https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/blog.php/31894-Three-months-around-Europe Kiwi Biker - New Zealand motorcycle community en Thu, 14 May 2026 03:02:32 GMT vBulletin 20 https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/images/BP-Brown/misc/rss.jpg https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/blog.php/31894-Three-months-around-Europe https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2873-Senior-Kiwi-in-Central-America-part-5 Mon, 03 Feb 2014 14:50:56 GMT REFLECTIONS My trip in Central America is nearly over. I just have a little over 300km to ride from El Tunco back to Guatemala City via Antigua. In three months , the Suzuki 125 and I travelled 6000km through five countries - Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua and Costa Rica and... REFLECTIONS

My trip in Central America is nearly over. I just have a little over 300km to ride from El Tunco back to Guatemala City via Antigua.

In three months , the Suzuki 125 and I travelled 6000km through five countries - Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua and Costa Rica and the only problems were self inflicted when I fell off the bike and broke the clutch lever and the gear shift. I bodged a fix and a local mechanic made a permanent job. Cost $10. I serviced the bike twice and the cost was $10 a time including filters, oil and spark plug.

When I first suggested this trip there were sharp intakes of breath from friends and family and I read about horror border crossing stories. I never felt unsafe. My border crossings, even with minimal Spanish , were simple and straightforward, the staff professional and helpful. The only propina I paid was $2 to get my stamp during the Honduran lunch break saving me a couple of hours. I got stopped several times by Police and Army roadblocks but there was never any hint of a fine or shakedown in sharp contrast to my experiences in the Ukraine and Eastern Europe.

I often wonder if my 60 plus age gives me an advantage.

Road behaviour was good. Cars and trucks gave me a wide passing berth. I rode at dusk once and that was lesson enough. Sure the roads were a little basic in places, but the bike handled them well.

Accommodation was plentiful and spending between $10 and $20 a night got me a clean private room with facilities and often breakfast. You can do it cheaper, but after a day in the water or on the bike, a cold beer , shower and a quiet room are to me worth the extra dosh.

The bike was comfortable and I am 6ft 2in and weigh 95kg (210lb). I could handle 300km in a day no problems. I wore kevlar bike jeans,hiking boots and a semi mesh riding jacket. I would stop every hour and drink. I started off with a camelbak but lost it early in the trip. I could cruise at 60/70kph - around 5500rpm, fuel consumption was 40kpl so a normal day's ride cost less than $5 in fuel.

I often shared lodgings with backpackers and they seemed forever rushing to meet bus schedules. I rode mostly in the morning , took some paths less travelled , avoided the need to wait for shuttles to a good surf beach and I seemed to get through borders quicker.

I now head back to Europe, to pick up my motorhome and head for Austria for some skiing . My wife and I will then continue travelling through Europe and head back to NZ in October.

I have a desire to ride my V strom from UK to NZ in 2015. The initial response from the Pakistani and Iranian embassies has been positive and Myanmar now looks possible to transit. So a plan is taking place. Any advice or tips would be gratefully received. I also plan to do South America but that is further down the line.

For me, my journey through Central America on a little local bike met all and often exceeded my expectations. I felt safe, secure and had a sense of independence from the freedom the little Suzuki gave me.

It was a trip worth making

Ride Safe

Peter ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2873-Senior-Kiwi-in-Central-America-part-5 https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2862-Senior-Kiwi-in-Central-America-part-4 Sun, 05 Jan 2014 18:51:33 GMT El Cuco to Leon I left El Cuco before the bands got tuned up for the day. It is just over 100km to the Honduras border and having heard horrific tales of the difficulty of crossing the border due to the rapaciousness of the border touts, I wanted to arrive fresh , hydrated and with the right... El Cuco to Leon

I left El Cuco before the bands got tuned up for the day. It is just over 100km to the Honduras border and having heard horrific tales of the difficulty of crossing the border due to the rapaciousness of the border touts, I wanted to arrive fresh , hydrated and with the right sense of bemusement.

I needn’t have worried. The little Suzuki flew under the helper’s radar. I could see them poised at the side of the road to the border, sun glinting from their home made laminated passes. No one was interested.

Driving into the town of Guasaule, I saw a Canadian plated big BMW surrounded by touts. The driver and his teenage daughter looking stressed. I pulled up alongside, lifted my visor and introduced myself asking could I assist.

The touts all did a second take, looked at me, the bike plates and I could see them doing quick calculations as to where they could make the most money.

The driver looked relieved: ‘ I can do the entry by myself, but I am reluctant to leave my daughter here alone. Can you keep an eye on things ‘

“ Sure, you go first. I think my entry should be easy. “

Ten minutes later he was back. Entry achieved .

My entry could not be simpler. Just went to the office , paid $3 and got my passport stamped. No bike details were required.

I had decided to visit Honduras on my return to Guatemala so I just aimed for the Nicaraguan border.

On the potholed road down to the border, I was passed far to close by a chicken bus, which then drove crazily away,wandering all over the road. A few kms later I came across the bus stopped in the middle of the road , a crumpled kid’s bike and a little body lying nearby covered by a sheet . I stopped and asked if any help was needed but was told an eight year old girl had been killed by the bus. Then the police arrived , made a lot of noise and I decided to move on. Perhaps it was a mistake to stop I reflected later, but then it is always your first reaction as you might be able to help.

Entering Nicaragua was a little more complex. I did not get stamped out of Honduras but the Nicaraguan border guard didn’t worry , just directed me to the line where I paid $12 entry fee, got my passport stamped , then got a 30 day customs entry for the bike and I was on my way.

It was now getting late in the day and with the haze from the burning of the sugar cane field, darkness came quicker than I expected. I had one cardinal rule : don’t ride at night but as it was only 30 km to Leon I decided to push on.

My diary entry later that night recounts a constant rush of big trucks, unlit bikes, wandering pedestrians, dogs and cows. It was a nightmare that lasted over an hour and a lesson learned and reinforced.

I got a nice hotel room in Leon , treated myself to a few cold Tona beers and slept for nine hours. The little Suzuki has travelled nearly 400km that day and my body was feeling it.

Leon is a pleasant city, with some interesting architecture and a well supported tourist infrastructure. Christmas shopping was in full swing , but it was a city and well cities are just cities no matter how graceful and accommodating they are.

Las Penitas

Twenty km to the east of Leon is Las Penitas. It had a good reputation as a surf beach and I was not disappointed. It had a nice break for body surfing , a few bars to watch the sun set over a beer and I got a good room at a Canadian run Lazy Turtle hotel. Ryan and Val were great hosts and invited me back for Christmas.

However, the beach was a gathering spot for stingrays and in four days I saw four people stung. I helped two people, putting their feet into hot water, cleaning out the wound and insisting they get some shots and antibiotics into them . The pain from the sting comes in waves and by the yells and grimaces is excruciating. The secret to avoiding them is to shuffle when you are in the water. As a precaution I wore boots and fins, but I always had the thought of a wave dumping me on top of one. But then the waves were too good to ignore


San Juan Del Sur

This is the surf capital of Nicaragua. The town itself is a bit of a hotch potch , but the waves north and south were worth travelling for. I spent seven days here, surfing, walking, reading and perfecting my body surfing. I met some fellow body surfers and we travelled up and down the coast on our bikes looking for breaks. Most nights I would get back to my hotel sun burned and stuffed but after a couple of beers I came right . Beer- the retirees Red Bull!


Christmas at Las Penitas

It must be a tradition that every Nicaraguan goes to the beach on Christmas Day, drinks to excess, then goes for a swim. Despite the best efforts of the lifeguards and the Red Cross, there were numerous drunken people pulled from the surf and one 20 year male drowned after drinking then swimming. Despite the throng, the crowd were good natured although I would hate to be on the road on the drive back to the city.


Granada

I left Las Penitas on Boxing day and headed back to San Juan , spent two days surfing there and then headed for Granada. This is a lovely town, with pastel coloured buildings, good restaurants, nice lakeside bars and a lovely Irish pub for some well deserved comfort food. As towns go it is the prettiest I have seen on my Central American travels so far. American adventurer, William Walker set fire to it in the mid 1860’s but it was rebuilt it over the following 20 years .

