My brother Kirk recently turned 18. Seeing as I am 4 and half years his senior, I decided to save him the time of learning certain 'life lessons' for himself, by spelling them out in an easy-to-read format.
He ended the weekend with his head down the toilet, after consuming most of the bottle of Tequila his dear old bruva had brought back from Mexico. There are certain lessons that must be learnt through experience.
While writing these pearls of wisdom on a busy train to London, I felt a tap on the shoulder. To my astonishment, the lady to my right handed me a torn-out page from her notebook. On it she had written 5 suggestions for additional advise. A smile passed between us and she went back to looking out the window. Not one word was exchanged. I live for those moments.
I have recently been in Mexico, shooting behind the scenes video on the set of Monsoon and Accessorize's Spring/Summer campaign. At the end of everyday I would return to my hotel room to find a beautifully folded towel on my bed. I was amazed by this towel origami, and would often open the door with baited breath, shaking with anticipation at what new and wondorous creation would lay before me.
I would wake at around 6am every morning, having elected to disregard the time-difference. Unfortunately, breakfast was not served until 7.30, which meant that an hour and a half had to be filled productively. This is the result...
I write this at an altitude of 8390m having just taken off from Madrid airport. I travel alone. The Australian girl I was supposed to be traveling with lost her passport (along with $1200 cash) at Heathrow. I am now solely responsible for Monsoon & Accessorize’s entire Spring/Summer fashion campaign, as I have all the clothes for the 2 week photo shoot in my possession, and am charged with getting them through customs at the notoriously crooked Mexican border.
There are many concerns at this stage. Firstly, the entire list of products - that’s 3 giant suitcases and and a smaller one containing jewellery - is in the Aussie's name, meaning there’s no guarantee that they’ll even let me into the country with said merchandise. Secondly, having not actually seen the bags transfer over to the new plane in Madrid, I am at the mercy of Iberia Airlines and can only hope they are safe and sound beneath me. Then there is the ridiculous irony of entrusting such a large quantity of luggage to someone who once left his bicycle and all his worldly possessions on a bus in Manhattan, while he was in Subway ordering a 6 inch chicken Teriyaki with sweet onion sauce. The level of responsibility thrust upon me is unnerving at best. I must now wait 10 hours and pray to Vishnu that the bags emerge from the hold... and that the customs officer will accept sexual favours as bribery.
“Norwegians are hilarious.” Matt’s statement by far the driest thing of the trip, considering the relentless conditions that ravaged us for two weeks. “Look what I’ve done Olaf” (feel free to replace this with another stereotypical Norwegian name – if you can think of one), “look what I’ve told the silly British hikers how long this path will take!” I slid across a rock onto an outstretched tree root. Hilarious. It was like Bambi had formed an ice hockey team with Thumper and his gang of woodland creatures, such was our incompetence on the slippery slope. Our heavy bags acted like tortoise shells, protecting us from the rocks, yet marooning us whenever we plundered. ‘Plundering’ occurred regularly.
Andy was at an all time low, his in-growing toenail impatiently pushing against the end of his boot, incessantly poking and prodding. Bloody – raw. Swollen like our tired eyes and Matt’s allergy-ridden face. Agony, as the accumulative weight of body and bag squeezed tightly against the tiny pressure point of pain. The group took their frustrations out on the jokers that had produced our map. Our map. The root of all that was evil in the world.
“We could book some flights to Oslo, roughly £30 each way, back pack through the Norwegian wilderness, taking advantage of their pro wilderness camping rules. Fish, hunt, build fire, MEN MEN MEN!”
Matt’s email. The one that got the ball rolling (our traditional annual road trip in the camper-van had been scuppered by time constraints.) This ill-researched scheme coming from the “man” who moisturizes daily and once brought a pair of gas-powered hair-straighteners on a surf trip to the West coast of France. Matt, the elder of the Coles brothers, known as Jimmy Hill for his prominent chin, epitomizes the new age ‘metrosexual’. If there was a wilderness-off between Matt and Jonathan Ross, the peacockish presenter would probably win.
Andy, or ‘Toad’ is a city slicker at heart. Having spent the past year working in London for ‘the man’, he looks strangely unfamiliar in anything but an impeccably trendy suit. He does not mince his words. Especially it seems, when it comes to expressing his dissatisfaction with Norwegian... quirks. The younger Colesy can be equally vocal with his grievances. He is also renowned within the group for his over-average ability to build fires. Unfortunately, it transpired that this adroitness was largely worthless, as trees, or indeed any sort of vegetation, were scarce.
I looked back on our departure over a week previously, and wondered where it had all gone wrong. Embarking from our hostel in Finse into the dull morning mist, our collection of wannabe explorers vacated with a vigor reminiscent of the Vikings, who graced these shores centuries ago. A clear path, not too steep. Bags heavy but manageable. And the weather would improve right?
Seven hours later and we were lost. Certain we were next to a big bit of water and some large rocks, exactly which ones were anyone’s guess. Prediction weren’t necessary when some fellow hikers (Norwegian as it happens), took out a completely different map to ours. This alien map illustrated that we had taken a wrong turn six hours earlier, at the ‘quite big rock’.
Disregard for compass bearings had cost us. Our reward was a wood-shed. Too far to turn back and nothing but uncertainty ahead, we were stuck between a rock and... some more rocks. With no other options for shelter, we broke into the shed in a valley called Fagernut. Complete with stagnant ‘Utedo’ (Norwegian for ‘toilet’) and some resident rats, our stay at the Fagernut Hilton did not surpass expectations. The morning found many of us questioning what we were doing there. It found all of us questioning why Matt looked like he had spent the night face-humping a toilet plunger. Red and swollen, we observed our gangly friend with a mixture of pity and amusement – the latter far outweighing the former. Our situation that evening however, was far from comical.
Swathed in darkness, the four conquerors shuffled blindly down a cliff-face. For the second night in a row, we had got it wrong. Very wrong. Matt later admitted to being fearful of our lives. Although a tad melodramatic from the man whose face now looked like a scolded puffin, I conceded that our plight was far from ideal.
Our suspicions had been aroused earlier that day. Stopping for some well-earned Super Noodles, we were passed by some hikers coming from our intended destination, Rembesdalseter (a name only Tom ever got the hang of pronouncing, meaning he had to interject any time we wished to articulate our past whereabouts.) Their skin was haggard like old leather boots, each facial line representing a treacherous mountain route they had once scaled. As Tom told them where we were headed, their wrinkled faces contorted into looks of apprehension. Far from serve as a warning, this negativity merely galvanized our over-inflated egos. We pushed on. Our second mistake in as many days.
Tom and I wanted to ‘Ray Mears it up’. We even debated whether to purchase an air rifle from one of the many ludicrously expensive outdoors shops in Oslo. It wasn’t just these stores that stretched our wallets. Norway is the second most expensive country in the world – a point we failed to fully appreciate before seeing a Mars Bar priced at the equivalent of £3.50. Pricey sustenance was yet further motivation for Tom and I to try some hunter gathering, and endeavored to fish for our food at every opportunity. Our rods had come in vacuum-formed plastic packaging. A hallmark of quality. After each attempt we would return from the waters edge to our expectant wives, Andy and Matt, empty-handed. Each time we would claim that the lack of fish made our task impossible. In the back of our minds, we recalled the countless tales of tourists doing little else but compliment the fish on their shiny scales to coax them onto the dinner plate. What were we doing wrong?
To survey a map of the Hardangervidda region – or indeed any of Western Norway – is like observing a Jackson Pollock painting. The rocky canvas is spattered with thousands of blue specs, each fjord impossibly unique in form and volume – products of the end of the ice ages, when the glaciers cut deep grooves into the land and flooded the vast, rolling fells. Though, according to the Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, it was Slartibartfast, the designer of planets, who created these natural wonders, and for which “he won an award.” When Earth Mk. II was being made, Slartibartfast was assigned to the continent of Africa. He was unhappy about this, because he wanted to make more fjords, arguing that “they give a continent a baroque feel.”
The largest of the remaining glaciers, Hardangerjøkulen, set an imposing figure amongst the jagged horizon. The westerly winds whipped off the peak – inescapable – relentless, the plateau’s commanding presence always felt as we attempted to circumnavigate the 1,863 meter turret. A baron, treeless moorland (not dissimilar to Mordor in Lord of the Rings) surrounded us. It was slippery underfoot and the lack of any colours but neutral greys was starting to take it’s toll on the moral of the group. However, to the west side of Hardangerjøkulen, the landscape finally began to transform, becoming much flatter and vegetative. The afternoon sun made an unpunctual appearance, transforming the many pools and lakes into mirrors, and casting a warm orange glow on everything it touched. This was all very idyllic, but we were yet to see any sign of our cozy cabin. Tom’s knee, outraged by the steep gradients and heavy bag, was beginning to cause him discomfort. He grimaced with every jarring movement as he tried to keep up with the group’s anxiously swift pace. Matt had become disconcertingly silent. His usual array of witty comments set aside to concentrate what little energy he had on forward motion. By contrast, the city boy’s energy was unwavering. Office life had clearly not dashed his enviable natural fitness.
