Domesticity of a long distance cyclist

I am sitting in a shady park in Sydney. My tent and both pairs of shoes are drying over a childrens' climbing frame. Jets fly low overhead and that makes me happy.  I am near the airport, I fly to New Zealand this evening. The kiwis have strict bio security rules, so I have disinfected and washed my gear.
My route down the east coast of Australia has been mesmerising. In my last blog I wrote about the rainforests and wildlife. Since then I have travelled through unspoilt country towns then bypassed Brisbane by riding into the hills and mountains of the Great Dividing Range. This was a vast landscape of forests and pasture, almost devoid of people but loud with birds and insects. The sky was blue, the sun was hot but the land was green after recent rains. It was blissful tranquility.
I had a choice of staying on the Great Dividing Range onto the Blue Mountains, or riding by the surf beaches and over the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I chose the seaside route as a heatwave was forecast (it is 35c in the west of Sydney today). The riding was great. The coast is a patchwork of lakes, inlets, estuaries, forests and expensive seaside towns. On a ferry across one beautiful inlet I chatted to a local couple, as we disembarked they said "You've arrived, this is Sydney". Ten miles later I was crossing the iconic Harbour Bridge. Another leg over. I will be sad to leave, there is so much to do and see that I haven't seen or done.
When you are cycle touring you rarely know where you will be staying the night. In the morning the thought doesn't bother me but as the afternoon wears on it dominates my thinking. Now there are apps for a smartphone that tells you about nearby hostels and campsites. Australian camp grounds are normally quite luxurious with well equiped kitchens and covered rest areas where you can watch tv or read. My favourite have been the pubs and cafes that let you camp free in their grounds. Then I can spend the money I save on a slap up dinner.
Surprises still happen. One day I was sweltering on the road, a couple flagged me down and offered to put me up for the night, he was a Doctor and his accomadation had stunning views over the pacific.
I do miss wild camping, being next to nature is really restful and there is always the chance of seeing unusual birds or animals. On the long, multi day bike trails in New Zealand I will pitch my tent in the wilderness. Adventure awaits.

Crossing Sydney Harbour Bridge on the cycle lane

The hills behind Brisbane

Pelican feeding time, town just north of Sydney

Up Down Under

Racing pigeons on Java

Various things have broken since I last wrote: speedometer, sleeping mat, lock, my left foot. All have been easily remedied apart from the last. I thought I may have a stress fracture but Dr Google diagnosed "hot foot". Either way, it needed a rest. So I hopped onto a couple of coaches to cross Java and then rode from the eastern city of Surabaya around the coast to where I could catch a ferry to Bali (for 35p). This part of Java was a fantastic. Creeks through mangrove swamps harboured colourful wooden fishing boats, fields of chilli were flecked with reds and orange, and in paddy fields the workers waded knee deep - planting or ploughing or harvesting their crop. Farm labourers are paid about $1 per day, enough for a can of coke and packet of biscuits at local prices. The friendliness of the people combined with the lack of tourists makes Java one of my favourite places so far.



After the elbow to elbow crowds of indonesian cities riding into Cairns in north eastern Australia was like riding into a ghost town. Few people, fewer cars, no mopeds.
In the city centre a police car pulled up beside me: "Goodday mate, where's your helmet? Its a $135 fine for not wearing one." I  apologised and pulled my recently bought helmet from my luggage. Another lucky escape.

The coral and fish are only a few feet beneath the surface.

Cairns is an ideal place from which to visit the Great Barrier Reef - as it is relatively close to the shore. I did a day trip and snorkelled from a boat. The coral and fish were spectacular but my favourite were the giant clams - hideously ugly on the outside but regally decorated with purple and pearl inside. Around Cairns there are vast mountain ranges covered in pretty undisturbed rainforest, waterfalls and wierd wildlife.
It is almost 2000 miles from Cairns to Sydney via the Mountains. That is long leg on a bad foot. It hurts a little, but missing all this and not seeing New Zealand would hurt more. The road goes on and so do I. Fingers crossed for a tailwind.

I went looking for giant birds called Cassowarys, but saw
this 3 foot long monitor lizard instead.

Birdsong and insect calls are the soundtrack to my ride through tropical Australia.

Just as you would imagine. Sleepy and beautiful.

Wallabies hopping about my campsite.