Popoyo

This is a spectacular beach, reached by a torturous 30 km dirt road. I spent New Years Eve, watching the fireworks, having a few beers and a pizza and talking about home with Morrie , a dreadlocked kiwi who was the local surf instructor and a member of the same surf club . He is making a living teaching surfing, running a makeshift taxi service and doing other odd jobs. He is in no hurry to return back home and with his lifestyle it is easy to understand why.

I liked Nicaragua. The people I met were open and friendly, the costs minimal, the drivers and roads by and large good and the towns of Leon and Granada safe and interesting. However, my 30 day bike visa was nearing its end and I needed to head south to Costa Rica.

Safe riding ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2862-Senior-Kiwi-in-Central-America-part-4 https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2857-senior-kiwi-in-central-america-blog-3 Sat, 07 Dec 2013 16:08:23 GMT It is security gone mad I have now been in Central America for a month. When I first said I was coming here to ride a local bike, there were sharp intakes of breath and comments that I should buy a gun and “learn how to use it “ Admittedly , I have only visited two countries to date but I... It is security gone mad

I have now been in Central America for a month. When I first said I was coming here to ride a local bike, there were sharp intakes of breath and comments that I should buy a gun and “learn how to use it “

Admittedly , I have only visited two countries to date but I haven’t felt any real security concerns. The police and military have a strong presence, I tend to stay in at night and only ride during the day.

Having said that : There are an awful lot of weapons here - mainly in the hands of security guards. Everywhere seems to have a security guard. Even a little cake shop, I frequented had two. One inside and the other outside on the pavement. I think that is a bit over the top as it is likely anyone who is going to rob a cake shop will be a fatty and as soon as one gets within cooee of the shop , the guards would have hopefully clocked them. And any way , fatty the crook couldn’t resist having a taster when making their getaway, so they should be easier to capture, with a mouthful of cake and burdened down with two dozen eclairs.

In Guatemala , in a bid to control drive by shootings from bikes , you have to have your helmet and hi viz vest emblazoned with your bike number plate. I have tried to figure out how that will stop the hits. As if criminals who carry out these killings are worried about a minor traffic infringement.

“ Jose, I told you no more drive bys until you get your helmet and vest sorted. Can’t have you breaking the law , can we”

For some reason, motorbikes are the target of military and police roadblocks. Big , swanky SUVS with blackened windows seem to go through with impunity, while the humble motorbike rider is numero uno target.

In my view, I would have thought Mr Big would be more at home in the SUV than the seat of a Chinese made 125. But then I am only a visitor.

Roadblocks are good fun, once you get over being the object of interest by a gun toting , bored 18 year old squaddie. I always give in strict order, my international driving licence, which confuses them no end. Then my passport, which seems to pique their interest and then finally the bike registration. By this time they are all crowding around, black windowed SUVs and pickups whiz past unimpeded as the roadblock squad look at the visas in my passport, ask how much the bike cost and a million other queries.


LIttle Suzi

I have now weakened and given the bike a name. This is purely out of respect for what she has done for me in the last 2000km. She has travelled some atrocious roads, been as frugal as a kid saving for a house deposit and as comfortable as the V strom I ride normally. We cruise at between 60 and 70 km, park anywhere and has proven simple and inexpensive to repair. I broke my clutch and gearshift levers in a fall, bodged some repairs and a 1000 km later the bodges are still going.

EL Tunco to El Cuco

It was a wrench leaving El Tunco after six days. I had a lovely room, met some nice people, caught some waves but it was time to go. I write this from El Cuco at the southern end of El Salvador. It is a lovely beach resort, traditional fishing village and has some great beaches, which I will explore over the next three days. I think the resort I am staying at ($25 a night) is hosting some kind of mariachi band convention , because there is a an awful lot of competing noise up until about 2300 hours and then it starts again at 0800. I am getting to like the music especially some of the more soulful songs involving a dog, pickup and a lost love.

Well I think that is what it is about

Ride safe ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2857-senior-kiwi-in-central-america-blog-3 https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2853-Senior-Kiwi-in-Central-America Wed, 04 Dec 2013 18:26:53 GMT SCHOOL’S OUT I had learned enough Spanish in two weeks to get me into trouble. The time flew by, but I suspect not for my teacher, Byron. He was patient, we sorted out some minor bureaucratic issues with the bike, bought tools, a puncture repair kit and planned a route through... SCHOOL’S OUT

I had learned enough Spanish in two weeks to get me into trouble. The time flew by, but I suspect not for my teacher, Byron. He was patient, we sorted out some minor bureaucratic issues with the bike, bought tools, a puncture repair kit and planned a route through Guatemala as he hammered home irregular verbs. How many people can say they were taught Spanish by Byron?

The first weekend break, I took a trial run to Lago Atitlan. The main town , Panajachel, could have been a freshwater Kuta or Phuket with T shirt stalls, travel agencies, fast food outlets and bars. My lakefront hotel cost me $13 a night and a good meal was around $7. I could have got it cheaper, but the owner of the hotel found me and the room was clean, comfortable with wifi, cable tv, hot shower covered parking for the bike - and a 5 minute walk to the main centre.

Meander 5 km outside the town and you are back in a way of life seemingly unchanged for decades. Coffee farms, slash and burn subsistence farms and traditional costumes. I did a circuit off the lake, encountered a variety of roads from billiard table smooth to donkey track special. On this trip I met my first sleeping policeman or tumulos. These are raised humps on the road designed to slow down traffic. Whatever policeman they modelled them on must have had another job as a doughnut taster because hit one at more than 10km or on a slight angle and you could get automatic entry for the X games. They are also often just placed at random with no advance warning signs. I wonder if they injure more people than they are designed to save.

I was glad I was on a light bike. I could cruise along at 60 kph and on the hairpin bend dirt roads change down to first gear and plod around at 10kph. The traffic on both the country roads and autopista was courteous, gave a wide berth when passing and kept their distance when following.

The bike was more comfortable than I expected. The riding position was similar to the V strom if a little lower. You obviously had to work the revs higher, but I managed to keep below 5000rpm and even after two hours straight in the saddle, I felt minimal discomfort. I suspect that if I travel over 70kph for an extended time there will be some impact from vibration , but really my experience to date is that away from the autopista you will struggle to maintain a 40 kph average. My initial fuel consumption is around 45 km/ litre, means if I spend more than $5 a day on fuel I will be pushing it.

My two weeks in Xela underlined the town’s laid back attitude and its charm does sneaks up on you. Everything is handy, the people pleasant , nice bars and places to eat and an active cultural scene to cater for Mayan, European and North American tastes. The climate was a pleasant 12 to 27C at the tail end of the rainy season. The temperature drops considerably in January to hit a chilly single numeral. . I would have been happy to stay longer and some fellow students who had originally come for three weeks were in their seventh or eighth week of study. So that says something about the town and the school.
I went back on my second weekend to San Pedro de Laguna on Lake Atitlan. It has its share of crazy characters including a middle aged American who has the map of the world tattooed on his back and fills in each country he visits. So far he has filled in 20 spaces . I hope he doesn’t plan to visit Russia and Canada in the same week. And then there was the middle aged lady , who ran into the pub I was at, yelled I should have been a boy, stripped off and then ran outside naked. I was told she was a pillar of the community and that was completely out of character. It actually didn’t seem out of character for San Pedro!

I left early on a Sunday morning to head for the famed market at Chichicastenango. It was my first experience of riding through low rain cloud, visibility was poor and it wasn’t quite wet enough to stop and wait it out as I usually do but the damp seemed to find its way right through my clothes and the lack of sun made for a cold, rather miserable ride.

The market was, well a market. A few tourists, plenty of souvenirs for sale but nothing really to spin my wheels. There were some quite interesting characters prancing around on the church steps waving and chanting .

CHICHICASTENANGO TO EL TUNCO

There was a road from Chichi to Coban . The guidebook said it was one of the most scenic roads in Guatemala but warned that it was subject to slips . Local advice said the road was open , but I forgot to ask the question- was it paved.

For the first 150 km , the road lived up to its billing. Smooth, undulating, spectacular scenery , nice bends, little traffic. Then with about 50 km to go it all stopped. the road became a rocky , muddy, potholed, track used almost exclusively by old battered trucks carrying rocks from a quarry to Coban. They had churned up the road surface to a sticky morass. I had three choices: go back, hitch a ride on a truck or the least sensible : keep riding . Of course, I chose the least sensible and for the next 50 km , I bumped, wrestled, cajoled the little suzi . I never got higher than second gear and tried to keep below 5000rpm . I looked ahead, relaxed as much as possible and the little bike on its road tyres just kept going. It took us three hours to do that 50 km and arrived in town mud caked and exhausted, but I got myself and the bike cleaned up for $5 and slept the sleep of just. I do not know whether that road made me a better rider. It certainly made me a sweatier one.

