbo in the desert.

Someone’s home movie of the jumbo landing.

Windorah

On the road to Windorah

Windorah was the next stop after Longreach and I chose to do some more bike-ballet off into the mud while trying to get there. We arrived at the pub at about 10am and I did what any sensible person who had fallen off their bike into the mud would do – started drinking. A guy with crazy-eye and no front teeth called Caveman befriended us and we discovered he works as a stockman on a station in the area. He let us stay at Roachie’s house that night. Roachie wasnt home but “everyone stays at Roachie’s so don’t bloody worry about it mate”. Just let yourself in. A lovely English girl behind the bar at the hotel helped warm the atmosphere. She was working in the outback for 3 months at the local pub. I respect anyone who can work in a pub and serve Caveman, plus she’d agreed to go out to a station and help put up fences. Will have to find out how she’s going!

Chocolate coated bike!

Murray, myself and some Swiss adventure riders. They turned back on the next section.

The Dreaded Windorah to Birdsville

The most soul-destroying part of the trip so far would have been the road between Windorah and Birdsville. Imagine riding along a road covered with banana skins and you’ll have a good idea of what the conditions were like. We didn’t pass a single vehicle in the eight hours we traveled and the landscape was post-apocalyptic. The handling of the bikes meant we could only average about 80km/h and the going was incredibly tiring. We took a break at Dion’s lookout, named after a young farmer who’d crashed his helicopter into a hill nearby. The wind was strong enough to blow Murray’s bike off its side stand onto mine, knocking my bike over in the process and breaking the rack on Murray’s bike. We took two hours battling the flies and trying to rig up a piece of rope and some quicksteel to hold the rack together until Birdsville. The view was so wide and expansive, it was almost scary to be able to see so far into the distance.

Interactive attractions on the way to Birdsville. The sign says “The pointer will direct you to view the hole through the hill.”

Really? I’ll check it out on the way back..

Murray and I go for a space walk.

The shelter where we discovered mind-blowing views, had our bikes blown off their stands, were assaulted by a million flies and almost lost all hope of getting to Birdsville.

The mind-blowing view from Dion’s lookout.

Birdsville

What’s in Birdsville: a hotel, a campground and a very well-known race-track. Every year thousands of people flock to Birdsville for a one week race carnival so we were relieved to find a very good mechanic at the petrol station who’s been fixing broken down horse racing enthusiasts for the past eight years (their cars, not their minds). Murray had his rack reinforced and I had a dented front rim hammered straight and my steering head nut tightened. I was so happy to get a piece of plate welded to the bottom of my kickstand, every time I’d park the bike it would threaten to fall over, the new stand was rock solid. We needed our bikes in top condition before trying to tackle Big Red!

Theo fixing my bike.

Big Red is the first sand dune of the Simpson desert and supposedly the largest. The challenge is to ride up the face of the dune and down the other side. We took some of the factors into account like getting back up the other side if we managed to get all the way over and decided to just ride up to the top and back down the same side. If we got stuck, it would be embarrassing to be rescued only one dune in! Initially I was scared because I’d experienced a few falls in the sand and couldn’t imagine riding 100m up a hill through it. We both did it though; I just floored it, looked at the top the whole way and imagined I was Steve McQueen.

bout to go up big red. That’s me, the little speck in the centre…

Cruising up the sand dune.

The Birdsville Track

The thrill definitely wasn’t there with the Birdsville track, no danger, no tough bits, just 550km of clay highway. The whole way we rode at 100km/h and never felt like we’d come off. The inside track at the start was a blast and we visited an abandoned cattle station called Alton Downs, which was very eerie. A pump was going and it felt almost inhabited, but all of the buildings were run down. I had that really creepy feeling as if I were being watched. The old guy at Mungerannie Road House was really friendly and I enjoyed reading all of the stuff pinned up against the walls. We popped out the other end of the track in Maree and had our first taste of South Australian schnitzel.

