TravelStream™ news feed for member charlesaclark on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/charlesaclark en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 29 Mar 2008 05:11:07 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1206781380/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1206781380/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1206781380/tpod.html Sat, 29 Mar 2008 05:11:07 -0400 Mwanza to Manchester on a Pikipiki (motorcycle, motorbike, whatever)

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Manchester, United Kingdom

If you're thinking of doing something similar don't be so much of a muppet as I was. Here's a short list of things I learned, mostly the hard way.

Always top up with petrol whenever possible, regardless of whether you think you need to or not. Never rely on your supply.

Preparation and research is everything. You CAN find the information if you really want to. It will mean wading through a lot of garbage and obsolete advice.

Don't scrimp on preparation. Panniers/frames/parts.

Check that all your spares fit/work BEFORE you leave. Check you have the right tools to fit them.

Store them all carefully - oil filters for example. Get a hard tin.

Stop immediately if you hear or feel a problem. A stitch in time saves nine. Don't wait till the next nice bit or even 10km.

Test jerrycans FULL, preferrably on difficult roads.

Don't scrimp on waterproofs. Test them ON the bike - trouser length.

Rubble sacks are great for keeping everything separate and dry.

Cable ties and duct tape are wonderful inventions.

Cloths are light and useful - filters/cleaning etc.

Double the number of bungee cords you think you'll need.

Portable disc drive is great.

Lockability of luggage is a weight off our mind. Think/weigh against accessibility.

Don't believe a mechanic. Don't trust them. Watch them. Don't ever accept their first price.

Ask three times and take the average for directions/distance estimates.

Roads are always good acording to locals.

Police checks and borders are always 'fine'.

Distance estimates over 20km are rarely reliable.

Distance estimates under 10km are rarely reliable.

Bus journeys are a good indicator or actual time needed - including rests, lunch, photos etc. They give a good upper limit.

Learn how to drive through check points. Confidence, speed, hiding, eye contact and the wave. Use any excuse of ambiguity.

Jump when you fall.

Loosen levers on bad roads.

Get good, strong lever protectors.

Put glue etc. in ziplocs in metal tins.

Waterproof cover for everything. Tie it down. It also acts as a security device.

More haste less speed. Don't get distracted. Don't chase the blue skies.

Use your whole lane. Hog it baby!

Find friends.

Don't do it on a 250.

Don't do it on a 15 year old bike.

Don't do it on a Honda in N Africa. Make sure the bike is popular through all the countries you are going to.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1206780900/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1206780900/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1206780900/tpod.html Sat, 29 Mar 2008 05:02:49 -0400 Mwanza to Manchester on a Pikipiki (motorcycle, motorbike, whatever)

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Manchester, United Kingdom

I hired a car, which is much more civilised mode of transport to use at the start of a British winter, and headed up to Leeds, then Scotland, down to Teesside, and back to Manchester in a whistle-stop week of catching up with friends, relative and new arrivals. Then I said goodbye to Charlotte, for what I did not realise would be the last time, and headed back down to London. More catchings-up, a little work even (9 days in 6 months is not half bad), and a month-long trip to Carriacou and Grenada where my wonderful girlfriend was working. I convinced her to come and live with me in London and secured myself another month's contract when I returned. Things were coming together. I'd had a fantastic couple of months and all I needed was a place to live then I'd feel settled. That was when I heard the news.


Stockport Express - 19th December 2007
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Charles in dark over theft of special bike, Alex Scapens
AN ADVENTUROUS charity worker faces Christmas heartbreak after the motorbike he used to drive unscathed through the lawless badlands of Africa was stolen by opportunist thieves when he returned to Stockport.

Charles Clark, 29, used his Honda LX250 to drive almost 5,000 miles home from Tanzania following a two-year teaching stint.

After three months riding through countries containing local militia, armies fighting a civil war and zealous border officials Charles thought his bike would be safe left covered up in his sister Claire Clark´s backyard on Bower Street, Reddish.

But it was stolen some time between Friday, December 14, at 6.30pm and 11am on Sunday December 16th and Charles is unaware of the theft as he out of the country for a reunion with his girlfriend.

