Category Archives: World Tour

Three Conversations in Southern Africa

The Desert Tavern in Swakopmund, Namibia.

It was situated not far from the center of town, but at its heart it couldn’t have been further from civilization. The regulars had a wildness in their eyes, that at any moment a riot or a sing-song could break out and there was no way of telling which was coming. The only evidence of their Germanic history, that Tino had come to Namibia to see, was a perfect circle chandelier glued together out of empty Kummerling bottles.

“Is the reason you’ve agreed to all of my plans for the last two weeks that you have been travelling for so long that you don’t want to make any more decisions, or is it just that you don’t care?”

“Little bit of both. Can I stop you there for a second?” I asked.

Tino nodded.

“HAI.” I screamed across the bar. “Are you Irish?” The slim blonde woman ordering straight Jameson whiskey shouted back, “Yes I am. Are you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh good, I’ll be right over.”

She delivered her round of drinks to her group and joined us at the bar.

“I’m Hannah, so what are ye guys doing in Namibia?” She breezed into the conversation with a natural ease. I knew a few women like Hannah, the shining star of the party, intensely focused on your conversation until she flits on to the next group and eventually disappears; the room growing darker in her absence.

I started, “You can travel anywhere, to the ends of the world, and do you know who you’ll meet there? Irish and Germans.

“I am Tino.”

Hannah nodded at me, “You’re from Cork, but where in Ireland are you from Tino?”

“Ya know, usually that doesn’t bother me but that time it did. I am from Germany.” Tino said.

“You don’t sound German.” Hannah replied in shock.

“I spent a few years in Ireland and picked up some of the accent.”

“And a sense of humour.” I cut in.

Hannah opened up, “Ya know the other day I met some black people on the street and one of them she said, ‘Irish, I hate the Irish all they do is drink, drink, drink, fight, fight, fight.'”

“Surely she was joking.” I hoped.

“Nope, dead serious. It was the first time that had happened to me, I was shocked to be honest.”

I consoled her, “I know what you mean, that’s never happened to me and I’m traumatized just hearing about it. I love that everywhere I go, the Irish have gone before me and now the world welcomes me with open arms.”

“So what are ye doing here?” Hannah asked.

Tino started, “I flew in to Cape Town and I am riding over to Victoria Falls and down to Johannesburg on a rented motorcycle but Eoin here has ridden his motorcycle from Seattle to Ushuaia, Argentina and shipped it over here. And he will be riding up the east coast of Africa.” Tino enjoyed telling people about my trip, some people can’t understand why someone would want to do that trip but Tino had ridden up to Deadhorse, Alaska with me and stood at the Arctic Ocean. The German completionist in him was gutted that he couldn’t ride all the way down to Ushuaia. But now he was again part of the trip, for the most daunting leg – Africa.

“Oh cool, I’ve been travelling around southern Africa for the last 3 months. How have ye found it so far?” Hannah chirped.

I answered, “Well we were told that Namibia has the best gravel roads in the world but yesterday by Duwisip Castle we hit sand that was six inches deep.”

“That gets deeper every time you tell that story.”

“Pipe down Tino. It was seven inches deep. So Namibia’s been barren and tough. Cape Town is lovely but I have a question about South Africa. Is it a bit racist?”

“What are you talking about?” Hannah asked.

I continued, “In shops the black people are extremely polite and the white people are extremely friendly, I think there are some racist undertones lurking there. And the other night we were drinking with some white South African farmers. Apparently being a white farmer in South Africa is the most dangerous job in the world. They said they have an app that tracks the number of white farmers that die in the north of South Africa. And the more drinks we had, the higher the number was, by the end of the night they were claiming four farmers a minute!”

Tino jumped in, “You’re very good at getting that out of them. These are people you’ve just met and an hour later they’re whispering about farmers dying.”

“The alcohol helps but really I just nod and say ‘uh-nh’. I want to see how far they go with it. It’s like talking to a Trump supporter, if they do go full racist there’s nothing I can say that will change their mind so I might as well get their opinion on how things are in South Africa.”

“And what was their opinion?” Hannah asked.