Parked beside the Billabong at Alton Downs abandoned cattle station

The Billabong at Alton Downs station.

F#$kn Eerie Abandoned cattle station.

The Birdsville “Highway”.

An approaching sand storm.

Well, I’ll have to leave it here as I’m about to have my bike weighed and say goodbye to the friends who put me up in Alice Springs. I still have another big post to catch up to where I am now, which I’ll strive to do in Darwin in a few days time. Hope you’re all well and having a great time with whatever you’re doing.

Damo

To be honest, we hadn’t known each other long. Some say we were just getting to know each others personalities. All I know is that she was a true friend and a sturdy beast. The tragic circumstances under which she was lost are hard to recall without bringing up all of the sadness and pain of that clear Friday night a week and a half ago.

I’d ridden into New Farm at about 7pm. The plan was to help Ed move furniture and bric-a-brac from his old rental on Sydney St to the apartment he’d purchased approximately 850m away. The evening was going well and we’d shifted one significant load of gear into the new place. Ed recalls seeing the old girl parked on the street when we arrived back. We went inside, loaded up his panel van and then disaster struck. The van wouldn’t start and we waited nearly an hour for the RACQ to change the battery. Within that hour the bike had been lifted onto a trailer or placed into the back of a van and whisked away to another life. There has been no sign of her since. I’d like you all to please take a moment to look at the photo below and remember my darling in her true element, on the farm, basking in the waning glow of a late-winter sun. She was a beauty. She will be missed. (please read below)

Tribute/farmbike.jpg

Right, so the upshot of all of this bike thievery is that I don’t have a vehicle to do my World Motorcycle Journey on… I’ve lodged an insurance claim with my insurer, who will hopefully be able to reimburse the total cost of the bike by next week. I’m looking at about a fortnight to have a replacement, which in anyone’s terms could be considered “cutting it fine”. Departure date is 16th October so all of the run-in, initial servicing etc. will need to be done in about four weeks. I’m really really hoping this gets sorted because I have a flight booked for the 5th December onwards to Kuala Lumpur, which will require me being in Darwin by that date, which in turn will require a motorcycle. Some of the documentation (Carnet in particular) will also require a registered bike before I can apply.

Well, it looks like it came apart pretty easily. Glenn came over on Sunday morning and we went to work on some swingarm maintenance. The objective was to remove all of the pivot bolts that hold the subframe, swingarm and suspension together to get at the innards, then re-grease all of the bearings and jot down the numbers in the workshop manual for future reference.

I don’t have a very professional workshop and therefore needed to make do with a few bodgied-up items for the task. The bike-stand is cut from a tree stump out at Glenn’s farm with a piece of old tyre tube stretched over the top. The process of hoisting the bike up involves rocking it back onto the sidestand, shoving the tree stump under the frame (watching out for the sump plug) and then rocking the bike up and onto the stump. This naturally tips the bike back so I tied a piece of rope from the ceiling to the rear footpeg and hauled it up.

First step was to take the back wheel off. Basically held on by a big bolt with a nut on the end, unscrew the nut, bash the axle out (gently) and wiggle the wheel out taking care to remove the chain.

Remove every LARGE bolt in sight and the swingarm will eventually come off, lean it somewhere safe like this open garage door.

Below is a picture of the innards of the bike without tyre or swingarm. The silver bit poking backwards is the stand, the coily bit dangling down in the centre is the rear shock absorber and the chain is hanging free beside the tree stump. We located every bearing and greased it all up and Glenn cleaned the chain. We discovered the bit sitting on top of the tyre in the above pic comes off a lot easier if you undo the bolts holding the engine case to the frame. If we had realised this while taking it out, there wouldn’t be a hundred dents all over it’s poor little aluminium backside.

Okay, job finished, back tyre went back on very awkwardly. I’d had a really really big night and the sun / frustration / awkwardness nearly made me sick. Cleaned up the workshop, kicked the stump out from under it and went inside to watch TV.

I rode it the next day without the wheels falling off. In other words a job well done.