Claire is now appealing for the bike, which has enormous sentimental value, to be returned before she makes contact with her brother to give him the news that will ruin his Christmas.

Claire, 30, said: "He will be devastated as he has been through so much with the bike, if I can get it back it will be brilliant.
"It´s ironic Charles went through so many countries on it and it was only when it was in Reddish that it was stolen.

"He bought it for around £200 in Tanzania so whoever took it isn´t going to make much money - it was senseless to steal it. But the bike has massive sentimental value to him."

Charles had spent two years teaching physics in a school in Mwanza, Tanzania, and decided to ride home rather than take a plane.

He travelled through Kenya, Ethiopia, Sudan, Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, Italy, France, often staying in small villages with welcoming locals.

Even when the motorbike disappeared in Kenya, it had been taken by traffic wardens and Charles was able to get it back.

Claire added: "It wouldn´t be the best news to give him before Christmas, I´ve tried calling him but I can´t get through.

"Hopefully by the time I do I can tell him it was stolen but that it has been returned safely."

Charles is currently in Greneda, in the Caribbean. Claire has tried to phone him but has been unable to get through.

A police spokesman confirmed they had received a report about the theft and were making inquiries.
_____________________________________________________________________________________



Quality reporting. "Almost 5,000 miles" cheeky sods! Apparently the quotes are completely ficticous as well! The story was picked up by the Sun too.



The Sun - 20th December 2007
_____________________________________________________________________________________
It really is a jungle out there
A BRIT who rode 5,000 miles through Africa and Europe´s roughest towns had his motorbike stolen - back in Stockport.

Charles Clark, 29, braved civil wars and local militias as he rode home from Tanzania on his Honda LX250.
But it was taken over the weekend from his sister Claire´s back yard in Reddish. And teacher Charles doesn´t yet know - as he is in the Caribbean with his girlfriend.

Claire said: "He´ll be devastated. I tried calling but can´t get through."
_____________________________________________________________________________________


In a way it is better that I was uninsured. I would have felt bad getting cash for Charlotte. Every time I pass a Honda I think of her and how much fun it would be to be zipping around London with her, Tanzanian number plate setting her aside from all the other motorbikes and me being able to feel special once again, rather than just melting into the background of anonymity that is the huge conurbation of London Town.

It is over. People have stopped asking me about it and what it is like to be back. Back to normality. I am very, very, glad I did it.


]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194981780/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194981780/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194981780/tpod.html Sat, 29 Mar 2008 04:55:14 -0400 Mwanza to Manchester on a Pikipiki (motorcycle, motorbike, whatever)

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Manchester, United Kingdom

Finished

Hair: Suspicious that it's for the chop
Beard: Shuffling nervously
Distance Driven: 14,202.7km
Frame of Mind: Ecstatic Tired Empty

Day 98 - Welcome Home
My watch wasn't working properly so I wasn't entirely sure what time it was but I was pretty sure I had plenty of time. The sun wasn't up and it was a short ride to the ferry - only 20km - but it took a surprisingly long time, which meant that I didn't have time to stock up on a rucksackful of red wine as is traditional for Brits returning home from the continent. I did have time to spend the last of my Euros on a pain au chocolat and a cappuccino. Nothing special. I know that I'm only in a ferry terminal so shouldn't expect wonders but it struck me as funny that I could get frothy coffee and pastries in every country that I went through. I could email without hassle. It is interesting to see it...globalisation. It's not so insidious, destructive, corrupting or all-American as many people make it out to be. Places adopt things from other cultures and countries. Often it is McDonalds, inevitably Coke but coffee, weak fizzy beer, olive oil, tobacco, sheesha, falael, hummous, Guinness, ice cream etc. etc. etc. It is a two-way process and generally the things that work stick.