Nightfall became a stitch in our side, impossible to ignore. A hand-painted sign balancing between a small pile of rocks, told us that the cabin was close. Another Norwegian prank? Or was it really nearby? “No amount of money could persuade me to walk back to Finse right now” Tom remarked; one of those comments that despite being unrealistic and inconsequential, was still worth considering. I decided five million (after tax) would have done it. Not a penny less. To Andy’s utter disgust, the warm glow of one of Hardangervidda’s communal cabins did not materialize before us. Instead, we were forced to shuffle sheepishly down a near vertical mountainside that would have been sufficiently tricky in full daylight. Matt further hindered our chances of fishy glory when he dropped one of the rods into the black abyss. Despite the fact he probably would have fallen to his death had he have tried to rescue the doomed instrument, the 2 hunter gatherers were enraged by his clumsiness.
The dangerous decline smoothed out into a more defined path, yet there was still no suggestion of the hallowed cabin. Dispirited and disheveled, we finally gave in, settling on the first suitable camping spot (the first patch of grass) we had seen all day. A tasty, caramel flavored hot chocolate was scant consolation for thwarted dreams of a crackling fire and dry bed.Morning brought sunshine and breathtaking scenery. The cabin, which turned out to be just over the hill, was heaven - truly worth the intense muscle fatigue we were all now feeling. The two adjacent cabins had all manner of luxuries. One had a gas stove. The other held an unimaginable wealth of food in its larder. Shelves were lined with tinned fish, pasta and sauces. Cans of meatballs accompanied powdered mash and a variety of tinned meats, with names like ‘Bog’ and ‘Sag’ further examples of the Scandinavian sense of humour. Biscuits were plentiful - fish were not. Despite our best efforts, they continued to elude Tom and I. We were beginning to worry that we were not hunters at all. Merely hapless.
The lack of running water in the cabin was a minor inconvenience, but regular forays to a nearby stream solved our sanitation issues. The sight of four English lads, theatrically tiptoeing back from a refreshing dip, was surely Norwegian comedy at it’s finest. Our high-pitched screams were like pigmy yodels echoing through the valley, our shriveled manhoods barely visible in the crisp open-air.
This method of cleanliness was less viable when other hikers began to arrive. Notably Hans and Julia, a German couple taking a weekend break from their studies in Sweden. Hans was the trekker I longed to be. His full beard, (probably grown that same day) partially covered his sickeningly chiseled features. His giant feet* propped up his bulging calves. He spoke casually of the treacherous journey we were still recovering from, prompting looks of incredulity from Andy. Julia looked fit enough to keep up with what must have been a rapid pace. We respectfully admired the impressive curvature of her toned buttocks in long johns.
After a few days of relative luxury, we begrudgingly moved on, bidding farewell to warmth and comfort, into the arms of damp disillusionment. The precipitation persisted, as we struggled south up a climb every bit as challenging as before. Our puffy-faced friend blundered on a ledge, sliding backwards for several meters, before landing with a thud on his tortoise shell bag. Later, as the ground afoot alternated between glassy rock and boggy marshland, Andy sank waist deep into a quagmire, and required dragging free with a stick. While this did nothing to improve his mood, it provided the rest of us a rare moment of entertainment. We wondered if the Norwegians appreciated slapstick.
Never before had we experienced so much rain. It was inescapable. Even when we decided to set up camp early, the best pitch available was in ankle deep marshland that seeped through the tent floor. A leaky ceiling ensued shortly after. It seemed that our accommodation was not built for anything beyond a light spattering. Andy had a tiny pair of Ipod speakers, and the four of us laid intertwined in our damp cocoon, eating a boil-in-a-bag sausage casserole and listening to old Ricky Gervais Podcasts - chuckling in spite of our sodden situation.
The weather had won, and it was time to return to civilization with tails between legs. We saw out the week staying in various hostels - each more expensive than the last. In an ultimately feeble act of retribution, Tom and I stole a boat from a particularly pricey establishment whose corridors resembled a mental asylum. Nabbing the kano was simple. Finding oars was not. Eventually settling on a soggy piece of driftwood and an old waterski, we scurried along the bank and set sail, sniggering as if we had just spelt a rude word on our calculators. Within minutes we had been swept to the other side of the fjord, resulting in an hours frantic paddling with our makeshift instruments of velocity. Needless to say, dinner did not contain fish that evening.
It was our last day and we spent it standing on the sea wall, looking out onto the large historical harbor of Bergen, in a last gasp attempt at that elusive catch. It was raining as usual and we were half an hour from giving up for good. A dread swept over me as I heard the mocking voices of those who had been to Norway with infinitely more success. It was then I felt the unfamiliar yet unmistakable tug. A glorious battle ensued - one that has already begun to be exaggerated in accounts of the event. The relief was spectacular - the celebratory dance, majestic. Fresh fish was finally on the menu and we were no longer hapless, returning to a dry England with at least a shred of dignity intact.
We wanted to hate the Norwegians. Their Mars Bars were ludicrously pricey, their maps misleading and their country did not stop raining. The trouble was, it just so happened that our true experience of our Scandinavian neighbors had been nothing but positive. A point exemplified by a lone hiker we met on our way to Rembesdalseter. As we approached, he greeted us cheerily, explaining in broken English that he was staying in a cabin with some friends in Finse - hiking by day, drinking and playing poker by night. We were envious. Beers were heavy to carry - not to mention costing around five pounds a can. To our delight, he took a spare tinny from his backpack and handed it to Tom. Our new best friend left us to savor the sweet bitter taste of the Norwegian brew atop a rickety footbridge, swinging our legs freely above the torrential river. “Norwegians are great”, Tom remarked. I agreed.
I am already planning for next year. Mid-summer may be preferable.
*I later noted that all of the German people I have met on my travels, seemed to have unusually large feet. I feel compelled to research this inane observation further.
I was intrigued when my lovely editor suggested I take part in a Boot Camp. “A Boot Camp?” I said. “I rarely wear boots, but I do enjoy camping.” The name conjures images of bunks, boot-polish and berating. Of a large alpha-male screaming unrealistic demands for one more push-up. His pectorals ripping through his tight t-shirt as he soaks you in spittle. His eyes bulging and his teeth grinding, as a giant vein throbs from the side of his tree-trunk neck. I think of the various TV shows in which celebrities sacrifice their dignity, in an attempt to lose a few pounds and win the viewing public’s affection. Poor Rik Waller standing on the scales for the first time in ten years, and acting surprised that his body mass index is comparable to that of a walrus.
The military way of life is something Joe Public rarely gets to experience. The peak physical condition a soldier must maintain is admirable, and there is something to be said for their strict, disciplined way of life. However, I have never seriously considered signing up, as I don’t really fancy killing anyone. I wondered how I would handle someone barking instructions at me. Many people resent being told what to do by an authoritative figure, and I am no exception. The concept of total subservience in any situation is unnerving, as it goes against our fundamental principles of individuality and freedom. Who ever would be putting us through our paces for the weekend was going to have to be more than the simple-minded Sergant Slaughter of my visions.
As it turned out, he looked uncannily similar. Buzz-cut hair, black muscle-hugging t-shirt, khaki cargo pants and shoes you could style your hair in, he looked like an over-sized Action Man. Even his name had a regimented ring to it - John Stratford. Everything about John screamed ‘military’ yet within a few hours in his presence, one noticed signs of a subtler personality than his soldierly demeanor suggested. His stern, even voice carried warm undertones. His eyes seemed to constantly be on the lookout for signs of fatigue or disillusionment from his trainees. Whenever this was apparent, John applied his uncanny ability to identify each individual’s strengths and weaknesses to good effect.
When I mentioned I was planning on hiking in Norway, the PTI told me of the Royal Marine training undertaken in the Arctic Circle. As part of the course, the trainees, after cross-country skiing all day, would have to cut a hole in the ice and jump fully clothed, into the sub-zero abyss. From that point on, the pain induced by the relentless exercise, seemed less significant. Whether it was a beach circuit, tug-of-war, a Marine endurance course or simply an insane number of push-ups, everything carried with it an intensity few of us had experienced before. But however excruciating the burn was, I knew that the Marines had been through infinitely worse, not just in battle, but also in preparation for such situations.
I developed a stoic resolve that allowed me to push myself past the pain barrier. Upon looking around at my comrades, I could see the exact same determined appearance etched across their faces. It was as if we all wanted to prove that we had what it takes to be a Royal Marine. We secretly wanted John to take us to one side and say “listen son, I think you’d be an asset to Team Marine – your country needs you.” I would of course graciously decline, sighting commitments and various career aspirations, but thanking him for the offer. At this point John would try to talk me around, before reluctantly accepting my decision and making clear that the door would always be open for someone as strong and resilient as myself.
My fellow civilians and I got a taste of the military experience for a weekend, albeit diluted by the luxury Devonshire accommodation, 5 star cuisine, and the distinct lack of any firearms, tanks or grenades. For the same price as a Caribbean Cruise or a luxury Spa Break in Sardinia, one can have a much more relaxing experience for the money. However, if it’s action, adventure and extreme muscle fatigue you’re looking for, then look no further. I’m off to have an ice bath before settling down to laugh at re-runs of celebrity fit club, and watch The Waller attempt in vain to run the length of a football pitch. Entertainment at it’s finest.