My destination the next day was Semuc Champey. The road started well but degenerated and about halfway to my destination I hit some rocks , fell and broke the clutch lever and the gear shift. I sustained a few bruises and had a nice mud streak up my left side like a skunk’s stripe.

I managed to jam the bike in first gear and rig up a bodge that would allow me to start the bike, let out the clutch and go for it. For the next 14 km I crawled up and down that road, judiciously applying power and gunning it up the rises. I found a workshop in town and fabricated a new clutch lever and gearshift for a cost of $10.

I played tourist the next day visiting caves, jumping off cliffs and bridges, swimming in the river and just relaxing but gnawing in the back of my mind was that I would have to go back on that road tomorrow.

There was constant rain during the day and I could just imagine the state of the road. But I was feeling more confident with my super strong clutch lever and new found dirt riding techniques. I let some air out of the tyres, double tied my pack onto the rack and went for it. That little suzi seemed to take on a new life. She seemed to be enjoying the challenge and I didn’t feel any anxiety. We spun up muddy inclines, zipped through water filled potholes and I almost kissed the tarmac when we eventually reached it.

The next two days I wandered along through the mountains. The last few days and something I had eaten had impacted on me and I felt listless and was contributing over much to the sewerage infrastructure of Central Guatemala. In addition, the low cloud and drizzle were not making for much of a holiday atmosphere. Time for the beach.

I decided to head for El Tunco in El Salvador. The border crossing was a breeze, just a stamp out in my passport in Guatemala , a cursory look over by El Salvador officials and a coffee and chat with the border guards who were interested in my trip, my choice of bike and whether they could emigrate to New Zealand. No one asked for any documents for the bike as it had Guatemalan plates. I spent the night in Santa Ana , a lovely town with impressive church and theatre and a lively Friday night show in the plaza. My choice of hotel , at the recommendation of a policeman, turned out to be a brothel. But it was clean , quiet and had safe parking for little suzi. It was only the next morning ,I noticed the hand printed ads for Viagra. George, the owner , had just returned back to Santa Ana after 35 years working in the States. “ This is my pension, and I like to think am supporting a social service.” he told me over breakfast. George , I believe you.

I could smell the ocean well before I saw it. A kind of raw tang and a sharper definition of the sun. Then I saw the waves. Nice little 3 to 4 feet swells sparkling . I found a room, broke out my fins and dived into the Pacific Ocean for the first time in nine months.


I felt immediately at home.

Ride safe


PS: I have pictures but I am finding great difficulty in transferring from Google photo to the site

Any ideas/ tips would be appreciated. I am using a Samsung chromebook ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2853-Senior-Kiwi-in-Central-America https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2843-Senior-Kiwi-in-Central-America Tue, 12 Nov 2013 21:54:02 GMT THE TOUR BEGINS I am now in Guatemala, the starting point for a three month motorbike tour of Central America. Why Central America? Well I want to learn Spanish. It is a culture I have never experienced and it is small and diverse enough to be interesting and package into the three month... THE TOUR BEGINS

I am now in Guatemala, the starting point for a three month motorbike tour of Central America.

Why Central America? Well I want to learn Spanish. It is a culture I have never experienced and it is small and diverse enough to be interesting and package into the three month window I have available without busting a gut. It caters superbly for my off bike activities of diving and boogie boarding. I want to do the trip on a local bike and Guatemala is reportedly an easy place for a traveller to buy one. We shall see!

I also have a South American tour on my bucket list - but that deserves a longer timeframe and a different , bigger bike. So the CA trip will give me a taster and some experience of this part of the world.

This is my fourth long tour having done my home country, New Zealand on a Yamaha Virago 250 after rediscovering my love of motorbikes following retirement in 2007 after 40 years in the corporate world. In 2011, I bought a V Strom 650 in the UK and travelled solo to Ukraine, Greece, Italy, Spain and points in between. Morocco, Turkey and Albania were the focus in 2012 on the same bike. The blogs are on this site.

Prior to this, I rode a pushbike from the Danube Delta to London, then had a pleasant bike ride from Singapore to Bangkok , followed the Mekong from Vientiane, Laos, through Vietnam, Cambodia and back to Bangkok. I also spent 6 months working as a divemaster on Koh Tao, Thailand taking tourists to dive the famed Chumpon Pinnacle to see its whale sharks. My retirement has been busy and satisfying so far. I will have enough time in my dotage to live vicariously!

These trips have been done mostly solo. My mates still have responsibilities , or in a couple of cases have marital form and are not allowed out to play. I have grown to like not having to make a group decision. While often having a buddy would make things easier, sometimes a lot easier, age, guile, persistence, naivety and a couple of beers at the end of the day usually sorts things out - or at least puts them in perspective! And being older in the countries I have visited seems to have been an asset with people always more than willing to assist and help out when needed. The camaraderie of two wheels.

I have been given some great advice from inmates of this website and hopefully my reports will repay those who have devoted their time and energy to documenting their travels and answering my questions. Perhaps it will stir some memories and may even assist those thinking of doing something similar and hopefully, not dissaude them.

BUYING A BIKE
I had done a little research and received (conflicting) advice from various websites. I had ruled out a new bike as the one piece off consistent advice was it would take a month or so to get plates and registration. My travel insurance restricted my bike choice to less than 200cc. I could have changed it, but I grew to like the idea of a using a small local bike and taking my time. I had just spent seven months trundling my motorhome through the sights and sites of Western Europe and New Zealand has a fair share of thin, challenging roads so I am used to a slower pace. Even on the V strom I rarely exceeded 90kph. Dignity is everything!

There was also the thought if I had a problem it could be fixed locally and quickly. My investment would not be bank breaking and there was the option I could just give the bike away at the end of the trip to benefit some locals as I did following my time on Koh Tao.

The plan was to buy in Quetzaltenango but walking around Guatemala City, I passed a large Suzuki dealership. The GN125 was one of my preferred choices so I thought I would have a chat. I explained what I was after to the receptionist and she appeared in a short while with five people, who after a bit of pantomine I worked out were the sales manager, finance manager, legal manager, salesman and someone to take notes. English was broken but understandable.

The enthusiastic sales manager took the lead: They could sell me an ex lease bike , around 35000 kms, fully serviced, insured and would buy it back for 50% of the purchase price when I left in three months. I was reluctant to buy a bike of this mileage but decided to go along, view it and then make the decision. My cost would work out at around $500 for the three months.

But then they could not find a bike. Their discomfort was obvious and they went in to a huddle and the sales boss presented a new deal. They would lease me a new bike, deliver it to Xela, throw in a top of the range helmet , insure and register, for around $220 a month. The legal people would draw up papers allowing me to travel outside the country and I could pay it on my credit card. Deal done and I had hardly said anything. I don’t know whether they liked the idea of my trip, whether it was a slow day or they had a lot of stock to quit to meet an incentive. However, on paper it was that elusive win- win.

Of course, there may still be fish hooks, but with a large, well established outlet I would expect reputation is worth more than some small time fleecing. Time will tell.

I had planned on looking at the Honda 125 and the Bajaj Boxer 150 but my first choice was always the Suzuki. I had great experience of the brand on my V strom, it had more power than the others, similar sized fuel tank, centre stand and a front disc brake. It ticked the boxes and I was mobile

BACK TO SCHOOL IN QUETZALTENANGO
I chose Quetzaltenango (Xela) initially for three reasons, although the Guatemala bike purchase scuppered one of them, Reports said there were less tourists and so you are more likely to use your new language skills, there are a couple of website recommended motorcycle dealers who could help in my bike search and it has an unpronounceable, exotic name, sounding like the liquid you swallow before a colonoscopy.

I had emailed three schools, got professional replies, confused myself with the options and kept delaying my choice. In the end I got off the plane, caught a bus to Xela and visited some schools trying to be as objective and professional about the choice I would make. I confused myself even more ,compounded my jet lag and in the end chose the one with the most attractive receptionist . Far better and more efficient than any corporate process I was ever involved in. However, not very PC, but then I am a senior citizen.