I got to jump to the front of the ferry queue as I was a pikipiki. There was a French motorcyclist who was returning to Leeds uni on his bike. He'd come from the interior of France that morning and would continue to Leeds that afternoon. Must be a good 600 miles. It was nothing for him. Why does 300km seem so much to me?! It's all what you're used to I suppose. He was also wearing what I would consider as practically nothing (says I sounding like the Victorian great grandmother I am), having only a small leather jacket on top of a T-shirt. He claimed it was so well made that even at speed he was toasty. The wonders of properly designed stash, I must get me some of that before I finish this trip.

My bike was tied up and cushioned with large rugby tackle pads and looked happy as Larry, dwarfed inside the empty cavernous hull of the ferry. The odo said 29512.2km. She's done tremendously well and I was pleased as punch with her. I was taking her home - my home, not hers. This would be the first time she'd driven on the right for a good 10,000km (nearly a third of her life) and the first time she'd set wheels on British soil. I could sense that she was as excited as I was.

I dumped my bag and headed up to watch the sun rise on the top deck of the ferry and felt a tremendous sense of contentment and anticipation as the ferry pulled away into the dark grey channel, heading towards familiarity.

I actually can't really remember the ferry trip. I don't know what I did or how I spent the five or so hours before arriving in Portsmouth but I do remember realising that we were close and heading up on deck as Portsmouth's Spinnaker Tower came into view. I didn't recognise it, I'd never seen it before bit it undoubtedly meant one thing: home.

Charlotte was clearly a bit choked up too as she refused to start for a little. We rolled out and over to passport control where I interrupted a sullen woman who gave a cursory glance over my passport before continuing to her much more important job of reading The Mirror. Yup, I was home alright! No customs checks, which was good in a way, as I wasn't 100% sure that it was ok to import Charlotte but what it did make me completely forget was insurance. My insurance was valid for Tunisia but did not cover France or the UK. I had completely forgotten about it and indeed did forget about it till just over two months after I arrived in the UK. It turned out to be quite a pity that I did forget.

So I had made it. Back home. It all looked and smelt so familiar. I was on the motorway heading towards Southampton within 2 minutes of leaving the ferry and was happy, unbelievably happy. Despite the unease I felt at being on a motorway, on the left, in so an exposed position I may have even shed a tear.

What did I notice about Britain, apart from everything? I drank in the familiar surroundings, the number plates, the white vans, the lorries, and motorway bridges, and verges, and signs. All so familiar, welcoming, comfortable. I knew how EVERYTHING worked - what to do, how to do it, where to go, when, why, everything. You just don't realise how much you know about your own country. I had never really felt homesick when I was in Tanzania or on my travels but now I realised how much I missed my home.

What really struck me were two things. Firstly the mile is much bigger than the kilometre. It takes a lot longer to drive a mile than a kilometre - around 1.609 times longer, but this is an eternity when estimating times in km is second nature. The second thing I noticed softened the impact of the first: Britain is so very small. All the places are so close together. Way closer than France. Only a few minutes after leaving Portsmouth and I was passing Southampton; a brief reverie later and I was up to Basingstoke; no time at all went by and I was pootering past Newbury and then before I knew it I was taking my picture next to the `Welcome to Oxford´ sign near the park and ride. 150km. I'm sure I would have previously considered a journey to the seaside from Reading, let alone Oxford, a tedious and arduous journey, one well worth bringing a duvet in the car with me.

Oxford was where I was staying the night with some friends but I was very early so I visited my old college, Christ Church, and read the paper in the JCR (Junior Common Room), the room where I had wasted many a happy hour watching both episodes of Neighbours when I should have been consolidating that respectable 2-1. I felt out of place. So I went to the pub instead. English lager. Well, German actually. That was nice enough but the elation I had felt on the ride up had evaporated. It was a cold, dark night and I had a lot of unknowns in front of me, none of them exciting new countries or challenging drives. These were grown up things like a house to live in and a job to get. Despite being in one of the places I knew best and used to feel most at home, I felt very alone.

However when I got to Tom and Rhian's and they welcomed me in with a nice cup of tea I felt much better. Rhian confirmed in her gorgeous Welsh lilt that I did indeed look like a monster. There was only one thing for it: fish and chips. We couldn't manage the deep fried mars bar. Charlotte's clutch cable had broken once more but I cared not. I had a short trip up the country the following day and then it would all be over.