Corporate Cool Guy Andy, after working his way up the corporate ladder, is now earning a six-figure salary. Although he enjoys the finer things in life; expensive convertibles, a swanky studio apartment in West Kensington, and breast enhancements for his wife Suzan, Andy sees himself as somewhat of a free spirit. After taking a few surfing lessons in Oz with a guy called Koby, a tanned dude with long blonde hair that Andy really felt he connected with on so many levels, Andy now regularly relives the transcendental experience of being at one with nature to his young secretary. Andy is arranging a team-building weekend in Newquay where he will pay large sums of money for him and his beer-bellied colleagues to wear neoprene and flounder around on large florescent foam boards.
The Geared-up Grom Simon is 15 and has recently had his hair cut in exactly the same style as his favourite surfer Andy Irons, including expensive highlights to recreate that sun-bleached look. To date, his parents have bought Simon seven high-performance surfboards, all of which are completely covered in various surf stickers from Quiksilver to Billabong. This, along with his branded hoody and baggy jeans gives people the impression that he is sponsored by at least a handful of major surf brands. Simon plays the cool dude around his friends but gets grounded if he doesn’t practice piano every evening.
The Thrasher Jack is sick of all these idiot beginners crowding his favorite surf-spots and getting in his way all the time. Don’t they realize he’s been coming to this spot for years? Way before surfing became so damn popular! These crowds are a virus, and Jack chooses to remedy this particular virus with aggression – effing and blinding at anyone who dares cross his path. He of course has priority on any wave he chooses, regardless of the order of the line-up, and everyone else should automatically know and acknowledge that fact. After all, he’s lived here all his life and this is a local spot for locals only.
Super Gramps Richard is much older than his toned figure and excellent posture lead you to believe. After turning seventy this year, Richard still feels like a child inside - a fact he accredits to morning yoga sessions, healthy eating, regular sex with his wife Gene, and above all else, surfing. Richard thinks that conventional education is irrelevant believing surfing to be the only true education.
The Jock On average, Brad uses the word ‘stoked’ in every other sentence, regardless of context. When he’s not surfing Brad is lifting weights in his garage or buying t-shirts that are one size to small in order to accentuate his buff figure. He will gladly challenge anyone who thinks they can drink him under the table or beat him in an arm-wrestle, and tends to become quite aggressive after a few too many pints. This underlying aggression is most prevalent in the water, where he tears through each wave as if it had just insulted his mother, while simultaneously insulting any fellow surfer’s mother at the top of his booming voice. Brad thinks he is God’s gift to surfing.
Soul Surfer Dylan is a sixties child and, apart from the crows feet around his eyes, has not changed one bit since the flower power era of peace and love. Dylan divides the majority of his time between smoking doobies while listening to The Grateful Dead, and surfing on his vintage longboard, a custom made 1967 Greg Noll. Too much LSD back in the day contributes towards Dylan’s monotone drawl, each syllable taking about as long as it takes for the moon to orbit the Earth, and each sentence ending in either “man” or “dude”. Dylan believes surfing to be the ultimate spiritual experience.
The Hodad Harry owns the biggest collection of surf movies of anyone he knows. He has a clock that’s the shape of a surfboard, not to mention a similarly themed rug, bed-sheet, lampshade and fridge magnets – not to mention the three old boards dotted around the flat. Harry only wears surf brands (preferably Quiksilver or O’Neill) and owns seventeen pairs of boardies and eight pairs of flip-flops. He lives in Middlesex. A few months ago, Harry took a trip to Cornwall and you can now check out all the pictures from the trip on Facebook. Ninety percent of these photographs show Harry holding a surfboard. The thing is, no one’s ever actually seen Harry surf…
The Quiet Type Bill lives a quiet and contented life. He has a quaint home by the coast where he presides with his wife and two springer spaniels. Every morning before work Bill drives to his favorite beach with his two dogs, and if the waves look promising he will pull on his super-warm wetsuit and go for a surf. Bill doesn’t know any famous surfers or who is the current World champion. He doesn’t know which particular brand is in fashion at the moment or what new board technology the pros are using these days. He just likes the feeling of that first duck-dive into the icy cold water. Or the sensation of utter weightlessness as he rides a long, peeling left hander for what seems like an eternity, as the warm early morning light reflects off the crest. If he’s lucky, he’ll spot a seal curiously poking his head up just beyond the brake to check what the fuss is all about. Bill was never one for football and is happiest when floating in solitude, waiting for the next wave.
The Carpenter Terry lives to surf. After eventually coming to the realization that he does in-fact need some sort of job in order to live, he chooses to work with his friend as a carpenter. He neither loves nor hates his profession. What is important is the flexibility it affords him. At various times in his working day he will call one of his crew of fellow surfers (all of who’s livelihoods are similarly flexible) for an update on the wave situation. If there is but a mere hint of a swell on the horizon, Terry will drop whatever he is doing, regardless of it’s importance, and get his arse down to the beach, riding whatever the sea has to offer within ten minutes of the call.
The Natural Craig is cool. There’s no other way of describing him. Girls love him and guys want to be him. He is a talented surfer with an aggressive yet smooth style that reflects his personality. Craig is a creative individual, enjoying painting and photographing coastal scenes and believes that art, music and surfing are inherently linked (Craig also plays the acoustic guitar which always seems to be around whenever there is a campfire at the beach. In these situations he will yet further melt girls hearts with his soothing vocal tones and excellent rendition of Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson).
“Someone once said it’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on” Mark remarks as we sit on the bank, discussing the many and varied attributes of the BRP Sea-Doo. I keep quiet and nod along politely as I still want a go of that cool-looking silver one. However, the little voices in my head begin to discuss the validity of this claim, coming to the conclusion that there were at least three equally, if not more fun things that can be partaken in full attire: snowboarding, sky-diving and… actually, I believe the Sea-Doo has just snuck it’s way into the top three.
The Sea-Doo RXP-X 255 watercraft (or ‘really fast jet-ski’ to you and me) is certainly nippy. Capable of a top speed of 70mph, it can beat a Ferrari F450 to 50mph (just to clarify, that’s with the two vehicles driving on their respective surfaces. A Sea-Doo would definitely lose to a Ferrari – or a Ford Orion for that matter – on tarmac, largely due to its lack of wheels.) This is not the sort of machine that you would hire on a family holiday to lope around with the kids on the back. This thing means business; a point exemplified by the presence of James Bushell, 3 x World Champion jet racer and team rider for Sea-Doo. Matt gives a demonstration of the vehicle’s extensive capabilities, thrashing it from side to side and seemingly breaking the sound barrier, before handing over to the irritable ‘Health and Safety’ guy to individually talk us through the controls. “Now, press the throttle gently”, he instructs, sitting behind me on the craft. As is often the case, the Risk Assessment part of my brain is spectacularly overpowered by the part that wants to go really, really fast, and I am immediately scolded for pressing too hard on the throttle, narrowly avoiding a date with the trees.
Initially I am pretty terrible at controlling this watery beast. The steering is counter-intuitive, requiring acceleration into the turn. Slowing down whilst tentatively turning the handlebars is about as effective as politely suggesting to a Great White Shark that maybe he shouldn’t try and eat the baby seal that’s flapping away naively mere meters away on the water’s surface. Or trying to convince Kim Jong-Il to make love, not war. However, I soon realize the Sea-Doo’s unlimited turning capabilities, aided by BRP’s revolutionary stepped hull design that reduces drag and keeps the craft glued to the water. One moment the RXT iS (the first craft I had the pleasure of testing) is twisting and turning with more poise and balance than a ballerina, the next, it transforms into Usain Bolt, as it cuts through the air with an effortless eruption of power.
BRP are showcasing two main types of vehicles: ‘luxury performance’ and ‘performance’. The crème de la crème of the latter is the RXP-X 255 RS. It’s engine boasts 255 hp, reaching 0-50mph in 2.9 seconds. The X added to the already unnecessarily long name represents some performance-enhancing additions or Xtras as I like to call them. Ooh, I feel so dirty with my X-Handlebar, X-Finger Throttle and X-Traction Carpets and Seat. My carpets are so obscene they should be censored! Lazy marketing ploys aside, this thing really is Xtremely fast (ok I’ll stop that now.) What impresses me perhaps above all is the unexpectedly discreet engine. Gone are the obnoxiously loud, anti-social oil-spitting hooligans of the water – a reputation I have always seen as synonymous with jet-skis. These days, engines are so much more refined to the point where a Sea-Doo would struggle to disgruntle a retired couple.
As for the luxury range, I am not so enthralled. The GTX Limited iS 255, which, from the front reminds me of Kryten, the humanoid/robot from Red Dwarf, is, according to BRP, “simply the best there is”. For the luxurious and refined GTX, BRP have decided that using X as a prefix to the craft’s special features is too lewd for such a sophisticated vehicle, opting instead for the most impressive and intelligent letter in the alphabet - i. With it’s intelligent suspension system and throttle control, the GTX is incredible intuitive, almost predicting your actions before you make them. While there is a certain raw, untamed feel to the RXT, the GTX is unmatchable in comfort and control, cushioning each and every inconsistency in the water’s surface and providing an incredibly smooth ride.