A key of the total immersion package is the chance to live with a local family. Part of the process is you become a family member, join their activities, share their lives. When the school wrote that in their homestay recruitment plan, I don’t think they envisaged a retiree with a flatline responsibility graph, focused on buying a motorbike and mangling Spanish with a nasal colonial accent. Anyway after the initial shock , we all adapted well. They would speak to me in loud ,slow voices ( the older I get, the more this is happening) and gently correct my Spanish . In return,I did not rearrange the stuffed animals in my bedroom into risque positions.

Willy and Christy were middle aged and tiny. I felt like Gulliver in Lilliput. But they were kind, patient and helpful. The food and amenities were great and it was all included in my tuition cost of around $160 a week. They had a little dog named Leche and my first goal was to understand more Spanish than her by the end of the first week.

After having been footloose in Europe for the last seven months it would be pleasing to establish a routine. School started at 8am, continued until 1pm with a half hour break around 10am.
So now its two weeks , five hours a day of head down , bum up . I will begin to run in the bike over the weekend with a visit to Lago Atitlan and the surrounding villages.

Ride safe ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2843-Senior-Kiwi-in-Central-America https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2789-Central-America Wed, 03 Jul 2013 09:45:29 GMT Since my last entry I have been motorhoming through Europe with the handbrake. Spain, Portugal, France and presently in Italy. We finish this sector of the trip in October, store the van in UK and then I am heading for Guatamela where I intend to spend three weeks taking Spanish lessons ,... Since my last entry I have been motorhoming through Europe with the handbrake.

Spain, Portugal, France and presently in Italy.

We finish this sector of the trip in October, store the van in UK and then I am heading for Guatamela where I intend to spend three weeks taking Spanish lessons , buy a bike and do a Central america tour.

Will let you know how I get on

safe riding ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2789-Central-America https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2697-The-final-lap Sat, 09 Feb 2013 22:50:43 GMT I sort of gave up the blog because I spent my remaining time at the Olympics. Guess I should finish it though. Our next stop in Turkey was Gallipoli- my second visit there and the poignancy was still there. the waste, the cynicism and the misplaced nationalism all seems so futile. From... I sort of gave up the blog because I spent my remaining time at the Olympics.

Guess I should finish it though.

Our next stop in Turkey was Gallipoli- my second visit there and the poignancy was still there. the waste, the cynicism and the misplaced nationalism all seems so futile.

From here I cut across Greece, which was either closed down or on fire sale, headed up to Montengro and into Albania.

I tried to buy insurance at the border but the guard just looked at me incredulously and said " sir if you bought insurance you would be the only one in Albania who has it.'

The roads are very very good and very very bad. But the accommodation , food and wine excellent and good value. I saw no other motorcyclists

Took the ferry from Greece to Italy, and then travelled up through the heartland to my favourite city of Prague then onto Munich, up to Bremerhaven , back through Holland and then home to UK

so that was it : Another 25000 km, giving a total of 50000 km in two years. And the only problems with the bike was a slow puncture and a blown headlamp bulb.


The bike will now be shipped home and I have bought a motor home in the UK and in March I take my wife to see all the spots I saw on my motorbike travels.

Safe riding ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2697-The-final-lap https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2597-Kiwi-in-turkey Wed, 29 Aug 2012 07:52:40 GMT Istanbul to Kusadassi One of the drawbacks of travelling in a group, even if it is only two bikes is that it is harder to meet the locals. When you travel alone you have to make contact, but in a group you can sit back and let someone else do it. Roz, on pillion, would be our initial... Istanbul to Kusadassi

One of the drawbacks of travelling in a group, even if it is only two bikes is that it is harder to meet the locals. When you travel alone you have to make contact, but in a group you can sit back and let someone else do it.

Roz, on pillion, would be our initial contact for hotels and camp sites. John preferred to be more organised , booking ahead and having a daily destination rather than my more makeshift approach of searching for somewhere to stay once I finished my day's ride. Both methods have their pros and cons and really the best just boils down to your personality. John felt a strong responsibility for his pillion and as someone else was happy to do the organising, my natural laziness and vow to avoid any kind of responsibility let me go with the flow.

We headed along the Black Sea coast to Asmara- climbing out through the coastal ranges, hugging the B roads until we hit the coastal highway which allowed us to open our throttles and let the breeze cool us down. I noticed my bike was handling a bit sluggishly and checking the tyres noticed the rear tyre had dropped pressure. Looking closer I found a large nail embedded in the tread. The tyres had done about 16000 km and still had plenty of wear and trying to get a replacement would involve a considerable wait as big bikes and their tyres were few and far in this neck of the woods.

I found a tyre shop and we pulled out the nail and plugged and patched the tyre. The shop refused payment and it is testimony to their skill that the patch lasted me all the way back to the UK – a distance of more than 5000km- though I did keep a careful check on pressure. Apart from replacing a head lamp bulb that was the first issue I had with the bike in over 40000 km – aside from maintainance work replacing the chain and sprocket

From Asmara we headed inland, cutting across the plateau of Central Turkey and rode into Cappadocia in the first rain I had encountered in over two months.

We spent three days in Cappadocia. I bought more jewellery and some ceramics. Roz and John splashed out on a turkish carpet . We bought it at the carpet weaving university.

This university is an initiative of the Turkish Ministry of Culture and for the last 20 years has taken girls from the country and taught them weaving techniques and sent them back to their villages to establish and run co operatives. The Ministry audits the product and sells it direct cutting out the often voracious middlemen.

The University head told me: “ It has been successful beyond our expectations – we can maintain tradition and quality, offer a guaranteed return to our students, spread the skill level and give the village ladies a vocation and purpose.
“It has also helped in speeding emancipation – the girls leave here with a strong sense of purpose and ambition and that has proven to have positive effects on the life of many villages.”

So if you are looking for a Turkish carpet at a fair price, then try the University in Cappadocia.

It seemed as though the whole of Turkey was under construction. Roads were being widened and resealed, bridges and tunnels constructed. The work was being financed largely by petrodollars from other Islamic States anxious to see Turkey, which seperated State from church when the new Republic was formed by Atatturk in 1923, come closer into their sphere .

After leaving Cappadocia and its cave houses and churches we headed south to the Med. and made our first aquaintance with the D400. This road runs along the coast and is undoutably one of the best motorbike roads I have ever ridden.

For much of its distance it occupies a space between the coastal range and the sea. There are few beaches here ,the mountains just tumbling into the sea with pine forests fringing and overhanging the road. There is considerable reconstruction work going on but the engineer in charge obviously had motorbikes in mind in his road design. We could ride as hard or as soft as we wanted. There was little traffic and plenty of room for passing. I remember cresting one rise and seeing a ribbon of dual carriageway stretching downhill for more than 20 km with gradual, thoughtful curves, ribbon smooth surface and only one other vehicle. I just opened up the throttle and enjoyed.

The route took us through major towns and pretty fishing villages, now open for tourism but in a laidback, hospitable manner. Perhaps we had caught them just in time.

It took us seven days to ride the 1500 km from Cappadocia to Kusadasi . We spent our nights in quaint hotels costing around $25 a night each, tasting the local cuisine, and sharing our thoughts about the wonderful days ride we had experienced.

We arrived in Kusadasi with a purpose. To find the jewellers shop , that John and Roz had their engagement ring made. But Kusadasi was now a major tourist port, with cruise ships calling regularly and disgorging their passengers for a five hour Turkish delight- would the shop still exist

They knew the shop was close to the seafront, so we started there and bingo we found the shop. However, now it was a major swish outlet, like a Michael Hill on steroids – but run by the relations of the jeweller who made the original ring. They loved the story of our journey and the quest to find their shop, poured over the ring and its original bill and gave Roz a hearty discount on her new purchases. Job done.
Even though Kusadassi was a tourist town, we all rated it highly. The merchants were not pushy and often displayed a lovely sense of humour firing back quips if you gave them a smart alec response to their invitation to see their wares. Great fun and no pressure – great for my flat line responsibility curve.
Even as I write this a few weeks after leaving the D400, I can still enjoy the lovely ride and challenge it gave us.
Who said road engineers don't have soul. ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2597-Kiwi-in-turkey https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2586-Kiwi-in-turkey Mon, 20 Aug 2012 11:24:05 GMT Tangier to Istanbul Google says it is nearly 5000 km from Tangier to Istanbul and I travelled the first 2000 km on a big Italian registered ferry. I shared a cabin with three French educated Moroccan business graduates. In their late 20s and early 30s they were quite disillusioned by... Tangier to Istanbul

Google says it is nearly 5000 km from Tangier to Istanbul and I travelled the first 2000 km on a big Italian registered ferry. I shared a cabin with three French educated Moroccan business graduates. In their late 20s and early 30s they were quite disillusioned by their lot. Five years getting a qualification from a prestigious French University and for three years they had been trying to get jobs.