“Well I told him I had just been to Robben Island and saw Nelson Mandela’s cell and how people were treated. I asked him how the country didn’t tear itself apart back then.”

“What did he say to that?” Hannah was fully invested.

“He said ‘It’s like Northern Ireland, the Catholics and the Protestants are still there but there’s no more fighting. Nobody wants that… But if they come for my farm, I have a gun and I will defend myself.'”

“The bar is now closing.” The barman declared.

“OK. We’ll leave so.” Tino responded in a resigned voice.

“No, now we play chess.”

We all wondered what the barman could have meant, until he pulled a chess set out from under the bar, complete with a timer.

Enjoying the bizarre situation, Tino volunteered to play the bartender at chess.

“How has the rest of your trip been?” I asked Hannah.

“Great, I just visited my sister by Kruger National Park in South Africa. I was following her into her house when I heard this big smacking noise. I turned around and there were two giraffes across the road smacking their necks off each other. I shouted, ‘Ah you’d want to come out here.’ And she shouted back, ‘Are the giraffes at it again? Don’t mind them.’ Madness.”

Tino was losing hard against the barman, every time he checkmated Tino, he would say ‘again’ until eventually he said, ‘Now you play as white.’ Tino reached for the board to spin it around. The bartender shouted, “Don’t you touch my board.” Tino looked confused at the barman, then shrugged and leapt over the bar. The barman walked around the counter. Tino helped himself to another pint and continued losing against the drunken grandmaster barman. One of the regulars consoled him, “I’ve been playing him for three years and I’ve never beaten him.” Bizarrely all of the regulars also had a crazy obsession with chess.

“So have you seen any racism in South Africa?” I asked Hannah.

“No, everyone has been lovely to me but there was one weird thing that happened. I went to the shops with my niece and I was giving her a piggy back around the aisles. I realized that we were the only white people in the shop and everyone was looking at us. A crowd gathered and followed us around the shop. I asked one of them what was wrong and she said, ‘We did not know that white women also carried their babies on their backs!'”

“I’m going home.” Hannah suddenly declared, and just like that she was gone. The room did seem darker but suddenly it was lit up flashing blue and red colours. Two police officers walked in. The bartender staggered over.

“Do you know what time it is?”

The bartender slurred, “Ahhh no.”

“It is 3AM, you were supposed to close at 12.”

Fearing spending the night in a Namibian jail, I interjected, “No, it’s ok, we’re leaving.”

Myself and Tino strolled out into the crisp Namibian night air.

 

Dropkick Murphy’s bar in Durban, South Africa

It was an authentic Irish bar in a gentrified neighbourhood of Durban. A blonde woman sat at the bar.

“So where are you from?” I asked.

“Glasgow in Scotland.” She replied.

“Livingstone, the guy that discovered Victoria Falls was from a slum in Glasgow. Are you from the same slum?”

“Ah he’s got jokes.” Her lilting accent retained a hint of her Scottish origins but was a far cry from the machine gun rattle of the usual Scottish accent.

“So what are you doing in South Africa?” I asked.

“I am a doctor for Doctors Without Borders.”

“Your brothers and sisters must hate you. No matter what they do, their sister is a doctor, in Africa, in Doctors Without Borders. There is nothing they can do to impress your parents. At least I had the decency to quit my job and travel around the world looking like a hobo.”

“So why South Africa?” I asked.

“Well the other day I had a guy come in to the clinic, he had been out spear fishing with his friend when his friend’s speargun accidentally went off and hit him in the chest. He was screaming that he was going to die and his friend was freaking out that he was going to go to jail for murder. I told them, ‘Look, you haven’t died yet so you’re probably not going to die.’ We did an x-ray of his chest and the hook was lodged an inch from his heart. We needed to send him for surgery, but he couldn’t fit in the ambulance with the remaining five feet of the spear sticking straight up in the air. I had the maintenance guy come in with an angle grinder and I held the spear in place while he cut the rest of it off. You just don’t get that in Europe.”

“Well maybe Glasgow.” I sniped in.

I asked, “So you’ve been here a while, is South Africa racist?”

“Oh my yes. The nurses at work took me aside after a few months and asked, ‘You are from South Africa but you are not racist?'” She rolled her r’s in a perfect South African accent, in the way that makes everything sound regal.