The trouble is, I don’t need – no – I don’t want my jet ski to be a genius. I don’t want it to have the intelligence of a PhD student and I don’t want it to mollycoddle me like an over-bearing Mother. I want to thrash it around aggressively, maybe even giving it the occasional spank and asking it who it’s daddy is, and if I cross the line then it punishes me for my bad behavior, i.e. catapults me from the vehicle. On the GTX I never once felt like this was going to happen. The suspension is just so good that it constantly makes allowances for overly aggressive, shoddy driving (which sums up my style), but where’s the fun in that?
Never mind ‘most fun you can have with your clothes’, the RXP makes me want to ride it naked, accompanied by two bikini-clad playboy bunnies. The GTX however, makes me feel underdressed in anything less than a dinner suit.
Mark and I had fallen in love… with Guatemala, and it was with a heavy heart that we pushed on towards El Salvador, the smallest country of the trip. Like much of Central America, it is a state wounded by relentless civil warring and although currently at peace under the government of Antonio Saca, an air of conflict still lingered in the dusty air.
What immediately frustrated us about this new region, was the downturn in comprehension of our Spanish dialogue. Never before have I seen so many blank expressions than when Mark attempted to ask, for the fifth time, how much extra the suspect looking beef would cost with his breakfast. He eventually ended up with a separate plate solely containing meat, and his exasperation, as always, provided me with much amusement.
The gourmet of El Salvador is undisputedly the pupusa – double layered tortillas filled with re-fried beans and melted cheese – and now that we have left the country and this magnificent culinary invention behind, I miss them more than I miss my own family, and only slightly less than Mark misses Guinness.
The surprisingly smooth road took us from the north-west corner of the country, through Santa Ana and down the long, flat coastal road of Costa de Balsamo, where we finally reached sea-level and with it a drastic rise in temperature from the cool mountain air of the north. At this stage our focus was on our destination. We knew what we needed to do: 4 countries in 2 weeks. An average of 100km a day would suffice. No rest days, no slacking and no excuses. If we adhered to these principals, then we would make our destination of San Jose, Costa Rica in time for Mark’s homeward flight on the 21st.
With the sun on our face and the wind on our backs, we were crossing another border into Honduras, and yet another within the next 2 days into Nicaragua. A 20km stretch of dirt road greeted us as we ventured into our fourth Central American country. The dusty heated engulfed us and we struggled across the shifty surface, beginning to wonder whether we were destined to potter down this less than ideal road for the entire 350km stretch to the next border. Eventually though, the surface became more sympathetic towards our racing bikes and we pushed on to the town of Villanueva. Here we asked the proprietor of the only bar in town if we could sleep on his gravel floor for the night. He kindly obliged, giving Mark a grand tour of his humble establishment and showing him the revolver he kept in his belt. A vile, bloated brute who ate with his mouth wide open and kept his ample belly on display at all times, I pondered over how his wife (though not exactly a looker herself), had found the courage to perform the act of reproduction with such a beastly specimen. We shared an uncomfortable night with an orgy of mosquitoes whispering sweet nothings in our ear, and trudged away from Fattys bar, full of lethargy.
The abundance of poverty had become a familiar fixture throughout Central America, but Nicaragua seemed to demonstrate an even lower echelon of living standards. Houses were often built simply from tree branches and a black plastic sheet, and measured no more than three square metres. I shuddered to consider how these families coped during the rainy season, let alone the repercussions of Hurricane Mitch, which had caused unimaginable devastation in the north of the country.
In the town of Nagarote we became stuck in no-mans-land, the nearest hotel an unspecified distance away (we discovered long ago that if locals do not know where a place is, they will tell you whatever distance pops into their heads, making the ambiguity of responses vast and therefore extremely frustrating.) We decided to try our luck at the local Police Station and, after much official deliberation, El Heffe (the boss) took us under her wing and gave us a place to sleep for the night. It was the next morning during breakfast that we first caught a glimpse of the mysterious solo cyclist. Excited to see another tourer, we hurried to finish our gallo pinto (the local staple consisting simply of rice n beans), and peddled on towards the capital city, Managua, where we eventually crossed paths with the lone rider. We learned that Lego, a Spanish guy from Pamplona, was planning to cycle all the way down to Argentina, having begun his journey in our beloved Guatemala. Lego was softly spoken, with an excellent grasp of English. He had a tranquil disposition while simultaneously exuding an enthusiasm and eagerness for discovery.
We had decided to catch a boat from Granada, across Lake Nicaragua to the east side of the country and Lego, upon hearing our plans, opted to join us. The rigmarole of getting our bikes on the boat was arduous, removing every single item including water bottles, due to a warning by a local that they would mysteriously disappear if left unattended. It turned out to be sound advice, as we looked round to find the very same guy that had given us this inside info, attempting to make off with our belongings. He did warn us.
As for the boat journey itself, 15 hours of watery hell would be a fair description. Crammed into the small interior of cattle class, shoulder to shoulder like pickled gherkins, the heat was unbearable. On my right was a woman holding a baby that screamed incessantly and kept grabbing my arm that displayed a suspiciously contagious-looking rash. When I could take no more I decided to retire to the aisle to catch 30 winks. What I got was 30 kicks – in the head – not to mention numerous suitcases, boxes and sacks of oranges dragging across my face. Total concentration was fixed upon not vomiting (although the baby next to me did not seem to share my determination, allowing chunks to flow freely and without prejudice), as the choppy water rocked us to and fro, more closely resembling the Atlantic Ocean than a fresh-water lake. My seat was now occupied from my stint in the aisle, so I tried my luck out on deck with the cargo, eventually finding a resting place next to a mound of bananas. My head rested directly above the engine so that it felt like a hole was slowly being drilled into my temple. I awoke to the sight of a bearded Nicaraguan urinating off the side of the boat, within 3ft of my head.
The ultimate objective for taking the boat in the first place was to make a quick and easy crossing into Los Chile, Costa Rica, and the hellish journey would have been worthwhile had we not taken a wrong turn down a dirt road for 15km, reaching an illegal river crossing reserved solely for the export of oranges. Day wasted.
By midday the next day we were finally at the Cost Rican border, after being forced to take another boat across the River Rio San Juan from Los Chiles, where we had stayed the night at the local fire station. We had made it. The challenge was Canada to Costa Rica and we had just entered the latter. The feeling - although slightly diluted by our new-found resentment towards all forms of water transportation – was tremendous.
The light was fading, as the three of us began peddling through the country known as the Switzerland of Central America, due to its political neutrality and love of yodeling (the latter is totally unfounded). Our surroundings were a mixture of verdant green and Ayers Rock red, and new and colourful tropical birds graced our ears with unfamiliar concertos. Night fell and we found ourselves in a small village, the focus of which was a lush green football pitch overlooked by a royal blue church. We gave thanks for such a perfect camping spot and cooked dinner on Lego’s incredible portable stove, expertly built from two beer cans, before retreating to the tent for the night. We awoke in the early hours to a light pattering on the roof, closely followed by the thunderous applause of torrential rain. The heavens had opened. Lego chose this point to inform us that his tent was not strictly waterproof, as puddles began to form beside our heads. Mark, in denial of the whole situation, attempted to sleep through our watery crisis, only stirring when the puddles had reached ear-level. We spent the rest of the morning underneath the church entrance, wet and miserable, chasing cockroach after wretched cockroach out of our bags. No one had told us it was still the rainy season in Costa Rica.
And so, sodden to our skins, we attacked the mountainous terrain one slippery slope at a time; Lego hunched over his handlebars, fighting his way up the steep inclines, his latimus dorsi accented from years of rock-climbing; Mark, head down, teeth gritted, using his favoured technique of focusing on the immediate road beneath his tyres and not the climb ahead, to avoid demoralization; all three of us wondering where our next cup of coffee would come from, and when the rain would desist.
If you have the pleasure/misfortune of knowing Mark, you will have noticed that Angry Mark surfaces anytime he is hungry. Being on the road together for so long puts you in perfect synchrony, invariably meaning that if one is hungry, then so is the other. My personal reaction to hunger is a complete mental shut-down, making even the simplest decision equivocal to quantum mechanics. This increases Angry Mark’s infuriation and so the cycle continues (no pun intended). It was 4pm on the 19th December, one hour before dark and we had just ridden past a sign telling us that San Jose was still 50km away. Perhaps the close proximity of our final destination was having a psychological effect on my compadre. Mark looked drained and was clearly hungry. Unusually, my state did not reflect his, and Lego and I were sprightly and alert. 50km in an hour is physically impossible on a bicycle, but for some reason, Lego seemed to think that we would make it that night. I enjoyed his blind enthusiasm and decided, instead of correcting him with common sense, to jump on the delusional band wagon. This infuriated Mark (as I knew it would), but he was too exhausted to argue. One hour later we were engulfed in darkness, riding down the busiest road in Costa Rica with no lights. My idiocy astonished even me, but it was almost worth risking our lives to see the grumpy northerner at his best for one last time.