“ We will go anywhere but we cannot even get an interview. It is the same for all our friends . No jobs, no prospects.” they told me. They all worked in the kitchens of restaurants but were still hopeful of getting on the ladder.

They were generous, thoughtful cabin mates. We shared food , they were quiet and clean and kept the cabin tidy. It was the first time I had been up close to the personal impact of the economic recession in Europe and for someone bought up with full employment it was a salutary experience to see young people's ambitions so thoroughly squashed by such an immovable force.

Docking at Genoa in the early morning, I rode through the mountains to Trento in the Italian lake district, then visited Verona and Vicinzi enjoying the 15C drop in temperature from Morocco. It is a classic ride on a twisting road threw grape vine countryside.

My route then took me to Salzburg where I met up with fellow kiwis,John and Roz on their BMW 1220 GS. John had sold me two motorbikes and they wanted to repeat a trip to Turkey they made 25 years ago and return to the jewellers where John had bought their engagement ring. A sort of motorised Lord of the Rings sequel.

We headed for Vienna , but the BMW was sick and it needed some major work done. BMW supplied a car and we were able to keep moving east. Just a note on the frugality of the Citroen diesel. It had better fuel consumption than the BMW and matched the V strom at 4litres per 100km.

After a few days in Vienna , we travelled to Budapest, then into Romania visiting Timosoara, Sibiu and Bucharest. I had my bike serviced , bought a new tank bag and a summer jacket . Total cost $350.

John and Roz then headed back to Vienna as the BMW was ready and we agreed to meet somewhere in Bulgaria in a week's time.

I travelled to Varna on the Black Sea and left just as quickly. It was a tourist destination of the the overblown kind with extreme happy hours and a shoddy facade. Fleeing south I found an apartment in a little village of Sozopol just above the border with Turkey. Set on a curving white sand beach it was a snip at $25 – only the beach, as I later found, was a nudist colony catering for the older demographic of male sun worshipers. The sight of seniot male nude beach volleyball underlined why my apartment rental was a snip.

I met up with Joh and Roz and their repaired BMW and we bumped down the Bulgarian roads heading for the Turkish border.

Entry to Turkey was a breeze, I changed from EU passport to NZ, to avoid a $60 visa charge,bought insurance for three months for $15 and was on my way – it took less than 30 minutes.

And the roads, financed by EU and petrodollars money were wonderful mostly dual carriageway with carefully crafted and cambered corners- but with no instructions on how to pay the toll. So I just jumped the barrier , an alarm went off and my GPS jammed. No worry I will sort it out later.

But that was wishful thinking. We hit Istanbul in the middle of the biggest traffic jam for years- it was the lead item on the media that night and the following day. It was like everyone in Istanbul had decided to go out for a kebab at the same time. I had lost John and Ross as on the road in. We had separated in the madcap traffic and they hurtled East while I headed West.
Crawling through traffic, in 35c heat, with no GPS, few signs , no Turkish money and only a tourist map to guide me is no joke. Eventually I reached the Bridge across the Bospherous and went to a police post to find out about toll payments and getting my GPS unblocked.

I must have looked a pathetic figure on the road side, hot, dusty, inadequate map clutched in my hand and jabbing with my forefinger at the GPS while yelling an expletive at the lack of road signs that could be understood by a pensioner who although renting an apartment at a nude beach for senior males of a certain disposition took his meals and leisure activities elsewhere.

But then a calm voice from behind me said “ Can I help you”

I turned it was a fellow bike rider , astride a Honda 600, a bemused smile on his face .

“ Well I am trying to get to Sili, but it is not on my map and my GPS is blocked , I have no toll card and I need some local money. “

“ No worries. Come with me. “

Hakim took charge, led me to an ATM. Then off to the toll office, purchase a swipe card, unblock the GPS and have a drink. He would escort me to a hotel in Sili..

“ It is on my way , anyway I would just like to join your adventure for a short time. “ I had answered his questions about my trip, avoiding the volleyball camp and told him of my Turkish itinerary.

So we were off, weaving through traffic across the bridge, leaving Europe and entering Asia.

We reached Sili just before dark and by chance had met John and Roz on the
road . Hakim found us a hotel, negotiated a price and shared a welcome beer with us.

We shared a few war stories and I asked Hakim what his job was.

“ I am a gun dealer . My firm sells guns to military forces. “

Well so far on this trip I have been rescued by drug and gun dealers.

Just a white slave trader to go. ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2586-Kiwi-in-turkey https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2567-kiwi-in-Morocco Sun, 29 Jul 2012 09:02:25 GMT Ouarzazate to Tangier It is very difficult to get accurate road information in Morocco. Google maps told there was a road through the desert from Mhamid to Foum-Zguid, the hotel manager was unsure, but a Dutch motorcyclist assured me there was a road. “ Look it is drawn on my Dutch... Ouarzazate to Tangier

It is very difficult to get accurate road information in Morocco. Google maps told there was a road through the desert from Mhamid to Foum-Zguid, the hotel manager was unsure, but a Dutch motorcyclist assured me there was a road.

“ Look it is drawn on my Dutch map. So it must be OK”

Anyway I rode the 300km to Mhamid and as I got deeper into my ride, the desert changed from rocks to sand. There was a single strip of bitumen and I had to veer into the sand a few times to avoid large military trucks
Might is right is the road rule here.

Mhamid is right on the desert. The sand creeps up the main street like waves at a beach. Unlike Merzouga there is little infrastructure, but the dunes come right to its front door and beyond, held back by a Canute like fence e of palm fronds.

I stopped at a small cafe on the outskirts of town. Mr Himi, poured me a cold coke and tried to sell me a 4wd trip into the desert.
“ Too hot for camel and too much sand for your bike. 4wd very nice. “

I could think of nothing worse after the freedom and airiness of the bike to be cooped up with other people in a 4wd, driven by a taureg wanna be rally driver.

So much for Dutch maps. There was a track, not a bitumen road and it was closed due to sand

I gave up on a camel trip and desert road to Foum Zuigd and headed back for Zagora. At 4pm it was 44C degrees. I had to keep my visor down as the hot wind blasted my lips . My jacket was open to catch the breeze and as the sun dipped it became pleasant ride between the rock walls of the ancient river valley.

Accommodation in Zagora was of the European desert hardship variety with a price range to match – but a tout found me a nice room with dinner and breakfast for $35. I changed the oil in my bike and cleaned the air filter.

I also haggled over some desert jewelery for the wife. Some nice desert amber pieces, bracelet of turquoise and amber and some green topaz. The haggling was not intense, very gentlemanly over numerous cups of mint tea. Eventually we settled on half the initial opening price and for around $150 I had numerous brownie points.

The road cut through the mid Atlas range. The bitumen faltered to dusty gravel for about 60km and and my only road companions were shepherds and a few nomads trekking into the mountains. I spent the night in a hotel in Tata and had dinner watching desert Arabs flicking their robes as they walked up and down the main street. This was not the plastic desert , I had experienced further east, but the real McCoy with some hook nosed , hard looking men hanging around the hotel lobby.

The next morning I followed the signs to Sidi Ifini- a coastal town the Spanish only handed back to Morocco some 30 or so years ago. The road followed the ridge between the desert and the mountains, then after climbing the coastal range I caught my first sight of the blue Atlantic, with lines of surf and white sand beaches.

Despite the guide book claims, Sidi Ifini was disappointing. It is home to a large fish canning factory and the much vaunted art deco and Moorish buildings were being displaced by modern holiday developments. I rode down the main street , took a few shallow breaths and decided to keep heading north.

I found an apartment at Mirleft, overlooking the beach and stayed for two days. The wind was hot off the desert , exceeding 40c but the water was a cool 21c .

The surf was small but it was great to just wallow in the waves and snorkel – but the fish life was sparse - particularly if you are used to diving on the Coromandel.