Indonesian Education

I had failed to do my homework. Visa free travel to Indonesia was only possible through nine ports and airports. My route was not amongst these. I would have to pay $35 for a visa. However I had no dollars, and no way of getting dollars late on a Sunday afternoon. A website said the port would accept credit and debit cards. It didn't. I ended up stranded at the immigration desk at the Sumatran port of Dumai.
A local "fixer" said he could take me to a cash machine. Leaving everything behind I rode into Indonesia on the back of  his moped with no passport, visa or money. I don't think they would let people do that at Dover. I tried to figure out what side of the road moped man was riding on, it turned out he was riding in the shade.
After sorting out my visa predicament the fixer said his brother (actually - no relation) was an english teacher and could put me up for the night. In return I would teach Englush to his classes. It was great, we played games like hangman and "Who am I?" Even bright Indonesian teenagers did not know what / who the pope was , or who Usain Bolt is.
Incidently, teachers in Indonesia wear uniform. They have three different uniforms for different days of the week (including Saturday, but small children only do 7 - 11 each day). The end of the school day is a good time to be riding, as hordes of pupils shout "Hello mister" and smile with genuine warmth when they get a response.
Talking of warmth, it is sweltering in Sumatra, it is 30 degrees plus with humidity of about 90%. The mountainous route through the west of the island was out of the question on a heavy touring bike, I picked what looked on the map to be a flat road. It actually continually rolled over foothills for almost 500km. It was completly untouristy, there wasn't a sign when I crossed the equatior, locals stared at me for so long they almost crashed, there weren't any hotels, I stayed in cafes and a police station (normal travelling etiquette in these parts).
I was relieved to reach the city of Jambi where I could rest in a hotel. It is raining, so I am still in the hotel, sheltering from both the downpours and the incessant greetings of the locals "Hello meester, how are you?"I could tell them "I'm tired and need a rest." but they wouldn't understand.
I am half a year and half a world away.

You may recognise the teacher

Beautiful jungle in the Cameron Highlands, Malaysia

Sunnset over the Melaka Strait - separating Malaysia from Sumatra

Rolling road through the palm oil plantations of Sumatra

Thai Christmas

Riding south out of Goa it felt great to be back on my bike. In this happy state I hardly noticed the heat, humidity and hills. By the end of the second day the consequences caught up with me, my legs cramping badly in the night.
So I cut down the daily mileage and pottered from pretty beach to pretty beach. Even though it was Indian holiday season these were normally deserted. Indians don't sunbathe, they prefer the pale look (half the adverts on billboards and TV are for skin whitening products). Also, I was told, Indians like crowds, so a deserted beach stays deserted.
To fly to Thailand I had to get the train up the coast to Mumbai / Bombay. So I found a guesthouse by the sea and topped up my tan while waiting a few days for the train.
It felt weird to fly east but end up in a country as westernised as Thailand. Everywhere I looked there were 7 eleven stores and american style pick up trucks. I had to ride through the centre of Bangkok. It seems like an interesting city with its canals and street markets and buddhist temples. But it was a sunday and I didn't want to hang around to get caught by weekday traffic gridlock.
For Christmas I planned to go snorkelling in the fish filled, clear warm waters of the Andaman Sea off Thailand's south west coast. I reached the sleepy island of Koh Muk and lived in a bamboo hut for a week, snorkelling everyday.
Next I head south through Malaysia to the port of Malacca from where the ferry crosses to the Indonesian island of Sumatra. Indonesia is dauntingly long. But as the chinese proverb says "a journey of one thousand miles starts with a single pedal".

Peak season in Goa, I had this beach to myself

Nightime photo of a fire juggler in Thailand

We kayaked through a 70 metre long tunnel into the Emerald Cave

As well as seeng the cave we also kayaked to some lovely snorkelling places

Losing it in India

So far in my trip I have been lucky, with no mechanical mishaps or bad incidents. My ambition to travel on an Indian train has changed all that.
After riding my bike to Nagpur in central India I wanted to catch a train to Goa (for a change of scenery). The train went from Bhopal - about  150 miles away - so  I thought I would do a practice run on a train to see how the system worked.
Upon reaching Bhopal (at 10:30 at night), there was no sign of my bike. A visit to the luggage office confirmed it had not been taken off the train and was on its way to Delhi. They told me to come back at 9 in the morning to see what to do. No. I kicked off with them and got to see the manger who made the necessary  calls to get my bike taken off at the next stop (I hoped).
Next - where to stay? Indian railway stations have "resting rooms" , the manager booked me into one of these until 8 the next morning.
At 7:30 and again at five to eight a man knocked  on the door claiming it was eight o'clock and the room was his. I got angry, he went away.
After bludgeoning my way through more Indian inefficiency finally a man emerged on the crowded platform pushing my mighty bike.
Now I needed a ticket for Goa. Some kind Indians helped, but there were no tickets available. One of the helpful Indians said he was an agent and could get me a ticket for a small fee. Cutting a long story short, he ran out of the reservation  office and disappeared with my 3000 rupees. I reported it to the police, we could track him up to a point on cctv, but then he got away.
I was not so lucky. It too four police officers 6 hours to file my simple report.
I'm still stuck in Bhopal. You might ask why I don't ride out? Two reasons for this, firstly, normal Indian roads are busy, bumpy, noisy and dangerous. I have been using a new dual carriageway toll road which is smooth, scenic and relatively  safe. But this good road does not run from Bhopal. Secondly, I still want a have a proper Indian train journey.
I am on the waiting list for tomorrow's train, so fingers crossed.