Day 99 - Last Stockport of Call
I was 50% on the way to yelling something offensive to the idiot car that had pulled out in front of me as I turned out of Tom's cark park but stopped myself and sheepishly steered onto the left hand side of the road instead. The clutch cable was replaced once again and I was off on the last leg of my journey. I contemplated going cross country, to make the most of it and see some things, do some real fun driving but to be perfectly honest I just wanted to get there.

The bookies had stopped taking bets a long time ago as the outcome was inevitable: as I was passing Birmingham it started to rain. Miserable, British drizzly rain that permeates cheap waterproofs infuriatingly well despite being so lacklustre. I stopped to dry off and warm up at the Hilton services and ended up signing up for a credit card from a desperate but attractive woman from a company that will remain unnamed (I was later refused - welcome home bad credit boy - but I hope she still got her commission).

A hop up the M6, confusion with the M62 or M60 or whatever it is, 29944.8km on the odometer, 14,202.7km since I'd left Mwanza, the Fir Tree pub in Reddish to wait for my sister. Mwanza to Manchester on a Pikipiki: I'd done it.

As I am writing this I feel slightly empty inside: not heartbreak, not anxiety, nor regret none of these and a bit of each at the same time. A chapter of my life was certainly at an end. I'd spent nearly two and a half years away from home in a fantastic, frustrating, enormous, bewildering, amazing continent. I'd met wonderful people and wankers. I'd made friends I'd never forget and never lose touch with. Had experiences I'd remember always. But, it was all officially over.

Sadly I didn't pass any signs welcoming me to Manchester so don't have a suitable finish picture. Nothing really to remember those last few hours with Charlotte. Claire was, of course, late, but the pub didn't mind serving me tea and the grumpy old codger near me didn't complain out loud at me drying my clothes on the seats. He did have a point, you're not allowed to smoke in the pubs now so you could smell my wet-dog clothes from quite a way away. Not everything is the same.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194802740/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194802740/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194802740/tpod.html Wed, 14 Nov 2007 08:47:39 -0500 Mwanza to Manchester on a Pikipiki (motorcycle, motorbike, whatever)

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Caen, France

Hair: Motorcyle Helmet Perfect
Beard: Chabal
Distance Driven: 13.743,7km
Frame of Mind: Pot Pourri

Yup, I'm almost done. Made it across France without too much drama and am booked on the 9am ferry to Portsmouth tomorrow. How very strange. I'll stop off in Oxford for a night then head up to Manchester for the end of my journey. So it should all come to a close on day 99 or day 100. Either way it's a nice number. 80 is so overrated.

I traverseed France in 3 days that turned out to be exactly evenly spread 380km, 380km, 380km. I was cold for approximately 1000km of that. I do not recommend France on a motorbike in November. In fact I think I was quite fortunate not to be rained on. It just started to spit as I came into Caen. If it's bad being cold it can only be worse to be wet and cold. Of course some might say that the cleverly planned route was the deciding factor. No...blind luck...which I'd imagine will run out as soon as I get to the UK.

Before I left Marseille I went on a couple of runs. I'm well out of shape and if I want to do this sub-3hr marathon before I'm 30 then there's only a few left to choose from! I hate being shouted at whilst running. And as I passed a local secondary school just as the students were being released I expected some cheeky little oik to give me some stick. I expected "Run Forrest, run" or the like (normal unimaginative stuff) but as I was wearing a bandana and was bearded up to the nines I got "Allez Chabal!" intead. What mixed feelings...I've never been more insulted in my life...I was also very chuffed at the comparison.














or is it the other way round?

I'd wager I have better table manners.

Leaving Marseille I was feeling good to be on the road again and was looking forward to the trip across France. I had a sneaking suspicion that I was going to have trouble with my chain again, as I am convinced that worn sprockets were not the root cause of the problem, as the experts in Honda claimed. But everything was behaving itself nicely and aside from a strong wind blowing in off the sea it was a pleasant journey down the coast in the direction of Monpellier. That was till I got to Arles.