“They assumed because I was white that I was South African and therefore a racist. I said, ‘No, no, I’m Scottish.’ They all laughed and said, ‘Oh that makes sense then.’ So I’ve started wearing my Scottish jersey around the place so people don’t assume I’m a racist.”

“Good luck in the impending race war then.” I quipped.

 

The driveway of a house on the outskirts of Johannesburg.

The houses all had large metal gates, barbed wire and electric fences. They looked like compounds in a war zone.

“Your chain is so fucked that it’s mounting the sprocket. That shouldn’t even be possible.” Robert was a shy thirty year old who clearly was not good with people but his passion for motorcycles shone through. He had gone into business servicing motorcycles from his house with his father Gavin, a large overbearing man.

Gavin walked in and pointed at the web address on his sign.

“You know what .za stands for? Zulu Africa.” I nodded and he let out a big hearty laugh like what he had just said was the funniest thing in the world. “We will undertake to fix your bike and also to drop you back to your hotel.” I hopped into the car and we headed back towards the city. I asked about all the barbed wire. “You know what the first thing you get when you turn 18 in South Africa is? It’s not a car, it’s a gun.” Gavin answered.

We passed a large township on the left, the inequality is striking in Johannesburg. Big compound houses giving way to small metal shacks that housed entire families. A car was broken down on the side of the road.

“It’s always blacks fixing their cars on the side of the road. Never white people.” Gavin lectured. I thought about the historical socio-economic inequality that resulted in black people driving older cars and the population demographics that acted as a confirmation bias for his assertion. And then I thought about how I was never going to win that argument.

“I heard the president on television talking about land reform, what’s that about?” I prodded. Gavin launched into an answer, “We have a big problem in South Africa, the farmers are being killed. You have heard about this? Blacks are taking over the farms and need to make payments to the government to keep them. They have no interest in the farming so the first thing they do is sell off the equipment to make the payments. Then the farm is no good and goes to ruin. The president is making the noises he needs to make before the election next year, but he is a businessman, he knows he needs to keep the farms working.”

“So everything will calm down after the election?”

“With the president yes but South Africa’s real problem is the seven tribes here. They hate each other and will never work together, it will never be a real country. And they blame it all on apartheid, you’d want to have rocks in your head to believe the things they blame on apartheid. They’re not people really.” I had stopped nodding. An awkward silence descended on the car and hung heavy in the air. “So what currency do you use in Ireland?” Gavin changed the subject.

I was bothered by the conversation, but there are always people that have more experience than you and you need to learn to ask for advice. So later I explained to my travel mentor and asked, “These people aren’t going to learn anything and arguing with them gets me nowhere but should I do more than not engage in the conversation?”

“First of all, if you only ask the white people about racism in South Africa you’re only getting half the story. And secondly, you know there’s only one answer to that question – ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.'”

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Peril in Peru

I had been riding the PanAmerican Highway down the length of Peru. Endless desert asphalt where the wind winds up across the entire ocean to punch you right in the side of the head. An unseen force trying to tear your helmet off for hours at a time. After a grueling week it was finally time to turn inland and up the mountains to the magical Macchu Picchu.

33 degrees. As I rose from the desert floor the temperature steadily dropped. 23 degrees. I stopped to add a layer of UnderArmour. 14 degrees. I changed to winter gloves. 10 degrees. A storm cloud rolled in and the temperature plummeted just as I came to the crest of a hill. 4 degrees. Huge hailstones pelted the bike, a layer of ice coating the road. I slowed to a crawl, my boots sliding along the ground on either side of the bike. In Alaska a grizzled motorcycle rider who had just finished his world tour had given me some advice, “When the going gets rough, don’t try to be a hero and stay up – walk your bike through. It’ll be slow but not as slow as finding a mechanic or a hospital.” A horn blared, the only other car on the lonely mountain road rolled past. When you manage to get a horn from the unflappable Peruvian drivers you know things have gone horribly wrong.