India - Pictures I did and didn't take.

Everywhere you look in India there is a photograph  waiting to be taken. The towns, countryside and people shimmer with colour, vibrancy and variety. It is reminiscent of the stunning photography in National Geographic  magazine. People live their lives right in front of you. Yet despite this I took few pictures.
Pictures I didn't take:
1) Choking pollution. Riding out of the crystal clarity of the Himalayas I was soon smothered in India's industrial smog. Factories billowing  brown clouds, trucks belching black exhaust, roadside fires of litter adding to this acrid mix. The sky was a gritty, dirty brown. The sun was a meek orange disc. At every crossroads there was traffic anarchy. Indians put the bus stations and taxi ranks at these cauldrons of chaos for added drama. And dogs dodge death (usually) and sacred cows stroll calmly through this bedlam, pausing occasionally  to eat rubbish.
I thought every Indian town would be this bad, so didn't capture this post apocalyptic scene on film.
2) Everyday  beauty. The industrial zone around the city of Jammu gave way to vast plains of lush green paddy fields framed by silvery irrigation channels. Women in bright red, green and gold saris  toiled in the fields or walked homeward balancing bundles of firewood on their heads. They seemed to live their lives largely separate from the men - who sit in tea houses chatting. It didn't seem right to photograph them.
3) Bathtime. Beside many roadside cafes there is often a large open tank of water. Locals and lorry drivers strip to their underpants and wash themselves and their clothes. Good to see this level of hygiene, but I guessed photography would be inappropriate.
4) Schoolchildren. In some rural areas the government give girls cycles to ride to school. So you see processions of girls weaing nun like uniforms riding old fashioned style bikes - all gleaming in the early morning sunlight.
Smaller children are squeezed into tiny 3 wheeled tuk tuks. Ten children fit into each, with the rear row facing backwards, we wave and say hello when we overtake each other.
5) Basic, rural villages. Clusters of simple huts, with clean swept yards. Oxen tethered close by, chicken roaming free. Women pumping water from nearby wells, toddlers playing in the dust, school age children tending meagre flocks of goats. I wouldn't like it if tourists took pictures of me in my normal life, I afford the same respect and privacy to the villagers.
6) A tiger. See below.
Now for photographs I did take:   

On average, one truck a day crashes OVER the edge in the Himalayas

This kind man let me ride his Roayal Enfield Bullet, 350cc

Taj Mahal, Agra, nr Delhi. Sublime.

No tiger. But I did see a wild leopard  - you will have to look closely.

The Himalayas

The Zoji La pass on my return leg

Riding over my first Himalayan  pass at Zoji La was a brutal baptism. My legs were still sore from the previous day's 80 km climb to the glacier resort of  Sonmarg. The air at 3500 metres was noticeably  thinner, especially when carting my ladened bike on a rough uphill track. What wasn't rock was mashed to mud by convoys of army trucks heading in the opposite direction.One section was so steep that  I got off to push, but sticky mud was wedged between  the mudguards and the tyres so I couldn't manage. I had to get back on and pedal with all the force my wasted muscles could muster.
After cresting the snow covered summit there was a dramatic transformation in the scenery. Instead of the alpine look of the Kashmiri  Himalayas, the Ladakhi side was naked, multi-hued rock with occasional patches of golden poplar trees.
I stayed the night in the dirty, bleak town of Drass. Its the second coldest town on earth with an average winter minimum  temperature  of -45 c. The next town had an internet cafe, the weather forecast showed I had one more sunny day, then snow. So I ditched my bags at a clean hotel and rode  the unladened bike up to the village of Mulbech. In just 25 miles the culture went from entirely  islamic to predominantly  Buddhist  - with prayer flags and prayer wheels and ancient statutes of Buddha.
To beat the snow I retraced my route in a shared taxi. We stopped in a town for tea break - so I thought. Suddenly there was a stampede  of people surging past the cafe. A fellow passenger shouted through the open door "The pass has opened!" So I too rushed for our taxi. Then there was a mad race with cars, minibuses and trucks jostling for position on the broken road. Going back over the pass was a bit dicey, as the weather conditions were grim. The pass is blocked a lot in the winter.
I returned to the houseboat in Srinigar, to sort out my washing and a new route south to warmer sunshine.

Sunshine  on the way in