But it wasn't the chain that made me grind to a halt a few kilometres outside Arles, on the way to Nimes, it was something much more frightening. The engine cut out. I looked down and knew something was wrong but couldn't figure out what it was. The back tyre was very black. What was going on? Then I twigged: the blackness on the wheel was oil. I looked under the bike and to my horror I saw that the oil plug had fallen out, quickly emptying the engine of all oil. That's it. It really is game over now. I had just bought a new oil plug from the man in Marseille. He had sold me a strange looking washer with it too. I had queried it but he insisted that it was right. It didn't feel right when I fitted it whilst changing my oil before leaving Marseille. But he was the expert. I believe experts. Actually I believe anything anyone in a garage says because I suffer from the 'housewives and mechanics' syndrome that causes more money than the US national debt to be pumped into garages round the world each year.

I do know that an engine with no oil is a very unhappy engine and I could only think that the engine had cut out because it was completely seized. No way out of that little predicament if it had indeed happened. The only thing I could do was buy a couple more litres of oil, refill the engine and pray that not too much damage had been done. The nearest oil was 3km down the road and my bearded unwashed self was not very successful at hitching the distance. Well I wouldn't give me a ride. Would you?

I don't know whether Honda have some clever cut-out-oil-pressure-switch thingy or I was just lucky but when I refilled her she started up and I couldn't even hear any difference in the engine. I'm now convinced that at high revs she is underperforming but that could just be me. A lucky escape. And another couple of lessons learned: trust your instincts and never throw away any used parts - I had to put back the old plug. I had no idea how many km the old one was down the road.

I had a goat's cheese panini in Nimes, skirted the Roman town, and bought no jeans then I headed inland. As I did so the wind dropped but so did the temperature. The next section took me through a beautiful high-sided valley with some stunning views and scary roads. I stopped in the village of Florac for a much needed coffee and a warm up. I also bought some gloves from an outdoor shop to act as inners for my riding gloves. I was wearing 75% of my clothes. I changed into 95%: 3 t-shirts, a rugby top, a dress shirt, 2 trousers, 2 sets gloves, bandana, fleece and full waterproofs. Only my jeans and my Arab dress thing were unworn. I was still cold but it was gorgeously sunny and crystal clear day.

Heading past Mende and onto Rodez took me till dark and I stopped at the youth hostel for a ridiculously long shower and a massive feed. It was a very enjoyable day though I was battered from the long driving and constant shivering, which quite strangely seems to have bruised my muscles. I guess you're not meant to sit hunched and shivering uncontrollably for six hours at a time. Funny that.

The next day I was more prepared but just as cold. The hint for what was coming was when I looked out of the window at 7am and all the cars had frost on their windows. Gulp. I set out too early and was met with freezing fog but this only improved the beauty of the drive. The mountains had lowered and I was driving up to Brive through a lovely river valley shrouded in mist. Every village I passed through was a picture postcard. Chocolate box France through and though. Again I was forced to stop more often than I'd planned in order to warm up. I'm not sure my dentist will forgive me. It's a two pronged attack: firstly I'm drinking buckets of hot sweet coffee and secondly my teeth are permanently gritted against the weather and are being worn down like a horses!

Past Brive (where I tried and failed to find...well...anything really) the countryside flattened even more and I was into rolling farmland with those associated smells...some wonderful, others not so. I wonder why Africa doesn't smell that way. I'm sure they use manure...perhaps it's too hot or dry to really spread the good word round the town? Limoges rolled by, this time on the motorway, and I stopped in Poitiers for the night.

Poitiers is, by it's own guide book's admission 'undergoing regeneration'. This means it is a shit hole in the middle of a building site. It smacks of Reading, down to its soulless city centre, depressing university area, and desperate straw-grasps at points of interest for tourists. Equally though it seems to me like a place that would become great if you really knew it well. I didn't have time. I was only slightly disappointed at missing the 'Futurama'. No idea, but it sounds cool. I left before breakfast.