I followed two black tyre tracks through the pristine white landscape. They suddenly veered off the road. A tourist jeep sat perched on the rocks as if placed there by some long forgotten mountain giant. Thunder cracked in the distance to round out the terrifying scene in front of me. The driver climbed up to me and spoke in Spanish. I asked “Are you ok? Any injuries?” He gave me a thumbs up. Not being able to speak any Spanish, he lost interest in me so I continued my downhill slide. If the storm had closed in on the way up the hill there was no way I could have kept going. Just past the crashed jeep, the ice started to part and then disappeared. I pulled in at the next toll booth and gesticulated wildly to mime that a car had crashed back up the road. The disinterested man in the toll booth mimed a phone up to his ear, a symbol that he had already called it in.

The temperature lingered at 4 degrees. Just as I was congratulating myself on surviving the icecapades, a police siren wailed behind me. I pulled in and through some broken English, broken Spanish and the international language of mime, the message was conveyed. “Stop at the next town, it is snowing ahead.” In response I mimed a tent. He shook his head, “Stop at the next town.”

I made it to the town of Negro Maya. It was really just a small cluster of stone cottages that looked like they were straight out of 1850s Ireland. The first house I approached had a young woman in full traditional Peruvian dress in the doorway. I asked in my best Spanish if there was a place I could stay. She did not answer. I repeated ‘Hoteles?’ several times with more and more ambitious pronunciation. She looked at me, confused, in deafening silence. She raised her hand and flicked her wrist to shoo me away. It occurred to me much later that she didn’t speak Spanish, only Quechua – the native Peruvian language in the Andes.

The next house had two unquestionably native Peruvians sitting at a bench outside. They looked like they could have been sitting there discussing the events of the day since the fall of the Incan Empire. Thankfully one of them spoke Spanish. I asked again if I could stay. He shook his head and pointed to the road, “30 kilometers.” I told him that the police had told me to stay in this town because it was snowing ahead. He looked up at me starting to lose his patience, “Then drive CAREFULLY.”

I slowly rode towards the next town. Thoughts of how I could have flown to Cusco, or skipped it completely ran through my mind as the setting sun lit up the sky in a dazzling shade of orange. I arrived in the dark, the snow covered mountain peak to the left of the road glinting in the moonlight. This town was a slightly larger version of the previous one. To the right was a barn like structure, in decades old faint writing I could just make out the word ‘Hosteria’. I pulled in.

Inside there was a single large room; on the left side there were shelves that had biscuits and bottle of Coca-Cola (the one universal constant). On the right side there was a table and chairs and a big old television showing soccer: the national obsession. Watching the match was the owner, one glance told me everything I needed to know about him. He was an old bachelor farmer, a wild breed – the same the world over. I asked him if I could stay. He smiled, “10 Soles” (about $3.10) “Come.” He led me out the back door. Chickens ran between my legs and around the back yard. A rickety staircase led up to a three room extension that he had clearly, proudly built himself. Large unfinished wooden beams supported a corrugated steel roof. At the points where the beams intersected with the walls, cracks ran out in every direction. The far side of the yard had a small building with BANOS sprawled in white paint. An outhouse that had three small rooms with a hole in the ground, and each one in a more horrifying state than the last. He cooked up a dinner of fish that he had caught in the river and potatoes that he had grown himself.

The next morning I packed my bags, opened the large metal gate and pulled out onto the highway. As the road rose out of town I heard a deep agricultural ancestral voice in my head, “The chickens will get out…” I turned around, pulled the heavy gates shut as best I could from the outside and headed back into the mountains.

The rest of the road to Cusco was a beautiful twisty winding road with temperatures in the 20s. I checked into my hotel and headed straight out to get tickets to Macchu Picchu to keep my trip on track. I paid $300 and they gave me tickets; I pointed out that my passport number was wrong and they replied with the one line that sums up South America perfectly – “If at least 50% is correct, everything will be fine.”

I waited outside my hotel at 3AM for my tour bus. And waited. At 4AM a woman walked out of the darkness shouting my name. I followed her to a small white car which drove me to the tour bus. The bus was running late and to make up time the driver sped through town and careened around hairpin bends. The only movement he made that was not driving related was to learn over and turn up the radio when Spandau Ballet’s True came on. He overtook two cars on a blind corner. ‘…Always in time, but never in line for dreams…’

He made it to the train station just in time. The platform was swarming with people boarding the train, all of them kitted out in designer gym gear. North Face jackets as far as the eye could see. Except for one hero. A Japanese man with a top knot was dressed in full ceremonial Japanese clothing.