In case you hadn’t guessed yet, we made it. Despite the anti-climactic nature of our arrival in the dark – tired and hungry with no obvious place to stay, we had crossed the finish line. The next day, after sleeping in the Red Cross car park in the centre of town, we went to the barbers for a much needed shave (I have never felt so manly), before parting company with our Spanish friend. Then ensued the comical packing of Mark’s war-torn bike, and the ceremonial exchange of literature. All that was left was to sit in reflection, drinking dark rum and smoking our victory Nicaraguan cigars. We summarized our plans for the future; potential trips, career choices and ambitions – subjects that had been at the fore-front of our thoughts and conversations for the past four months. Now it was finally time to actualize those plans.
I lay awake, despite the ill-effects of the previous night’s rum. It was 5.30am but the deluge of thoughts pin-balling around my head would keep me from sleeping anymore that day. My friend and riding partner had just begun his journey back to England in time for Christmas, and I felt distinctly alone. Over the last 4 months we had shared everything; every elation and adversity, every ache and pain, every crumb of food and cent of Cordoba, peso or dollar. We had reached a high-context level of communication that meant we often knew what the other would say before they said it, and the quantity of catchphrases and inside jokes was infinite. We had spent every second together for 16 weeks, yet by some miracle, I did not want to kill the guy.
I thought about all we had been through; the steep learning curve in bicycle know-how, the vast sandy beaches of Oregon, the redwoods of Northern California, the lavish glamour of LA and the bohemia of Santa Cruz and San Diego; the culture shock of Mexico with its dry, suffocating heat and dangerous roads, illness and exhaustion, hospitality and hostility – not least the near-theft of our beloved vehicles. We had ridden past some of the most beautiful coastline in the Americas, over the volcanic terrain of Northern Guatemala and through tropical rainforests in Costa Rica.
We had experienced the unlimited potential for kindness and compassion in human-beings, constantly incredulous at the lengths that people would go to help a couple of complete strangers. We listened to a plethora of different views and perspectives from the eclectic mix of individuals we met along the way. Some of these opinions we dismissed, some will stick with us for the rest of our lives. We learnt about ourselves and each other, knowing exactly what made the other tick; when they would need motivating and when they would just need to be left alone; when to force ourselves to carry on and when to recognise our limitations and concede defeat. Everyday we were challenged – physically and psychologically – and the greater the challenge, the more we grew as individuals. Nothing in my young life has had such a profound influence on my principles and imperatives for the future. Few things are more conducive to reflection than cycling 100km a day.
I can think of no better way to appreciate the intimate details of a place than by bicycle. In a motorized vehicle one may appreciate A, then travel to B. On a bicycle the very concept of A and B is academic. Travel is slowed to a pace where one can appreciate every single inconsistency in the road and subtle changes in landscape, culture and even atmosphere. On no other form of transport would we have had the opportunity to meet so many local people, allowing us to get a very real insight into subtle cultural quirks that simply would not have been accessible in the more tourist-friendly areas. Our journey seemed to flow like a river, steadily working its way through the landscape, never rushed, yet constantly on the move. The way life should be.
MARK:
This final blog has been on my mind for sometime now, and as I sit down to write I find my situation has changed somewhat. Gone are the evenings spent scribbling by torchlight, trying to squeeze in a few paragraphs before being driven to my sleeping bag my hungry mosquitoes.
I arrived back in England on the 22nd December, ecstatic to see Sam despite her red and runny nose which seemed to be sported by the majority of the British population. As I had suspected, this was the perfect time of year to arrive home regardless of the cold. In addition to seeing all of my friends and family, I was presented with feasts of the kind which I had hallucinated about during bouts of madness in the Baja desert. As I had also anticipated, my powers of memory and description proved sadly lacking when trying to conjure a worthy answer to the often asked question; ‘So, was it good then?’
‘Bloody brilliant’, I answer. Things happen when you travel on a bicycle. Over the last 100 days we have slept on starlit Mexican beaches, by a railway line, on a yacht, on the gravel floor of a Nicaraguan bar (in which UB40 was blasted from a jukebox to the small hours), on a building site by a ferry port, in a lakeside hammock surrounded by volcanoes, in a Guatemalan family home where 4 generations slept, and in a beachfront villa owned by a flamboyant Mexican motorbike enthusiast.
I have lost a tent while running away from a dog. We have wrestled our bikes from the pick-up truck of 4 would-be thieves. I have watched the sun set over deserted cliffs feeling like the king of the world. I have laid in the roadside dirt under the baking sun next to a roadkill dog, unable to move through sheer exhaustion.
Things happen…
Looking back on the trip, the thing I am most proud of is that we have followed through on what we said. We have translated words into action, and the feeling of empowerment arising from that is enormous. Crazy plans now seem more possible than ever! I look forward to getting back on a bike with Greg in the future, and can think of no better companion for an expedition. Well done mate.
I am also incredibly touched by the actions of people at home. To everyone who helped out with any of the exercise bike days last summer, anyone who turned up to a curry night or a cabaret, anyone who read the blog, made a donation, or sent a text or email of encouragement – thank you so much. Thank you to my family for their incredible efforts, whether organising cabaret nights, inspiring pupils in assemblies, or selling wrist bands, and thank you to Sam for selflessly encouraging me to finish the trip when we were both feeling as low as we could be. I would also like to thank everyone at Plan in Guatemala and the UK; the people at Candelaria Yalicar for welcoming us so warmly, everyone who offered us kindness on the road, and Muddy Fox Bikes for helping 2 rookies get on their bikes in the first place.
From San Pedro we took a bus with a couple of fellow Brits, James and Sarah, to Chichicastenango where the Sunday market was in full flow. Get past the initial excitement of such a rich tapestry of new sensual experiences, and the market was a prime example of some of the abject poverty that plagues the majority of the populus. One of the hardest things to take was the sight of little girls no older than 6 or 7 offering us homemade nicnacs that not even the most dedicated of hourders could possibly find a place for. As Mark observed it was glorified begging.
The past few days had frustrated me. An uncomfortable feeling churning away in the pit of my stomach that progressively grew as our travels continued. No, I hadnt eaten a bad taco, it was a frustration born of realisation - a realisation that there was no quick fix to the very real problems that faced the country we had very quickly fallen in love with. The potential exists for a reasonably successful economy. The natural resources are there, yet because of a minute (and I mean minute) group of greedy, power hungry elitists, life is a constant struggle for many Guatemalans. Race is one of the big issues. Over 70% of the population are Mayan, yet there is not one Mayan representative in a government made up solely of Latinos. There is much contempt held for the Mayan people by those in power, demonstrated by a story we heard about the Mayor of San Pedro, who had been refused entry to the Marriott Hotel in Guatemala City for an important conference, as he was wearing traditional Mayan attire. Such is the isolation of the people from their so called leaders. The problems the country faces may be solved by a sense of moral and social duty but alas, greed had prevailed amd it was up to non-governmental organizations such as Plan to compensate for this most grotesque of sins.
MARK:
We were greeted in Coban by 4 Plan representatives and were happy to throw our bikes in the back of the pickup to drive to the school, as the 8km ride we had 'calculated' turned out to be 85km, the last 17 of which was on a tiny dirt road. Candelaria Yalicar school was truly off the beaten track. Although unsure of what to expect, and prepared to visit a empty school as we had been informed that the pupils were on holiday, Greg and I were clearly excited as we approached the village. What awaited us was beyond our wildest dreams - the school grounds were teeming with children but also grown men and women, summoned as was the village custom, by the majestic call of a conch shell. (We later discovered that the man with the shell was named Don Juan, former mayor and respected elder, who honoured us by allowing us to make our own stuttering, clumsy attempts at conch-blowing.) I simply did not believe that the gathering could be for our arrival, but we were introduced to the headteacher and community officials and ushered to a seat at the front of the crowd. Among several speeches was one delivered in Spanish by yours truly, as you can imagine one of the oratory performances of all time. Fortunately the majority of the crowd speak a regional Mayan language other than Spanish, so they may not have spotted every mistake. Then the musical numbers started, and following a rousing song from a group of 4 year olds, there were calls for the foreigners to sing. How could we refuse? For some reason 'Stand By Me' popped into my head, so Greg went for the bassline while I launched into the vocals. Singing quality? 3/10. Comedy value of 2 gringos hopping around like fools? Priceless. Although the less said about our 'In the jungle, the mighty jungle' encore the better...
It was truly amazing to be welcomed in such a manner, and to see the entire community gather together was humbling. However, the best part about the day was seeing a group of people, from the village and from Plan, who cared about education and had clear, passionate ideas about how to improve things. Some of the money raised through our trip will build 2 new classrooms, which will be used for teaching children aged 12 and over. At present, in this region of Guatemala, only 19 of 600 schools provide education past the age of 12. With the new improvements, Candelaria Yalicar will become the 20th. If school ends at 12, how can a child become empowered to make a choice regarding their future? How can they even know that they have a choice?
GREG:
The focus of our thoughts became fixated upon our visit to the school, as our impending arrival drew ever closer. We were excited to finally observe first hand, what the considerable amount of money raised would contribute towards and we were not disappointed. Despite being informed that the school was on vacation for the next month, what greeted us upon our arrival was far from the empty institute we had expected. The whole village of Candelaria had gathered on the school grounds to greet us!