The last day was less picturesque as I used more motorway and the land was flat, dull, agribusiness farmland very much like any other in Europe. Tours drifted by, then Le Mans, then Alencon. I was making great time and was it numbness or did it actually feel a it warmer? I got cracked onto by a mad octogenarian Scots lady in a service station near Le Mans. She told me I was much better looking than her husband, that I shouldn't eat sweets to preserve my teeth and that she wasn't much of a looker (even in her day) but at least she hadn't lost her pep. I didn't test it. Her husband looked on in amusement. Or he may have had no idea where he was.

Toll roads are expensive in France. My goodness! They work out at about 7 eurocents per km! Petrol only costs 4! No wonder the workshy French are always on strike. I'll have a word with Sarkozy. He seems a soft touch.

I got to leave the motorways for the last 100km towards Caen. Truly lovely autumnal Normandy countryside dotted with impressive houses and innumerable stables against a backdrop of reds and oranges being blown around like, well, leaves. A nice goodbye to France. It was Armistice Day and my mind drifted to the beaches not too far from where I was driving. The area has many many war cemeteries and memorials to the unimaginable numbers of men who died in these now peaceful, windswept fields.

Caen is fogettable. Even more so on Sunday. A religious lot these French. The churches didn't seem that full though. All else is shut. Including most of the hotels. "But ze rezidents ave ze keys" I was told by one chap when I complained that none of the hotel receptions were open. Yes, that's fine unless you, like me, want to become a resident on Sunday!

I am very excited at the thought that this time tomorrow I will finally be home. Have discovered a truly marvellous proof of Goldbach's Conjecture but there is no room for it in this post. Details on my return.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194895560/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194895560/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194895560/tpod.html Tue, 13 Nov 2007 14:31:02 -0500 Mwanza to Manchester on a Pikipiki (motorcycle, motorbike, whatever)

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Oxford, United Kingdom

Tom and Rhian
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194361620/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194361620/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194361620/tpod.html Sat, 10 Nov 2007 11:27:07 -0500 Mwanza to Manchester on a Pikipiki (motorcycle, motorbike, whatever)

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Marseille, France

Hair: The French Call it Bouffant And It Is Chic
Beard: Allowing Me Plenty of Breathing Space On Public Transport
Distance Driven: 12,550km
Frame of Mind: Dazed

The ferry trip was actually very pleasant. I don't know why I was expecting a battered old rust bucket but it was a giant posh one with a cinema (had to watch Shark Tale in French but didn't make it through The Pursuit of Happyness - there is onyl so much French Will Smith a boy can cope with.), a posh restuarant (idiots, they had an all you can eat cheese board) and a disotheque (cheesy-listening and europop). I got a remarkably good night's sleep on the floor of the lounge with my broken-zipped sleeping bag despite the hackings and spittings of my less-economially-endowed lounge mates (I had decided that after 500USD for the ticket I wasn't forking out another 100 for a cabin). I'll miss them all.

I had decided to go to Marseille as it is big and I'd be able to get parts easily for Charlotte. It unfortunately meant missing all of Italy, Monaco, Nice and Cannes. Next time gadget. Next time.












So a little after 11am, some 20h hours after we left Africa, I rolled off the ramp in Marseille, France. The customs and immigration were remarkably quick. Ridiculously quick some might say. They comprised the customs/immigration guy asking:


"Vous etes Francais?"

Me replying:

"Non, je suis Anglais"

and him waving me through. No passport was checked, no carte gris or carte jaune or carnet de passage or insurance or driving licence or anything! Potential terrorists please disregard what you have just read.

"Bienvenue en France!"

Stop complaining Clark.

Marseille is beautuiful. A fantastic place: posh, pretty, sunny, clean, organised, lots of delicious smells, cafe filled cafes, seafood restaurants, and lots of French women trotting about with their short hair and chic pouts...that sexy look of indescribable Frenchness.

With Charlotte behaving very badly and feeling very sorry for herself I needed to find some parts. I was directed towards a road I like to call 'rue de motor heaven', as it is a full kilometre of motorbike parts shops. Including an official Honda shop! If I couldn't get what I wanted here I couldn't get it anywhere.