A short train journey later our tour guide was explaining how Hiram Bingham, the explorer, discovered Macchu Picchu – The natives pointed to the top of the mountain and said, “There are ruins up there.” He asked for a guide and they sent a small child to show him around. That was some good exploring. When you enter Macchu Picchu the mountain and ruins are laid out in a magnificent vista. Every picture you’ve ever seen of Macchu Picchu comes to life right in front of you. It is the one tourist attraction that truly does not disappoint.

Montezuma

As I waited at the border the minutes bled into hours. I had perfected my disinterested border zen but this time I had a deadline looming; my hotel check-in was closing at 8pm. I sat on the ground on top of a fine layer of sand and dirt watching my arrival time tick past 8 while I waited for ‘authorization’. When I finally made it through I hoped that some velocital liberties would make up the 30 minute difference.

I sped along the Costa Rican highway, the light slowly fading. Unfamiliar jungle trees flew by on each side. Google Maps was also fading, losing my position every few minutes. I switched to Maps.ME, an offline maps app. It has an adventurous idea of what constitutes a road and had caused me to traverse mountains on dirt roads in both Iran and Albania but it had also saved me a few times in other countries.

I followed the map to the right off the highway. The spine of Costa Rica rises into ridges like some sort of sleeping dinosaur I was trying to clamber over. Almost on queue the road changed from smooth tarmac – to pothole strewn – to a former road that could now be used to film a moon landing. The last of the light was now gone and I was again on top of a mountain on a dirt road at night. Thanks Maps.ME. The only other traffic was small local vans that looked like they would survive Mad Max apocalypse, they were making the trip between tiny villages that clung to the mountainside. I slowly slalomed from the edge of one crater to the next. Winding my way up the mountain, watching my arrival time slide to 9pm. And then 10pm. I decided when I got there I would pitch my tent in the hotel car park, mostly out of spite for having a closing time.

The well worn road dipped left over a small hill, at the crest of the hill I slammed on the brakes. A large river blocked my path. I peered left and right into the darkness, there was no sign of a bridge. I looked down at the map, it clinically showed the road cutting straight across the river. I consulted Google Maps for a second opinion, it had the same prognosis.

I knew I should wade across the river and check the depth, but with the fatigue you get from months on the road and a long day in the saddle, I just couldn’t get off the bike. I could see the tyre tracks of a 4 wheel drive leading out of the river so I convinced myself that it must be a main route around here and couldn’t possibly be that deep. I slowly rode into the river – mercifully it was about one inch deep, relieved, I accelerated. About halfway across it got deeper, suddenly I was up to my knees in 3 feet of water and the engine cut out. My heart sank, along with my boots.

I looked around but I was surrounded by running water, darkness and silence beyond that. Drawing water into my engine was not a situation I was prepared to deal with. I held my breath and gingerly tried the ignition switch. It started up. I twisted the throttle and could hear the engine roar but the bike didn’t move. The silt on the riverbed was sucking the tyres in like quicksand. The bike was fully loaded and it would take a long time to unload everything and drag it out of the river on my own. I slowly rocked the bike back and forth as I gave it a little throttle, more in hope than in expectation. The tyre caught and slowly crawled up the river bank, the engine screaming in protest. I sat triumphantly on the far side of the river and looked back across the rushing torrent, cursing my long dead GoPro.

Around the next bend the tarmac reappeared and the bike charged ahead as if the last few hours had never happened. I rolled into Montezuma at 11pm and thankfully I was met by the hotel security guard who let me into my room. I took my dripping boots off at the door and headed straight for the shower. It only had one tap, not even a pretense of hot water, but it was the best shower I’d had in months.

Montezuma is an idyllic Bohemian village at the end of the Nicoya Peninsula. At the center of the town is a perfect white sandy beach. Stalls selling jewelry line the streets, everyone in town is a backpacker or full blown hippy. Long flowing hair, man buns and tanker shirts are everywhere, not a sleeve in sight. Dense green jungle trails filled with capuchin monkeys lead to 3 spectacular waterfalls. I had truly come through chaos and arrived in paradise.