It amused me how for the past 3 and a half months we had been nothing more than glorified hobos and yet suddenly, we were being held in esteem, and treated like celebrities. I enjoy a small ego massage as much as the next guy but this was something else - a situation in which I felt distinctly uncomfortable. However as the morning unfolded with speeches by the heads of the village, singing and dancing from some of the kids (the dance, performed by 2 girls was more of a side to side shuffle, reminiscent of the embarrassed bopping I used to do at the start of school discos before I'd warmed up and started busting out some of my trademark moves), and a performance by Mark and I that made the ladies swoon, the formal nature of the event had all but disappeared.
We were able to interview some of the children, who had been selected by their peers to be representatives of the school, and spoke to us ingenuously about their aspirations for the future; aspirations that seemed to have been instilled by some of the excellent projects already undertaken by Plan over the past few years. This wasn't a bunch of Americans or British people coming in and imposing their views, it was Guatemalans helping their own people get a decent crack at life - an opportunity to fulfill potential that would otherwise fallen by the wayside. Every child deserves, at the very least, a basic education so that they are in a position to make their own choices, and not be destined to fill potholes or beg from rich tourists for the rest of their lives.
As for the school improvements, they are in the latter stages of planning and should begin in January, exciting additions to a classroom that holds 80 children at once (and I remember the uproar from parents when there were 30 kids in my class at primary school!).
We would like to thank everybody who has taken the time to donate to this cause, and to those who have yet to contribute, I hope that our account of this incredible experience will encourage you to do so. Plan International is doing an absolutely fantastuc job in this community and many more like it and we are honoured to be part of such an important organisation.
We rode on through the southern Mexican states, Guerrero, Chiapas, Oaxaca, and eventually the end of this giant country was in sight. We rode with Mike and Jen for over a week, easily enough time to identify each others quirks and foibles and to become comfortable enough to point them out. Greg and I landed a few bargain hotel rooms with our well-honed 'good cop, bad cop' routine (1 pound pppn!) and Mike and Jen introduced us to a culinary world away from plain refried beans and tostadas. Despite our shared passion for huevos al gusto (eggs how you like) at breakfast with stacks of handmade tortillas, which wasn't conducive to an early start, we made good time, though not without incident. I am deeply suspicious of every roadside dog, so when one particularly evil-looking pooch charged after my juicy calves, teeth exposed, I pedalled away faster than you can say 'rabies vaccination'. Unfortunately so did Mike, and in the resulting collision I tasted tarmac. Luckily unhurt, and spared by the evil dog, we rode on, so it wasn't until we stopped for a drink 20 minutes later that I realised my bike was looking distinctly lopsided - my rear pannier was missing. Everyone except me found this very amusing, and assumed the bag would still be lying by the road where I had fallen. No such luck. The logical guess would be that the bag was taken by an opportunistic truck driver, but I still believe it was taken by the dog as the final part of his cunning masterplan. I hope he's comfy in our tent.
2 days later, Greg and I livened up an afternoon ride by seizing the perfect moment to implement 'Operation Lilywhite', a scheme which Greg had been plotting for some time. On a quiet road, we pedalled ahead of Mike and Jen, building up a healthy lead. Round a secluded bend we stopped and stripped naked. We remounted the bikes, leather saddles smooth against our buttocks, and rode slowly. When Mike and Jen caught up they were treated to 2 of the whitest arses ever to grace a Mexican highway, although they were less interested than the taxi driver who followed Greg a little too closely for half a mile before overtaking.
As we had been warned, at the border we were harassed by would-be thieves masquerading as immigration officials and sporting home-made ID badges, pestering us as we rode. A steep climb from the border was an omen of what to expect from the Guatemalan terrain, but the long, smooth descent that followedallowed us to gaze at our new surroundings. Distant volcanoes, ancient turrets marking endless tectonic battles, pierced through and rose above the white shawl of cloud. People smiled and waved a cheery 'buenos tardes' as if pleasantly surprised to see an old friend.
GREG:
Our first experience of Guatemala and its people came from Julio on our very first day in the country. Julio kindly invited us into his home, insisting that we be fed and watered, and offering us a bed for the night. Politely accepting this hospitable gesture, we quickly settled into the Central American way of life, which consists largely of sitting on the sidewalk, casually observing the steady stream of passers by, exchanging friendly greetings and the ocasional relaxed conversation. Children played in the cobbled street, their excited chatter periodically drowned out by the sound of a horn, or the echoing bellows of a megaphone advertising, well, something or other. The villagers flitted from house to house, making it impossible to determine who lived where, not least Julio's place, whose kitchen seemed to double up as a tortilleria with his Grandmother very much at the forefront of the operation. As for Julio himself, we deduced that he was some sort of Delboy-esque trader. At first Mark and I assumed that the plastic Christmas tree which emerged from his pickup was being erected for decorative purposes, but it soon became apparent that San Rafael's very own Mr Trotter had an agenda, luring in passing observers with the spectacle of early festivity.'Alright Ju-boy, nice lookin' tree you got there.''Nice? This aint just nice, this is the exact replica of the christmas tree present at the birth of christ. Now these usually retail at 100 quetzals a piece but for you, 50, and I'll throw in a box of lights, can't say fairer than that.'Despite his best efforts, Julio failed to shift the plastic pine and brought it - along with a broken fridge and 2 car doors - to the bigger town of San Marcos the next day. We wished him luck and set off for Xela (Quetzaltenango), as I thought about the slightly glum prospect of not spending Christmas with my family for the first time.
MARK:
As we made cycled almost vertically out of San Marcos, searching in vain for a lorry moving slowly enough to 'surf', we were passed by 2 men on a moped, filming our struggle up the hill with a large video camera. The men turned out to be reporters for local Guatemalan news, so, in Spanish, I gave an interview about the trip. We may not have made Look North or London Toight, but I was the sweaty, mumbling star of Quetzaltenango that night!
I enjoyed our brief stay in Xela - the feeling of being nestled in the narrow streets in the heart of the city, the chill in the air which reminded us of our altitude and manifested itself in the resolute nature of the locals. People huddled round tiny tables, sweet coffee, eggs, rice and tortillas providing an internal warmth until the sun could infuse through the city. We were pleasantly ignored and accepted, with a simple nod of silent acknowledgement reminiscent of a lone Englishman, ale in hand, sheltering from the weather on the bar of a rural pub.
GREG:
The 2 days that followed brought some of the most gruelling, yet spectacular riding of the trip, culminating in the breathtaking view of Lake Atitlan, a natural wonder produced 850,000 years ago by a volcanic eruption that formed a 300m chasm in the landscape and shaped the several new volcanoes that now surround the lake. Never have I been so awestruck by such a vast expanse of open space. The air between us and the lake seemed infinite, as if the water below was merely an illusion. We would soon find out as we began the 20 switchback descent, thinking of the countless cycling enthusiasts that would be green with envy if they could see us at that moment. Mark whooped with joy as he flew down the straights and tackled each switchback with a proficiency not reflecting the gross imbalance of a bicycle missing its left pannier. Meanwhile, I was hot on his tail, elation only matched by a genuine fear for my life as my brakes had decided to call it a day, forcing me to resort to jolting my bodyweight back and forth to try and curb the bikes ferverous momentum. We slept that night in hammocks by the edge of the lake, and at such a high altitude, my arctic sleeping bag finally came into it's own. For once I wasn't jealous of Mark's less thermic 'Snugpak', as I looked across the next morning to see a pair of oversized lips peeking out from a shivering cocoon.
We couldn't leave without hiking at least one of the volcanoes and so left early doors on Saturday morning to scale Volcan San Pedro. Unfortunately the view from the summit at 3000m wasn't as spectacular as it could have been, due to the complete cloud coverage, but at least our legs constantly screamed in pain for the next 4 days. Totally worth it.
After 4 days of self imposed bedrest in Mazatlan, we were fit enough to get back on the bike. As is often the case, hindsight (and a return to health) was necessary for us to appreciate how ill we had been, and how this had affected our morale. In the days that followed we began to warm to Mexico as a country, feeling more comfortable in our surroundings and enjoying the experiences of this huge and diverse country.
One unique cultural event was the celebration of el Dia de los Muertes (Day of the Dead) on November 2nd. Mexicans remember loved ones who have passed away not by dressing in black, not in hushed tones, but with a celebration engulfing the whole town. The graveyard is transformed with the invigorating colour of flowers, elaborate wreaths testament to the care of each family. Outside the walls, stalls sell cold beers, corn and tacos. I had to fight the British urge to whisper reverently as I walked through the memorials. Although the attitude to death was difficult to adjust to, it was fantastic to see whole families united in remembrance and celebration.
