African Adventure Motorcycle Travel

Wham Bam, Thank You Sam

It's not often I blog about other biker travellers but I will make an exception for Sam Manicom.

Sam is one of those guys who always shows up at biker events, and finds time to talk to both novices and old-timers about his amazing experiences from the seat of an old BMW, which he has taken around the world. He is a great ambassador for adventure biking; his modesty is disarming and his enthusiasm infectious.

He was one of the first people to inspire me to ride further than Devil's Bridge and see what lay at the end of the road; so thanks for that, Sam.

You can get a flavour of his adventures from the titles of his books: Into Africa; Under Asian Skies; Distant Suns; and Tortillas to Totems.

SLAM Dunk in Chorley

I've been invited to give another talk at the South Lancashire Advanced Motorcyclists club (SLAM). I visited them shortly after my return from Africa in 2008 and they said if I ever write a book about my exploits they'd love to have me back. So I'm going.

It is a membership club but they are very welcoming and wouldn't mind interested people just stopping by, I'm sure. Come along for a pint.

Venue: Hartwood Hotel, Preston Road, Chorley PR7 1EX

Date: June 3

Time: 8pm

Early Brew Goes on Sale

 
I have some early edition copies of African Brew Ha-Ha available for sale now.

If you buy direct from me you will not only get a signed and personally dedicated copy of the book but you will also receive a unique hand painted tea bag bookmark inspired by Original Tea Bag Designs of Cape Town - the project which was the ultimate destination of the book.

Postage is £1.95, but I will round down the total cost to £9.00.

The book would make a great present for a biker, someone who loves travel or a tea drinker.

Email me now [email protected] 

Overland Biker Heads for the Centre of the Sun

African Brew Ha-Ha extract taken from Chapter 2

Desert drift and the road that's on fire

The following day I make an early start and ride south through the desert on a road that’s on fire. I am heading for Dakhla in Western Sahara (the coastal town that was 1,152 kilometres distant a couple of days ago), which is like aiming for the centre of the sun. My face is soon etched into a mask of anguish: my eyes are slits, lips sealed in a grimace, nostrils flaring yet not wanting to inhale too deeply the burning air.

The road is flat and featureless and I drift. My brain senses the balance of the bike and it knows the general direction it has to go; with the essentials taken care of that part of the mind that controls the bike relaxes. But as one synapse shuts down a dormant one re-emerges, as if the movement through space is shaking up the experiences in my head, regurgitating snippets of recent history: scraps of conversation, flashbacks of glances from veiled faces, encounters with shopkeepers and smiling policemen at the checkpoints as my weary mind tries to create order from the events of the past day, of the whole trip so far.

In my peripheral vision I am aware of the monochromatic beige of the landscape that does not change for hour after hour. Above, the blue is so oppressive I try not to look up. In front, the strip of black tarmac and the broken white line become as unreal as a video game. The vastness of the landscape forces me back inside my own mind. An occasional camel or black figure is not enough to return me to human-scaled certainty. The muscles in my limbs are so tired and locked in position and the drone of the engine so uniform that my mind plays strange games and I start to believe I can step off the bike whenever I choose. I overlook the fact that I’m actually travelling at 120 kilometres an hour. I am going to sleep. I gently float from side to side of the two-lane blacktop. There is some gravel and fine sand lining the road on both sides, a frail margin between me and the Sahara, between the unfolding journey and an abrupt halt. To be safe I do what most other drivers do – I hog the centre white line.

Approaching trucks, and it is mostly trucks, also straddle the line and we both leave it dangerously late to move to our own side of the road. The trucks emerge out of a thick heat haze that keeps me guessing (Focus… focus) until about ten seconds before they reach me. Many times I see a vehicle approaching, but my muscles won’t let me move over. I see the thundering object looming larger, but I want to stay in the comforting centre of the road. I belong here. It becomes a monumental physical effort to swing the bike into the right-hand lane. Often the approaching truck driver does not see me because his mind is telling him the same thing – ‘this tarmac is mine, I don’t want to share it’ – so he needs flashing and honking if he is to awaken from his own trance.

The thoughts in my mind, now living in a strange netherworld, are accompanied by a bizarre soundtrack: ‘Fly me to the… Walking on the… Rocket man…’ Is there life on Mars? I think I’ve left the planet.

Another problem is stopping. After hours on the bike it becomes a titanic effort to bring my mental state to accept that I need water or to stretch my legs, which are screaming blue murder. My mind is telling me that I have to keep moving, every minute stopped is another mile I could be further through this burning hell. There is such little traffic – nothing has overtaken me for days – that I can lean forward while stretching my legs slightly and resting the chin of the helmet on the tank bag. Temporarily it’s heaven as some fresh blood rushes into my limbs. Now all I need do is shut my eyes…

After twice skimming the edge of the road, I recall Bashir Benslimane’s advice – ‘If you hurry you will be late’ – and finally pull into a rusting heap of a petrol station, unused for years. Probably couldn’t get the staff. The pumps and offices are still there, but it has been sand-blasted to the point that the structure is unsafe. Great sheets of corrugated roofing lift in the wind and threaten to crown me; all the windows are missing and anything of value has been scavenged. The door to the jakes is kicked in and, amazingly, people are still using the shit hole. The bog has no roof, no plumbing, it’s hundreds of kilometres from any kind of town, and people still go to the WC. Human nature. I do the same.

I step out into the searing heat and do a three-sixty. Dreamily, I face the shimmering horizon. The smudged line radiates its own energy; it is of this planet yet otherworldly, alluring yet untouchable, a metaphor for the trip maybe. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

My squinting vision alights on the bike, the only human-scaled object within sight. I give it a pat on the scalding tank and scare myself into wondering, ‘What if the thing doesn’t start?’ Despite the soaring temperature, the thought gives me a shiver. I quickly lean over, turn the key to ignition, push the starter and am greeted by the greatest sound in my world – 955 cubic centimetres of British-made internal combustion.

I swing a leg over the bike like a rootless cowboy in a John Ford film and take a swig of water from the jerrycan but convulsively spew it all out. The sun has heated it to the temperature of bath water. If I had a tea bag at least I could make a cuppa. I put the helmet back on and continue riding south.

Shortly, I pass a sign in Arabic: ‘300 km Dakhla’.

Jesus.

To read on, buy the book here

.......... UK .......................USA ............... SOUTH AFRICA ......... . IRELAND

African Brew Ha-Ha Joins the Army!

 

Ex-Squaddie Steven McLaughlin gave a riveting talk some weeks ago to a business club I belong to. He has an engaging and very personal story to tell about why he joined up and how he coped with life as a 'grunt' in the army.

At the age of 31 - almost a pensioner in Squaddie terms - he became the oldest ever recruit to pass the grueling Combat Infantryman's Course and then joined the Royal Green Jackets. He went on to serve in Iraq and Northern Ireland.

When Steve finished his talk he was overwhelmed by people who wanted a signed copy of his book. He sold every copy he brought.

He showed me how to inspire an audience about a little-known subject - which is why we shall be touring together the book fairs of Lancashire this year. Look out for Squaddie & Brew Ha-Ha - the double bill.

If you've ever wanted to know more about life as a recruit in today's army, buy his book Squaddie: A Soldier's Story.

Travel all year round from your armchair or desk

Horizons Unlimited , the pre-eminent website/group/organised meetings for long distance bikers, have a competition every year to find the best photographs taken on overland journeys around the world and then use them in the following year's calendar.

I entered just one picture, one of my favourites (below), and it has been chosen for September. WooHoo!

Click the link if you are looking for a unique Christmas present for the armchair traveller in your life.