Except perhaps Belgium. Which is where all the parts I needed were. In fact not all the parts, as apparently Honda stopped selling 250cc bikes years ago in Europe. The guy at the shop seemed very African in attitude towards fixing the problem. Replace the chain and sprockets and eveything will be ok. But what about the buckled wheel, don't you think that could be a problem? Will you take a closer look? Nope, just replace the parts. Be reet.

The other thing is he tried to convince me that all the parts were so specialised that they had to be ordered from Belgium and no other model's parts would suffice. The sprockets I agree, the chain I'm a bit dubious, but the lightbulb for the indicator!? So 400 Euros and a two day wait to see if he's right.

In the mean time I've had my helmet stolen. Nice one Clark. So I buy another one. Another 120 Euros that is pretty unecessary. And it's a less-than-hard-man scooter one. The full face I'm-the-man ones were 250plus. I'm willing to sacrifice my masculinity for money.

I have also decided that my French isn't as hot as I thought it was. In Tunisia I could understand 90% of what I heard. I knew there was something wrong. It turns out that Tunisians speak French very slowly, with a very small vocabulary and basic grammar. They may have learned it from Tricolore too, as their favourite band is Vox Populi and they know a ludicrous amount about La Rochelle.

It is also very cold. And this is the hottest part of France. I went for a run yesterday and my little fingers were nearly frozen off. But the air is crisp and dry and very exciting. I'm not sure why it's exciting, perhaps I recognise it as the build up to christmas or the promise of sledging on War Hill (Lower Earley, Reading). Although I'm not sure I still find those things exciting I guess the weather change still promotes the same feelings. Ding ding...why am I salivating now?

Whatever the temperature I'll just have to suffer it. It's going to be a lot worse at speed on my pikipiki. I'll just put on all the clothes I own and brave it. I'm not going the most direct route, as that means going through mountains, which I assume will be a lot colder, and into areas that on the weather map seem to have permanent black clouds. Instead I am skirting along the Med coast and then up north where I hope to avoid most of the rain and the worst of the November chill.

I've decided not to bother with any tourist stuff and instead just to enjoy the drive home as much as possible. So I'm taking the backroads, the scenic routes on the Michelin map and stopping where I feel like. I've not got much choice actually...I've got a road map and no guide book. Hopefully this will bring me in contact with lots of country grandmere housewives with steaming bowls of soup, pate de campagne and pain rustique. Not to mention lashings of custard. Calm it Enid.

The food is better than in Britain. Hands down. Have to admit it. No wonder the Frenchies are so snotty about it. It's not so much the top end stuff, it's the basic eateries. They all CARE about how their food tastes. The quality of the produce is high and it's fresh and a little bit of love and thought goes into the recipes and the preparation. A simple cheese sandwich is transformed.

In fact, although I'll have to keep up the pretence of dislike for the cheese-eating-surrender-monkeys, I do love this country. The food, the lifestyle, the attitude. Everything. They even seem to have reduced the amount of dog poo since I was last here, which is nice. There are still some xenophobic, miserable, sulky, bulldog-faced wankers (ran into one last night who was a complete arse, but I won't go into that whilst I'm waxing lyrical) but aren't there everywhere. Well done France. Feather in your tricorn. Another happy customer.

I'm still only going to stay here for another two days though.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194711660/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194711660/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194711660/tpod.html Sat, 10 Nov 2007 11:21:58 -0500 Mwanza to Manchester on a Pikipiki (motorcycle, motorbike, whatever)

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Poitiers, France

Cold. Auberge looks shitty.
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Rodez, France

Nice hostel. Lots of hot water!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194109680/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194109680/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194109680/tpod.html Tue, 06 Nov 2007 10:12:23 -0500 Mwanza to Manchester on a Pikipiki (motorcycle, motorbike, whatever)

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Tunis, Tunisia

Hair: Rendering It Unecessary To Buy A New Helmet
Beard: Able to Reach My Mouth
Distance Driven: 12,526.9km
Frame of Mind: Complex

Got up nice and early. My watch is playing silly beggars, it goes from 8:59 to 1:00 so I'm never quite sure what time it is. My departure was delayed due to rain for the first time in many weeks. Upon departure I found out that driving in the rain in Tunisia is every bit as wet and cold as it was in Ethiopia. By the time I reached Tunism some 160km later, I was completely dry. Apart from everything I owned. I had cleverly managed to navigate a course that kept me under a thin corridor of dark cloud for the entire jpourney, despite having clear bright blue skies tantalisingly close on both my left and right sides. C'est la vie.