Sunday 9th November - Our legs were heavy as we rode south from Manzanillo. Despite covering few miles that morning, we welcomed the sight of a lakeside restaurant and the excuse for a cold Coke in the shade. We locked the bikes together and descended the steep stone steps to the lake, where tiny fishing boats sauntered across the surface, entire families on the shore awaiting the catch. The half hour break inevitably turned into 2 hours, but we eventually mustered the energy to leave. Reaching the top of the steps, our brains were slow to react to what our eyes could clearly see - both bikes, complete with all our worldly possessions, being hauled onto the back of a pickup truck by 4 Mexican men! We ran to the truck, surging with adrenaline, and physically hauled our bikes from the pickup, dumping them unceremoniously but safely away from the vehicle, whose driver attempted in vain to reverse away. The bikes were still locked together - this combined load proved cumbersome enough to delay the would-be thiefs. We stood guarding our precious bikes, exchanging bi-lingual insults, caught between anger and shock. One of the men, clearly the scummiest of the scumbags, a walking offense to humanity, persisted to shout abuse at us and our 'madres'. Thankfully this disgrace was driven away, though not before drawing the blade of his knife, threatening us, and aggressively ripping open his white vest. Looking back, we thought he probably regretted this, as he would have to buy a new vest, and noted that he should probably do some pectoral and ab work before repeating such a gesture. Pumped with rage, tempered with relief, and barely able to comprehend how close we had come to being '2 guys walking to Costa Rica' we suddenly saw 2 cyclists roll up, the first we had seen in Mexico! We gradually relaxed as we related our encounter to Mike and Jen (Canadians on an epic bike trip to South America). Mike's suggestion seemed the best plan - 'ride 20km with us and let's get a beer inside you!'
As it happened, we managed to get many beers inside us, courtesy of a biker (of the motorised kind) named Roberto. Roberto had ridden past our new Canadian friends the day before and made no hesitation in flamboyantly inviting us to his 'Gaudi' style beach front villa. In his eyes we were all part of a 2-wheeled brotherhood, grandly coining the motto '2 wheels, 1 world', later adding '1 heart to this sentiment after several more Coronas. Despite initial concerns that we may have gatecrashed a Mexican Hell's Angels meeting, the surreal gathering of English, Canadian and Mexican resulted in a hearty drinking session. As we sat in the villa's rooftop jacuzzi, Roberto emerged with a giant Union Jack flag! Greg and I were inspired to scale the walls to deliver a merry version of God Save The Queen, proudly patriotic in our dripping wet cycling shorts.
Roberto's hospitality (and our hangovers) gave us the excuse we needed to avoid riding, spending a day wallowing in lazy relaxation. He confirmed his standing as an incredible host by treating us to fresh, home made guacamole for dinner, and a parting breakfast of huevos (eggs) the following morning. We were sad to leave, but the immortal cry of '1 world, 2 wheels' echoed in our ears...
We rode with Mike and Jen, enjoying the company of a larger group as we pedalled along one of the most beautiful stretches of Pacific coastline in Mexico. We discovered beaches that I was sure only existed on movie screens, camping under palapas (thatched palm roofs) just feet away from where powerful surf pounded the golden sands. One night in Maruata, one such paradise, we walked along the beach in the hope of seeing sea turtles arriving to lay eggs, as Greg had spotted tracks and a freshly hatched egg earlier that day. The full moon illuminated the sands like a giant torch, and we soon saw a dark shape emerge from the ocean. A seal? A turtle! We watched in silence as she dragged her huge shell onto the sand, seemingly exhausted, but summoning the energy to dig a whole in which to lay eggs. This was more than we could have hoped for, but further up the beach we stumbled across a small fenced area, where 2 Mexican girls monitored eggs for research. Some of the eggs were hatching, baby turtles ready to embark on their pilgrimage to the ocean, and we were invited to hold them first! With a turtle in the palm of my hand, I knew we had been fortunate enough to discover something special, a lifelong memory.
After 4 nights of immaculate camping on the beach, it was a shock to find ourselves in the scruffy town of La Mira as darkness crept in. We were informed that the only hotel in town was in fact a motel, which Mike informed us meant that here in Mexico, clients pay by the hour. This was confirmed when we saw that each room had a garage next to it, fitted with a curtain to ensure total anonymity for vehicle and driver! Greg and I were happy to sleep on the garage floor, so we bartered a cheap deal for 9 hours sleep for the 4 of us. After a few beers and baskets of steaming, fresh handmade tortillas at the 24 hour cafe next door, we returned to our anonymous garage for a cracking kip - though I had to wonder what the lady who owned the motel though of us...
I will close the blog today with a message of thanks. Throughout the trip, during moments of exhaustion, weakness and frustration, I think of the huge number of people who have supported us and wished us well. An incredible example of this was the Clapp Trapp Cabaret night organised by my Aunty Jen last Friday - a brillant evening, and a very tidy sum towards Candelaria Yalicar school! Thankyou to all those who performed, attended, especially Jen and all of our familes who have been so supportive throughout! It really keeps us going when bums are sore!
We should be in Guatemala in a week, so check in for pictures of the school to see where the money is going.
A prevalent theme of the last blog (if one were to try and arrange our fortnightly ramblings into some sort of discernible structure) was the humbling kindness and hospitality we have received on the trip thus far. Thankfully, and despite the language barrier, this generosity has followed us into Mexico. However, as you will read, we have been far from the ideal guests. Upon entering the bustling chaos that is Tijuana, our questions of whether the cultural transition would be gradual or instantaneous were immediately answered. Barraged by alien sounds, all muddled at different frequencies like a badly tuned radio, we were temporarily stunned by sensory overload, taking time to compose ourselves with the first (of many) tacos, a food that almost wholly dominates the country's culinary portfolio. We found it incredible that this famous border, in essence merely an imaginary line, a human creation, can dictate such a sudden transformation in language, food, apparel and ambience. We had arrived. This was very much Part 2 of our journey.
After hearing horror stories of Route 1 of Baja California, the only highway that exists on the peninsula, we were more than a little apprehensive. One guy we met in America told us he had been forced off the road 63 times in one day while riding the Baja. We soon discovered this to be a huge exaggeration (or a demonstration of the guy's terrible balance), but that's not to say riding conditions were perfect. With only one lane and no shoulder, cars - and more worryingly buses and lorries - would find it preferable to banish a little cyclist from the tarmac than career headlong into an oncoming vehicle. Or, God forbid, slow down. At one point Mark became way too familiar with an overtaking school bus, that decided to give him a wee nudge into the cactus strewn gravel below.
Searching for potential camp spots in Mexico lacks the reassuring certainty of its American neighbour, and road signs that suggest such a place often turn out to be fictitious. But we were pleasantly surprised to find a 'Playa Publica' sign (a public beach suitable for camping) in Rosarito. Then night came. The happy families dispersed and were replaced by several more unscrupulous members of society, who began taking an unhealthy interest in our nice shiny bikes. In an effort to make ourselves scarce, we began pushing our bikes up the beach, but when we realised we were being followed we called it a night and got the hell out of there. Fortunately we found a hostel (less a hostel, more like a patch of land containing a few caravans) where the proprietor allowed us to pitch our tent for the night. This awoke us to the reality that this was going to be no stroll in the park, and sure enough over the next few days, we jostled with mental and physical challenges of the like we had never experienced. The midday heat was such that roadside fires would sporadically ignite throughout the day, and like a holey bucket, our pores leaked with perspiration, quicker than we could rehydrate with the questionable Mexican water. The sparse, arid desert allowed no room for error when it came to water rationing, and tested our resolve with long winding mountains that seemed to bring us even closer to the sun. We decided to treat ourselves one particularly hot lunchtime to a refreshing bowl of Bran Flakes purchased from a dusty roadside store, and as we greedily devoured our dairy filled feasts, all the while admiring the impressive collection of skulls and lassoos hanging from the walls, we thought of home.
As our desert days eeked by, the enormity of the Baja dawned on us and we reluctantly realised that at the pace we were going, we would have no chance of reaching San Jose by Mark's flight date of the 21st. We had grossly underestimated the sheer land mass of Mexico and if we were not careful, the situation would manifest itself into a mad dash through Central America - most notably the Guatemalan school - to get there on time. On top of this, we had both begun to fall ill, a situation that worsened and eventually came to a head over the coming week. Moving past the hopelessly barren landscape by bus at speeds we were no longer accustomed to, a feeling of nagging regret came over us like a virus as our senses seemed to dull to a world we had become so in touch with.
We arrived in La Paz, the air-conditioned bus ride seeming almost too simple. La Paz is clearly developed for the tourist crowd, but is a beautiful city nonetheless. We enjoyed an invigorating dip in the transparent, glassy waters of the bay, wondering why we were the only swimmers in such a perfect location. Apparently La Paz is also famed for its seafood, but we enjoyed a customary dinner of noodles and refried beans on a beachfront bench as the sun set.
The plan to get the ferry to Mazatlan was thwarted when we were informed that this particular ferry was 'being fixed'. When we enquired how long this might take we were given the vaguest of answers - 'maybe a month, maybe more.' In England this would exasperate one to the point of throwing your hat to the floor and stamping like a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket. But this is Mexico...
We caught the ferry to Topolobampo, which the lady kindly informed us was only 5 or 6 hours drive north of Mazatlan - 4 or 5 days ride then! We rode to the port, again stumbling across a beautiful bay for a swim. A local was much amused by Greg's victory in the 'underwater handstand' competition. He lived in a tiny shack on the beach, and he pointed out his friend who was busy snorkelling to collect shellfish for lunch.
We docked on the mainland at 10pm, and persuaded a security guard to let us camp on the lorry depot/building site/rubbish dump by the port. Although we were eaten alive by insects, once inside the bubble of our tent we slept like logs, and awoke to ride south.