My route took me to Agadir – a town destroyed by an earthquake in 1960. The disaster so overwhelmed the recently independent Morocco that they just bulldozed everything into piles and threw lime over it and rebuilt.

It is a pretty city, hugging the narrow plain between the mountains and the sea. As I drove through at 11 am there was still a sea mist coating it. There were numerous beaches but I headed on for Taghazoute, the reputed surfing capital of Morocco.

Abdullah found me just after I stopped for a mint tea in the town square. He owned a surf shop, mobile phone shop and several other enterprises.

After numerous cups of tea, he made arrangements for me to stay in an apartment with cable TV, balcony, air conditioning , wifi right on the beach for less than $30 a night. He locked up my bike in his spare shop , and also threw in use of a boogie board.

I stayed eight days in Taghazoute, surfing , swimming, reading, drinking tea and just getting to know the fishermen, the waiters and the surfers. At 5 am a dozen or so dories would head out for fishing. Four hours later they were back in with a few calamari, dog fish, bream and skate. The catches were pretty sparse, but they sold quickly in the market.

It was an idyllic routine made pleasant by spending time with Abdullah and his family, trying out the different tagines and breads. I saw one other European , an elderly Hungarian lady whose accent and look reminded me of Ingrid Bergman in the film Casablanca. She had spent more than 50 years here , after fleeing the Hungarian uprising and making a new life for herself in Morocco. She dressed elegantly in that mid European style and held court in the local auberge where I took breakfast. Surrounded by her dogs she puffed away on a long cigarette holder and switched effortlessly between Arabic, French and English as her audience demanded.


It was time to move on as I had to meet the wife and sister in law in Marrakesh. It is strange after 30 plus days of being alone , speaking everything but your native tongue to be thrust back into a domestic routine. We had our three daily meals, I shaved every day and felt myself grow distant from the locals.

Marrakesh with its souks, big central square and easy going population is a gentle introduction to North Africa.. We walked, rode the tourist bus, haggled and bought nothing, ate splendid lamb and beef sofltly cooked in a tagine and enjoyed the hospitality of our hotel. The waiters were obviously fans of Del Boy from Only Fools and Horses as everything was lovely jubbly

Leaving Marrakech, I headed for the Atlantic coast visiting Casablanca, Rabat. It is a wild coast with a mist that hangs around till around 11am, booming surf and the world's largest sardine fishery. The coast road took me to Tangier where I was to catch the Genoa ferry to head to Eastern Europe and Turkey.

If you do have a motorcycling tour bucket list – then put Morocco on it. It is varied, hospitable, inexpensive ( fuel is $1 a litre) . It will enchant and challenge but it will not disappoint.. ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2567-kiwi-in-Morocco https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2562-kiwi Wed, 25 Jul 2012 08:51:46 GMT Al Hoceima to Figuig I wanted sun, peace and little drama on the next stage of my journey. What could go wrong if I took in the old Imperial cities of Taza and Oudja then headed south into the desert town of Figuig. Al Hoceima is having serious money poured into to establish it as the next... Al Hoceima to Figuig

I wanted sun, peace and little drama on the next stage of my journey. What could go wrong if I took in the old Imperial cities of Taza and Oudja then headed south into the desert town of Figuig.

Al Hoceima is having serious money poured into to establish it as the next Mediterranean must go to resort. The road is being dual carriaged, shopping malls being built and perhaps even an Irish theme pub – Paddy Mohammeds.

I took the secondary road toTaza in bright, cold sunshine . It cut through the mountains and over three or four low passes. There was little traffic, only old vans and farmers on their donkeys heading for the local market.

I saw a most incongruous sight on this road. A man in neatly pressed clothes astride a donkey, two paces behind him was a women bowed double under a load of firewood. Her clothes were dowdy – but then it it hard to get the right outfit to transport firewood with. It was like a scene from the middle ages and all the talk I had heard of emancipation was disapated by that scene. I stopped and debated taking a picture but decided it was best left a mental memory

Taza was quiet, laid back. An old fortress town with crumbling fortifications,

The next morning I decided to take the 200km toll road to the border town of Oudja. It was not expensive – about 3 euros for the distance . I stopped halfway at a modern service centre. Like the motorway , it was empty and the staff served me tea with a silver service flourish.

I was getting into the desert proper now. Scrubby plants, vast flat plains and a bit of heat shimmer from the road. I kept the bike at 120kph, just enjoying the lack of traffic , the heat and the dynamics of the road.

At the toll booth, the young fellow saw my New Zealand sticker and said
“Lord of the Rings” . We talked for maybe 15 minutes and he volunteered to ring his friend who had a hotel in Oudja and get me “ special price”

I tend to avoid these arrangements , but he seemed sincere and so I went to the hotel where for Euro10 I was given an excellent room with a balcony and even a bidet. At last a chance to wash my feet.

Oudja was a university city – and a bit of tourist backwater since the border with Algeria closed in 1995,

My dinner that night was enlivened by a group of students discussing, in French, the impact social media was having on the Arab Spring movement. Top of the table was a young woman with charisma to spare. She was a born leader, with flashing black eyes, enthusiasm and a real trick of using her voice to draw her audience in.. Her colleagues, the waiter and myself were hanging on every word. At one stage she caught me watching and mentioned it to her audience. They all swivelled to look at me and I reddened ,

“ Pas de problem – Anglais “ she asked .

Non , Nouvelle Zealand, I replied .

“Ah Lord of the Rings and you beat France in the rugby world cup,”: she said in perfectly accented English.

I would follow this lady to the barricades – well at least until my bedtime.

What a contrast with the firewood lady I saw just a hours previously. Monique I will watch for your name.

The desert road to Figuig is boring , so I just opened the throttle, put on my Ipod and sang away the 400km only stopping for the four police checkpoints. This is still a sensitive military area and they like to keep tabs on subversive superannuatants.

Figuig, is an oasis town with a traveller's past. A stop on the way to Mecca but with the closed border now the end of the line. I pulled into the town square, parked and sat down outside the cafe enjoying the sight of the palm trees, jagged hills and the diversity of the inhabitants.

The ladies of Figuig have a tradition of wearing white robes with only one eye showing. Bit like a Canterbury rugby team supporter.

Ishmael , the owner of the local auberge found me and I ended up staying at his home for two nights. I slept in a room on the roof, got lost in the streets, had meals with his family and got to know more of desert tribe's outlook.

On the second night I was sitting outside my room watching the sun set when four local ladies in traditional garb joined me. They were surprisingly forthright in their approach and asked me all sorts of questions about NZ, my travels, my family and yes Lord of the Rings.

It is quite disconcerting speaking to someone whose only part you can see is one big, beautifully made up eye and a carefully shaped and surprisingly exopressive eyebrow

I asked them about their life and told them the stories in my fractured French about the contrast I saw between the firewood toting lady and Monique , the firebrand.

They looked at each other, then back at me . The oldest of the quartet – at least I think it was the oldest replied.

“ Just because our clothes are traditional , does not mean our ideas are. We Figuig woman have many ways of influencing our men. You know we would never have to carry firewood if there was a donkey about.”

I was sure I saw four eyes twinkling in unison. ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2562-kiwi https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2560-kiwi-in-Morocco Wed, 25 Jul 2012 06:01:39 GMT Figuig to the High Atlas

The desert around Figuig is destined to be the battery of Europe. Plans are well advanced to set up solar and wind farms that in the next 25 years will meet 15 per cent of Europe's power requirements.
Adding to this a huge aquifer under the rocky desert has been discovered and there is the potential to grow biofuels.

As you drive along this desert highway, you see the infrastructure being developed and wonder whether anything, even hardy ethanol producing plants, would survive let alone provide economic growth.

Just as I was mulling this over I crested a rise into the town of Erfoud and spread below in the river valley was a vast sward of green. And because it was so unexpected, the green seemed that much more intense. Palm trees reached over three stories, the dates and oranges were plump and juicy and the temperature seemed to cool 10 degrees. Like those cake recipes – just add water.

The road to Merzouga took me back into the desert, the heat increased and the wind blew sand across the road and I had to keep my visor down. Sand managed to creep inside my riding gear and it was like sitting on sandpaper.

Merzouga is the stepping off point for Erg Chebbi – a 300 metre sand dune that rises out of the flat desert. As I drove along the road I could see the dune changing colour as the sun set lower. It started off as a silver slash, then shifted through the spectrum to end blood red .