I found the town centre remarkably easily mainly due to the large signs saying "centre ville". I found the youth hostel (youth...chuckle!) reasonably easily despite the map not actually indicting that 95% of the roads in the medina are not open to traffic. A bit hit and miss but I got there in the end. It is a veyr nice place actually. A big courtyard decorated with attarctive tiles in Tunisian style and sporting lots of antique-y sheeshas etc.

Tunis is a very cool city. I like it. I checked into the hostel, had a shower and a change of clothes, wandered through the chaotic medina souks and sat down in a sundrenched square next to the medina's main gate to have an espresso. I was going through that nice phase of coldness where you've not quite warmed up but the cold in your fingers and toes has ceased to be uncomfortable. You just have the satisfying and comfortable knowledge that soon you'll be toasty again.

Then it hit me: this is it, the end of the road. I'm finished with Africa and in the next couple of days I'll be leaving her. 12,500km through 7 countries (12 African countries visited in total during my stay) has come to a close. The journey isn't over but the adventure, the challenge, the new experiences certainly are.

I have decidedly mixed emotions about the whole thing. On one hand I feel relief, triumph even elation would only be slightly too strong. But then there's sadness at leaving this amazing continent; anxiety at returning to the familiar and having no definite plans; and the realisation that I may have to grow up again. Then perhaps some disappointment? That I didn't do more? Go to more places? Regret that I followed the LP too much? Didn't meet enough people? Spent too much money? Didn't rough it enough? However in each country I've visted I have ample reason to return. And to each country, despite the problems or hassles I may have had, I do want to return. I think this says it all about my trip.

Tunis is great. I'm going to love it here. That's what I wrote in my diary and it was true even though less than 24hrs after arriving I'd be on a ferry to France. It just so happened that there was one on the Sunday and I didn't fancy waiting till the following Friday for the next one. I only had enough time to wander round the town, be refused entry to a cinema for not having enough friends, eat the best octopus I've ever eaten (so tender it was almost like chicken breast) as well as a superb chocolate mousse, and sample a bottle of Tunisia excellent red wine (very new world, strong, fruity and perfect for you Dad). I'll certainly be back here in Tunisia at some point...there are plenty more Starwars sights to see!

By 2:30 on the 90th day of my travels I had left Tunis, Tunisia and Africa behind me.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194025140/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194025140/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/charlesaclark/pikipiki2007/1194025140/tpod.html Fri, 02 Nov 2007 15:11:34 -0400 Mwanza to Manchester on a Pikipiki (motorcycle, motorbike, whatever)

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Kairouan, Tunisia

Distance Travelled: 12,300km
Frame of Mind: Disheartened


Oh to cut a long story short I had a mare. My chain broke again. The front sprocket has two snapped teeth and the rear is bent, as is my rear wheel. Feel like a bit of a boo. So close to home too. Limped from Matmata to Gabes, got a new chain (a sticking plaster to cover a stabwound) and then made it to Kairouan, 200km from Tunis. Perhaps will get the parts in Tunis but might just hop on a ferry and get back to Europe. I want to be home now.



I did see chilli-ville. Just outside Kairouan. More chillis than a penguin popsicle party. Literally covering all the houses of just this one town, Enough to make the ol' ring burn just thinking about it.

I've only been in Tunisia three days and I like it but I'm going to get on a boat. There's one leaving for an unpronounceable Italian place on Saturday (tomorrow) or one on Sunday to Genoa. I think this is the one I'll get. Then I'll have a chance to see a little of the capital and Carthage too perhaps.

Tomorrow is another day Clark....
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