The Mexican mainland is more green and verdant than the Baja, and the towns more frequent, with an energy lacking in the more isolated desert settlements. We enjoyed the ride through gently rolling hills, and had the good fortune to meet Hugo, a Mexican who invited us to his home in Guamuchil. Hugo and his family treated us to a feast - squid and giant prawns fresh from the ocean, eaten with fingers and dipped in chilli, salt and lime, washed down with the refreshing and ubiquitous Tecate beer. Tortillas followed, hot from the pan and heartily filled with potatoes, beans and cheese. We conversed in a strange but effective combination of Hugo's broken English and our broken Spanish. Any silences were filled by Greg pulling a gruesome face at the children, which never failed to send them into hysterics.
Unfortunately, over the next couple of days our health deteriorated. On a demoralisingly long, straight road, seemingly devoid of settlements (the last sign indicated 180km until the next gas station) Mark's speed was reduced almost to walking pace as the afternoon sun beat down. We were overjoyed to see a sign for a hotel in a small village 3km from the main road. Yet again the sign proved fictitious, and it was clear that no hotel had, did, or ever would exist here. Mark was reduced to lying prone on the pavement while Greg combined Spanglish and mime to try and find a place to camp. Our saviour was Antonio, one of several men seated at a roadside drinks stall, who invited us to his home for the night. As mentioned at the start of this blog we were not the ideal guests. Our digestive issues meant we were both compelled to ask to use the facilities sooner rather than later, and in a very small house it proved difficult to disguise any rogue smells. Nonetheless, we were invited to sit down for dinner. The menu, predictably, was spicy meat and refried beans - guaranteed to get the stomachs churning. We ate, remembering to rub our stomachs and make appropriate 'mmm' noises. At this point Mark was feverish and close to using his tortillas as a pillow and passing out at the dinner table. After a detailed showing of every photograph Antonio owned, we collapsed in a bed, which our host had insisted we sleep in rather than set up the tent in the garden. He may now regret this decision. We lay in the bed, sweating yet shaking, finally realizing that yes, we were officially ill. Greg confirmed this beyond doubt by vomiting gloriously on the bedsheets and surrounding floor. Despite his valiant midnight cleaning efforts the smell was unmistakable. The morning was awkward to say the least. My Spanish phrase book strangely omits the phrase, 'I'm very sorry, I have vomited all over your bed.' Antonio treated the incident with admirable good humour, even driving us to the pharmacy. Our health and spirits were at an all-time low and the only option was to get to a town with a hotel to rest and recover. Back on the bikes then...we wobbled along for almost an hour on the monotonous highway, covering a pitiful 6 miles. The next town was still 90 km away. Greg collapsed in the shade of a bush, while Mark stood doubled over, hands on knees, raising the energy to thumb for a lift whenever a truck came past. The alternative was to fry by the roadside. After 2 hours, a pick up stopped. We were ecstatic to find out that Alberto, the driver, spoke excellent English, had an air-conditioned truck, and could drop us in the next town (Mazatlan). Antonio was exceptionally helpful and kind and we hope to meet again on the road south.
This brings us to Mazatlan, where we now write. We have rested and laid off the spicy tacos, and have in fact done very little except lounge in a cool hotel room, enjoying Los Simpsons in Spanish. We hope the fevers and vomits are behind us for good, it's time to get back on the road.
During the last 2 weeks we have had the privelage of meeting a fascinating multitude of characters. All have welcomed us into their homes with a sincere and heartwarming hospitality. The beauty of life on the road is that you seem to be hurled suddenly into new situations, cast ashore each night in a new resting place like driftwood at the mercy of a mischevious wave. We play a tiny bit-part role on the grand stage of people's lives, returning to the familiar road as the sun rises. This potentially lonely existence has been made wonderful by those who were previously strangers greeting us as friends. Our story is influenced and inspired by every one.
We arrived in Santa Cruz, a very liberal town - so liberal in fact that one local described the abundance of hobos as a positive attribute, explaining that they were 'made to feel very welcome here'. We rode into town on our wounded vehicles, back wheels slithering like asthmatic snakes. After inspection by the guy in the bike store, he pointed out what we probably should have noticed some miles back - at least 4 spokes were snapped. His diagnosis was clear - brand new wheels were needed if we were to have any chance of making it through Mexico. $350 each please. Bugger...
The easiest thing to do would be to get out the credit cards and let them get on with it. But we both started the trip as self-confessed bicycle rookies, and didn't want to remain ignorant. We always said that what we didn't know we would learn along the way. Also...we're both tight arses. Our prayers were answered when we heard the legend of the Bike Church, a workshop where locals came to fix their bikes with the help of volunteer mechanics. Despite being closed, a kind mechanic said there was room at the inn for 2 weary travellers. We took a pew, he opened up the good book of bicycle repairs and imparted his knowledge. We departed 2 hours later with dirty hands and mended wheels, grinning with satisfaction.
We pedalled south, eager to experience the renouned beauty and challenging clifftop climbs which Big Sur promised. After destroying a loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter and a small bunch of bananas in our customary lunchtime routine, we rode hard up the steep incline. After rounding several bends where we looked in vain for the peak, the road eventually flattened out. Mark gave the standard 3-honk signal of celebration and turned to share a victorious 'air punch' moment with Greg (we may have been in America too long). Mark sped down the well-earned descent, looking back upon picturesque views of the route previously ridden. The road clung to the edge of cliffs which plunged violently into deserted bays, shallows streaked with intense turquoise and purple. Mark waited at the bottom of the descent for Greg, assuming that the views had got his photographic juices flowing. After 15 minutes wait, however, Mark reluctantly got back on the bike to head back up the hill, and his fears were confirmed when a passing motorist said she had seen a 'shirtless, long-haired guy fiddling with a wheel at the top of the hill'. Ticks all the boxes. Mark begrudgingly rode upwards, cursing the weakness of inner tubes. After the pesky tube was replaced we decided to camp in Big Sur rather than fight yet another losing battle with the dwindling sunlight. There were 2 small flaws to this plan; 1 - we were left with a demoralizing 105 miles to reach a shower and a bed in San Luis Obispo. 2 - the campsite was located at the bottom of the hill, right back where we had eaten lunch. A fairly inefficient afternoon all things considered. The next morning Mark treated Greg to breakfast in bed (oatmeal in a smelly tent) to compensate for waking him up in the dark. With the help of carefully chosen morning playlists we dragged ourselves over Big Sur yet again. Despite the seemingly ridiculous mileage and the hilly terrain we met Richard, our contact in San Luis Obispo, who had cycled out 15 miles to meet us. Greg made easy conversation to create the illusion that he was not totally exhausted, while Mark lagged behind, fighting a losing battle against his once again buckled wheel, which rubbed relentlessly against the brake and mudguard. We made our first 100 mile day, and felt like true cyclists!
At 60, Richard had an inspiring energy, enthusiastically talking us through his hobbies of cycling, rock-climbing, surfing and photography. Richard's passion for life was matched by our next generous hosts. Cat and Pat Patterson lived just off Patterson Drive (you can't make that up!) in Oxnard. Having recently completed a 4 year cycle around the world, the anecdotes flowed as freely as the wine. 2 wheeled travel is addictive and it is hard not to hear these fantastic stories and not dream wistfully of potential future trips. Africa anyone...?
The wealth of the area north of LA was displayed by the abundance of glamorous homes stretching into the hills. Of more interest to us were the numerous signs directing us to Malibu Pie Festival. We followed the arrows like mice eager for the cheese and stumbled across what was indeed a piefest, a smorgasbord of flavours. Fortunately we were too late for the pie-eating contest but were greeted by the locals, who upon hearing of our trip, insisted we taste a piece of each and every flavour. Our satisfied little bellies wobbled away as we left, Greg attempting to justify our indulgence - 'most of the pies had fruit in, they were probably pretty nutritious.'
At Venice Beach we parted company with a manly hug so that Mark could make it to San Diego for his first hot date in weeks. Unfortunately he misjudged the vast sprawl that is LA and was given a ride in a truck to Long Beach, where he spent the night on Jack's boat (a fellow cyclist and all round legend). He made it to San Diego in time, even managing to fit in a much needed beard trim. Meanwhile, Greg (painfully hung over after a night in LA with Will) eventually made it to Long Beach where he met Alison, a cycling enthusiast who offered a place to stay. Alison ended up accompanying him on the next 100 miles to San Diego, setting a savage pace that Greg's tired legs could barely maintain.
Southern California, although unmistakably still America, has offered us regular glimpses of what may await us in Mexico. Street signs in Spanish, the abundance of burrito stands and the people themselves make it impossible not to dream of what lies ahead. We have ridden over 1850 miles, the length of America. We are ready for the mystery, the challenge of exploring a new country, a foreign language, a distinct culture to experience. We hear stories which are terrible and wonderful in equal measure. We look forward to forming our own opinions first-hand, south of the border.
My brother Kirk recently turned 18. Seeing as I am 4 and half years his senior, I decided to save him the time of learning certain 'life lessons' for himself, by spelling them out in an easy-to-read format. 