The touts found me in the town square. I have had a change of mind about the touts I met in southern Morocco. They are very laid back, not insistent and will leave you alone if you ask. I guess touts are just another form of advertising and when I think of all the the intrusive advertising we put up with in our daily lives back home then these are far more pleasant and informative.

I was found an air conditioned auberge with swimming pool,air conditioning and half board for 10 euros.

My plan was to take a camel ride for two days into the desert. I did not want to go in a large group and for 190 euros I could go with just two others and a guide.

As I was unloading my bike, a bus full of German tourists arrived. You could almost hear the camels groan as the overweight passengers alighted.

Dinner was set for 8pm and I arrived 5 minutes late find only one chair left and the German party ready halfway through the soup course.

“ You are late, sit down, have a wine,” said a florid man next to the only empty chair. Germans, I have found in my travels are usually good fun. If you can tell jokes about sheep and bottoms, do not mention Winston Churchill and can speak about Lord of the Rings then you are quickly accepted.

My florid companion questioned me about my travels. As the meal progressed his supply of wine was steadily decreasing. At 10 pm I decided to turn in . My dinner mate leaned over to me.

“ I want to do what you are doing – but she won't let me” He said nodding towards a large bottle blond Frau at the other end of the table. She looked very formidable and I really did not want to contribute to a domestic .

“ Well , its not that hard. You just buy a bike and go for it. “

“ She would kill me “

As my parting shot I told him “ Look you get one chance at life. If you have a dream and it does not cause great heartbreak you should go for it.”

“ It would cause heartbreak to my wallet, : he said.

“Well you have to work out whether half your savings is worth more than a lost dream.”

With that he looked over at his wife, turned back to me and with a look of complete loathing said:
“ She would want much more than half and she is not worth that. “

My camel trip was delayed due to high winds and then the organiser said he could not get a guide for a small party. So I decided to move on to the High Atlas Mountains.

As I was loading my Gernman mate joined me.

“I did not sleep last night. I have decided to follow my dream .I will tell her when I get home to Dusseldorf. Maybe we will meet on the road.”

I looked at him. His eyes seemed to have a new lustre and did I imagine he had a different step in his stride? Did I just contribute to providing a German divorce lawyer with his kid's private school fees? Probably.

I headed back to Erfoud and followed the N10 and at Tinerhir headed north through the Gorges de Todra for the mountains.

This is one of the bestgmotorbike rides I have ever done Once you cut through the gorge you climb up to nearly 3000m. The road is smooth, well maintained with curves made even for a loaded V strom. I had the bike in fourth gear and was pulling around 3500rpm. The bike lapped up the cool mountain air and I stopped often to take in the views of the moon like mountain landscape and the road snaking below and ahead of me. There was little other traffic on the road and the only bike I saw was a local contentedly smoking as a freewheeled his moped down the hill, feet resting on the small petrol tank.

I was so enamored with the ride that I missed a turnoff that would take me to back to the N10. At 5pm I decided that I should call it quits and find somewhere to stay as the sun was sinking behind the crags and it was getting colder. I found a lovely little inn, had a great meal and spent the night talking to the customers and drinking far too much tea.

With proper directions, a tank full of fuel, I freewheeled back through Gorges du Dades, riding through the Valley of the Roses.

One of the great things about travelling on a bike is that you not only take in the sights but the smells. In the aptly named valley, the perfume of roses hung richly in the air. It is the only place I have ever been where I did not have to stop to smell the roses.
I spent the night in Ouarzazate- a town with a long history on the caravan trail and a lovely place to prepare for a further exploration of the Sahara. I even went for a swim in the 30 metre pool. There is something decadent about swimming some laps on the edge of the desert.

What a couple of days of great riding, from stark , sandy barren desert thorough lush green palm plantations and up snow tipped mountains along with wonderful Moroccan hospitality and food.

And of course , perhaps influencing another German to join the two wheeled nomads. Just don't tell the missus about me! ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2560-kiwi-in-Morocco https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2515-The-border-to-Al-Hoceima Mon, 07 May 2012 18:44:50 GMT Border to Al Hoceima As nothing was open at the border and I really did not want to hang around, I headed for Chefchaouen, about 100km in the Rif Mountains. The single lane road was busy with smoky buses and trucks, potholed, being repaired and waiting for repair. As I climbed, the... Border to Al Hoceima

As nothing was open at the border and I really did not want to hang around, I headed for Chefchaouen, about 100km in the Rif Mountains.

The single lane road was busy with smoky buses and trucks, potholed, being repaired and waiting for repair. As I climbed, the temperature dropped and the wind rose , but after about 90 minutes I had my first glance of the town.

Chefchaouen is the tourist face of the area that supplies around 40% of the world's hashish. Its blue washed houses cling to the Rif mountains and its walled medina is small but perfectly formed. Easy to get lost and easy to find your way out .

I found a hotel by the West gate and was unloading my bike when I was approached by two men – one older and smiling, one younger and scowling.

The older man begin the ritual to establish my language. I continued to unload muttering New Zealand hoping to confuse them

“ You are going to park here,” said the younger man with a touch of growl in his voice.

“ Yes while I unload.”

“ If you stay here you must pay the guardians. We are the guardians. Everyone who stays here must pay the guardians.”

I have been in Morocco about three hours and was having my second shakedown.

“OK no problem, just let me unload.”

I walked into the hotel and asked the lad on reception who spoke passable English “ What is it with these guardians”


He said nothing just looked at the floor, and I turned around to see the young guardian just behind me.

OK, pay the guardian.

“ Hello my name is Peter, “ I said to the guardian. “ What is the cost of your services for two nights and what do I get for the money.?”

“ You get the guardians looking after your bike. It will cost you 50 dirhams”

I hate paying bribes and protection, but as this was the only parking space I paid up.

I spent two nights in Chefchaouen. It rained continuously but I sampled the cuisine, walked the walls, drank mint tea At one of the cafes I met an Australian couple who had bought a home in the medina and spent three months a year there.

They had seen me on my bike and asked about my itinerary. I said my next port of call was Al Hoceima. They looked at each other in horror.

“ You are traveling alone aren't you? “ asked David. “ Well whatever you do don't stop on the road unless you have too. It's , without exaggeration, beyond the law in some of those towns. But on the plus side it is a pretty ride if there is no fog or low cloud.”

I loaded the bike in a light drizzle and another guardian asked me for a further night's guardianship. I had planned to leave after getting some breakfast but as I was reluctant to make a further contribution I left straight away. The decision not to have something to eat especially after only having a light meal the night before would impact on me later that day.

After about 30 minutes of climbing, the weather got worse. The rain and wind increased and the temperature dropped to around 3C. I have never been so cold, even skiing in minus 17C. There was low cloud and I could hardly see. I needed to put more layers on and just as I decided to stop a green Mercedes with tinted windows drew alongside and waved me down.

Heeding David's warning, I upped my speed and looked behind me to see him following. He came right up behind me and honked his horn and flashed his lights. I dare not go any faster, I could hardly see and I had lost all feeling in my hands.

He chased me hooting and yelling out of the window for about 10 km, then as we got near the town of Bab Berret he stopped.

By this time I was frozen. I had to stop and warm up. Even with my heated grips up full I had no feeling in my hands and I was beginning to yawn and feel sleepy, the first signs of hypothermia. I pulled over, got the side stand down and dragged myself of the bike. I was literally shaking all over.

Just then a man came over and asked in English : “ Are you OK.”

“ Yes I am very cold and I need to put more layers on and get something to eat. “ He grabbed me and my tankbag and we walked into a large , smoke filled room full to the gunwales with locals. It was not noisy, only just a slight hum , and even the TV showing Italian soccer was turned right down.

My new friend got me a coffee and took off his lovely sheepskin coat and put it around me. I was shaking so much that I could not lift the coffee and when I cupped my hands around it , I spilled it over them and did not feel it.
After about 10 minutes , I began to feel human again. A coffee, mint tea and a sticky bun had revived me. The combination of cold and lack of food in the last 24 hours had played havoc with my system.

Hassan introduced me to his two friends Ahmed and Hussein. They asked me what I was doing and as the conversation went backwards and forwards, I learned that my saviors were drug dealers selling hashish to Holland and Sweden.