The Grandmaster

As soon as I got to my hotel, I launched myself out onto the streets. My brother always told me, “The best way to get to know a new city is by walking around and getting lost.” I didn’t even take the time to Google ‘Belize City’; if I had, I would have learned that Belize used to be a colony of Britain and was called British Honduras – or I would have seen the endless warnings to get the hell out of there. An economic downturn coupled with President Trump’s decision to deport illegal immigrants with criminal records had resulted in a lot of people returning to Belize City with no job, no prospects and desperation rising.

I wandered down dark streets, expecting the buildings to rise and to get that familiar imposing city feeling, but the run down housing continued on and on. Belize has the lowest population density in Central America and that is clear from the size of their capital. I eventually found the city center, a large crowd was gathered at an open air concert. As I arrived the last chords rang out and the crowd dispersed within minutes, scattering into dark alleyways. That is the sort of timing you can expecting with long term travel.

I gave up on my wandering tour and decided to head back to my hotel. An old black man with a silver beard glinting in the darkness stepped in front of me.

“I am Leroy. Where you from?”

“Ireland.”

I was used to answering Irelanda from my stay in Mexico, just saying Ireland is too much of a leap for Mexico, they stare at you confused and when you follow up with ‘Irelanda’ their eyes light up and they shout ‘Ahh’ every single time. Belize is English speaking, but with a Caribbean twist that makes it almost unintelligible when they are speaking to each other, and really cool when they are speaking to foreigners.

‘Ahh. Come in and have a drink in my bar.’ He pointed at the Chinese restaurant across the road. The first room contained an imposing five foot tall solid wood bar on the right hand side. A handful of Belizeans crowded around the bar on cheap metal bar stools. We passed through the next door to the Chinese restaurant. Wooden chairs surrounded white folding plastic tables. Belize being a heavily Catholic country, a Madonna figurine looked down protectively over the bar. We sat and watched some random Basketball game on the small old CRT TV. Leroy headed behind the bar and came back with two rum and cokes.

“Let me introduce you to the owner, Liu this guy is from Ireland.” The owner of the bar looked across disinterestedly, ‘Hey.’ The staff had a familiar dynamic with Leroy – I had seen in many times in bars across the world, an acceptance that the local barfly is going to be there anyway so you might as well put him to work. It was an air of tolerance rather than acceptance.

“What are the police like in Belize?” Getting robbed twice by the police in Mexico had made me weary. “Oh the Police?” His head dropped into his hands dramatically. “You understand?” I understood.

Leroy leaned over to me. “I’m famous you know. They call me the Grandmaster. Look it up.” I Googled ‘The Grandmaster Belize’ In the photos a young man shone up at me, a look of hope in his eyes. I looked up at Leroy, the years had taken their toll, a hard life had beaten the light out of his eyes. He was a dub poet who had found success writing poems about life growing up in Belize’s dreaded Majestic Alley. “You see that concert in town tonight?” I nodded. “I was the warm up act.”

“This is a tough place. You see the people behind the bar? All men, you know why?” I shook my head. “When this place goes off, it really goes off.” His voice lowered. “You see those holes in the ceiling? They’re bullet holes. You should not walk back to your hotel from here, you should get a taxi.”

I wondered aloud “If things are so bad, why do you stay here?”

“I am Belize.”

Mexican Standoff

I’ve been stuck in Mexico for so long that I might just give up and live here. It’s not the heat, or the constantly getting robbed by the police, or even the crater size potholes that you wreck your bike in, it’s the lack of friendliness. In America it’s fake and only lasts as long as your transaction, but at least it’s a human connection. When you get far enough into Mexico nobody speaks English and nobody wants to help you, even if you’re standing on the side of the road with a broken down motorcycle. I’m told, ‘Help, my motorcycle has broken down at night’ is a common ploy of the banditry but when a hundred trucks drive past you it just starts to feel personal. Or maybe it’s just missing Ireland, where there is a common unspoken understanding that we’re all fucked, but we’re all in this together.