“But the market is not so good now. We have to get some new areas – but it is so competitive. “ His conversation reminded me of that of a marketing manager – new markets, diversification, threats, opportunities.

“ Well what about selling another agricultural product. “ I asked

“In the past 10 years we have had EU advisers here and they told us to grow avocados. They also told that to every village in the valley. It takes five or six years to get the first avocado crop. How do we feed our families during that time? The crop will all ripen together with a short selling time. The only outcome is cheap avocados for the EU, “ said Hassan.

“ We have been growing and manufacturing hashish for generations. We will continue to do so.”

I look around the room. Even though the customers, many of them glassy eyed and smiling at nothing in particular, were dressed in traditional garb, you could see the expensive Swiss watches, designer eyewear and the sheepskin coat that Hassan had draped over me earlier was made in France. Outside were serious four wheel drives. Avocados would never provide that.

The smoke in the room was beginning to get to me. I felt elated and I guess I was getting a high through the second hand smoke. I remember President Bill Clinton when asked if he had smoked marijuana replied: “ I smoked ,but did not inhale.”

Well Mr Clinton, I can truly say I inhaled but did not smoke.

Hassan invited me home, but the rain had stopped, and I had layered up and felt ready to ride again. So I left my new friends , but not before Hassan gave me his phone number, in case I needed help.

I hopped back on and began the descent to the Med. But nature had one more surprise for me. It started to snow. I rode carefully and even stopped to take a picture of the bike against a snow bank. After about 30km , the sun burst out, the road improved and the temperature rose.
David was right, it was a nice ride. In the sun!

I made it to the coastal resort of Al Hocieme just before dark, found a hotel, had a hot , hot shower and had a great stodgy meat meal. I crawled into bed and felt really warm for the first time in what felt like days.

I reflected on my luck meeting Hassan. Here was man whose trade and occupation we can only revile but who showed compassion and aid to traveller in distress.

What judgement do you make? ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2515-The-border-to-Al-Hoceima https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2514-the-Moroccan-border Mon, 07 May 2012 18:42:07 GMT The Border I awoke with the sun and an audience of five stray dogs , I made a brew, packed up and headed for the Moroccan border. Ceuta is a pretty town with duty free petrol and a razor wire fence surrounding it to keep out illegal economic migrants. I was waved through the Spanish... The Border

I awoke with the sun and an audience of five stray dogs , I made a brew, packed up and headed for the Moroccan border. Ceuta is a pretty town with duty free petrol and a razor wire fence surrounding it to keep out illegal economic migrants.

I was waved through the Spanish checkpoint and girded myself for Moroccan authorities. I had read about the touts posing as officials and extracting money to “assist” you to enter Morocco. I planned to do it all myself.

Crossing the 100 metre no man's strip between the two countries was theatre. One minute you are in manicured lawns, order and direction. The next you are hitting a pothole and being yelled at by swarthy men in long robes, three day stubble and instant camaraderie.

“ Hola, bonjour , hello my friend. Let me help you. “

I slowed, then stopped and was immediately surrounded by four men , trying to grab my hand, give me a paper, show me their credentials and asking for my passport.

I dismounted and pulled myself to my full height, flipped up my visor and looked slowly at the four men in turn.

“ Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for greeting me so warmly on my entrance to your beautiful country. I would like to try and enter by myself. and if I get stuck I will come and see you. “ I had rehearsed that speech.

I grabbed my tankbag with all my documentation and headed for passport control.

But before I reached there , my hand was grabbed and I looked to see another tout, his eyes were bloodshot, unsteady on his feet. He thrust a paper at me.

:” Take this , give me passport “ His hand tightened on mine and I just ignored him dragging him along with me. He then came round in front of me and shoved his face into mine. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. He would be as much use getting me through the border process as tits on a bull.

“ Stop . Give me passport,” he slurred. I tried to be polite and shook his hand from me.

“ No thanks , I am good. Please let me pass .” By this time a crowd of touts, officials and other travellers were watching.

He tried again to grab my hand and asked for my passport, but I dodged past him and made it to the booth and handed over my passport .

Then he started to yell and spat on the ground, followed by a string of multi cultural expletives. I ignored him and out of the corner of my eye I saw him take a few steps then fall down on a heap to the ground. He just lay there , not moving. I watched him for about 10 seconds and realised he was not going to get up, so I rushed over to him . I checked his airways. His breathing was laboured but his pulse was reasonably strong. I laid him in the recovery position and opened up his airway and gave him a crack on his back. He let forth a projectile of vomit, luckily missing me. That action seemed to do the trick as he opened his eyes, sat up and gave his head a shake, stood up and staggered away , pushing himself through the crowd.

My actions in going to his aid, galavanised the officials. A police officer grabbed me and walked me over to the passport official and gave him a string of instructions. Myself and my bike were taken to the head of the queque, processed and sent on our way with a welcome to Morocco in less than five minutes. I didn't even have to fill in the forms – it was all done for me.
Who said getting into Morocco was hard!
\\ ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2514-the-Moroccan-border https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2513-bexhill-to-ceuta Mon, 07 May 2012 18:35:53 GMT The plan for the journey to the Spanish enclave of Ceuta on Morocco's coast involved three ferries. The first was from Newhaven to Dieppe, across the turgid and turdy English Channel .
Catching a ferry only 50km into the trip means you can cast aside early along with the mooring ropes your previous routines. You now have to invent, find, refine a whole new set of standards. You have to be more aware, sharper, sometimes cautious and get into a mind set that allows you to accept the vagaries of travel.
I love the anonymity that solo travel brings. You can watch activities without making any judgement and participate without responsibility.
Once on French soil, I had a 450 ride along the top of France to the Atlantic port of Saint Nazaire for the ferry to Gijon. My French journey started in bright clear weather and I quickly got into the groove of driving on the left.

However, just one hour into the ride, it all turned to custard. The wind rose and the trees on the roadside bent with the gusts, the rain sleeted down and the bike was pushed around like a Qantas steward in a rugby scrum. I abandoned riding that day and found a campsite in the walled garden of an old chateau. The storm raised its intensity during the night and although the walls gave me some protection, the noise meant I had to use my earplugs to get some sleep.
The next day I packed up in the rain and gritted myself for an uncomfortable 350km ride. Uncomfortable was an understatement. The wind and rain increased and I was pushed between the white road lines like the cursor in one of those old tennis computor games. I found cowering in the slip stream of a truck and dodging down behind the screen of the V Strom helped but the wind which veered through about 30 degrees, caught the bike broadsides with alarming frequency giving little chance to relax.

I arrived at St Nazaire bedraggled, cold and tired to find the ferry had been cancelled . but I had a priority reservation for the next boat in four days time. The counter clerk told me it was the first time they had cancelled in three years. I considered my options and felt that four days in one place so early in the trip was not appealing. The ferry and flight cancellations had given the hotels a bonus- there was no room at the inn. I had to ride another 40 km to find a campsite , I erected my still wet tent in the high winds, double pegged the lines and crawled into my sleeping bag, made myself a brew and exhausted fell asleep.

The next day, there was no rain although the wind was still high. I packed up and hit the dual carriage way heading through the flat coastal wine growing region of Bordeaux, then Bayonne and across the border into Spain.

The rain and wind picked up as I crossed the Pyrenees, indeed if anything it was the worse of the trip. It was just to risky to continue, so in Burgos I called it a day, found a hotel, stowed my bike in its courtyard, bought a bottle of wine, had a hot shower, toasted the day several times, dried my riding gear and slept for 10 hours.

What a difference a day makes. The next morning was bright, cold with a moderate wind. It was so nice cruising across the plains of Spain at around 120kph, with the bad weather experience behind you. The road was boring, straight and flat. I got in a convoy of Spanish bikers and they made the ride interesting buying me lovely calamari lunch and swapping motorbike war stories.

My friends stopped at Seville, but with only a further 200km to the ferry terminal at Algerciras to go and at least three hours of day light I carried on, refusing their offer of a bed for the night.

I caught the midnight ferry and an hour later I was setting foot for the first time in North Africa. It was warm, dry but everything was closed. No hotels, no restaurants. I found a beach, unrolled my swag, made a brew, had another toast and fell into a deep sleep, the only sound being the waves lapping the shore and the warm wind rustling the tussock grass in the dunes. ]]> plum https://www.kiwibiker.co.nz/forums/entry.php/2513-bexhill-to-ceuta