On the 6th of April 2005, cousins Jamie Mackenzie and Ben Wylson set off on their bikes on a journey which will take them to over 50 countries and to every one of the worlds great continents, all without the use of an aeroplane.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007: Home
It seemed like we'd been biking for ages. We had been biking for ages. The port of Dunkirk was nowhere near Dunkirk itself. Somewhere within the bowels of our minds we did remember it being a bit of a way away as it was from Dunkirk that we first rode into France almost three years ago. However, given that our brains often have trouble retaining information on what happened yesterday there was little hope that they might save us from the stressful ride which lay ahead of us.
As the morning tootle to the port at Dunkirk passed the point of being drawn out, it entered a new phase of if-we-don't-get-to-the-port-soon-we're-not-going-to-make-the-Dover-ferry. The family would be mortified if we missed the boat as they were all turning out at the port especially to meet us. What a bad start it would have made to a new beginning in that world of deadlines and appointments, a world we once knew rather uncomfortably well, one we would have to readjust to from that day forth.
If we missed the boat we would be left feeling angry and hot and bothered. We were already experiencing the latter as we asked each other frequently: "Where is the port?!" In no time this question had been exchanged for profuse sweating and countless strings of swear words. The signs for the port had been directing us through an industrial estate about 10 miles from the town, until they had abruptly left us in the lurch by informing us that the 'rue' was closed. They failed to provide a diversion so we - using our impeccable logic and some instinct - managed to get ourselves within sight of the ferry by following the coast south. We rode the last couple of miles of FWE way above the industrial estate's speed limit and only just made it onto the boat.
The port officials gave us our first taste of the Queen's English and not long after strapping the bikes to a metal bar below, we were eating a real English Breakfast. It tasted good but the price in pounds seemed so extortionate that we retained the layer of sweat we'd built up on our manic rush for the boat for most of the 5-hour voyage across the English Channel.
It was at about the midway point that reality began to hit: we were going home... and it did not sit too well. We were uncomfortable, irritable and a miserable dread took hold of us. I guess this was our moment of resistance to the termination of a way of life we had come to know so well. We had gone without mod-cons for such a long time, from mobile phones to the option of wearing a different-coloured jumper. We were quite sure that this day marked the end of the steady direction and simplicity of being on the road.
Our odd sentiments continued to plague us until the moment came for us to wheel our bikes off the ferry towards the family whom we love so much, those who have stuck by us throughout this crazy journey from day one, those who have worried about us at every revolution of the pedals. Even our ancient granny who had had a stroke while we were away would be there. Apparently she has said a prayer asking for our safe return every night for the entire time we have been away.
As we slowly pedalled towards the white cliffs, our worries dissipated; we heard calls of joy coming from a throng of Mackenzies and Wylsons who had gathered by the arrivals gate. We managed to read the words "Welcome back Jamie and Ben" painted onto a big white banner, and when the first set of arms were thrown about us, we knew we were home.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007: Yes we are back in England!!!
To all FWE followers,
1. We did arrive safely on English shores! Thank you for all your mails of concern. It seems many of you thought we had decided to stay in France for good...
2. We are sorry for the lack of updates. Our excuse: We took a month off; thought we deserved it.
3. The book and the film are under way....
4. Never fear, we will write up the account of our return and post it soon.
Watch this bit of screen. Things could get very interesting....
Love,
Jamie and Ben
Monday, October 29, 2007: Strike
'The bloody French are on strike again' we were told by a family of Geordies at the train station; a father and two teenage sons. They had been holidaying in Malaga when the younger and skinnier of the two kids had got up in the night having had a few beers, sleep-walked on to the balcony of the apartment, thought he was in a hurdle race, vaulted the low railing and fell a full 5 storeys to the ground below. The next thing he knew he was in hospital and in pain having broken just about everything there is to break in the human body. They were now desperately trying to get back to Newcastle with a son in a wheel chair on a non-existent French public transport system. All rail, bus and metro services were affected and through the great glass entrance doors that led to the platform area we could see a lifeless TGV train. Ah the French...how strange that an entire nation can be compared to a jar of malt extract. It all seemed somewhat symptomatic of our luck over the past few days. Everything we'd turned our attention to since leaving Anna Pretty's house in La Coruna had a hidden clause, a stumbling block waiting in the shadows to trip us up, a certain annoyance attached to it. Staying at Anna's house had been a relaxing time, a time to gather our thoughts and contemplate the next few days...the final few days.
In the evenings we ate Tapas in smoke-filled restaurants, drank beers, wine and coffee in the sun, then walked back to the flat in the old city along the cobbled streets, full with tiredness and ready for sleep. Since our days aboard ship, sleep had all but deserted us. At sea, tiredness, although it would always come eventually, liked to come along at an inconvenient moment which required you to push it aside, and after that it seemed never to stay long enough to take you away. Night times were spent staring at the ceiling, thinking, thinking, thinking. The mind was wired and charged, it would be bolt upright in your head knocking out thoughts, stirring anxiety and creating riddles of phantom emotion that simply had no answer, no remedy. Eyes became sunken and hollow while the body was plagued with lethargy.
Our days in Deportivo La Coruna provided a chance to change the cycle. For three days straight at Anna's flat we caught up with the lost hours. Sleeping in until past midday, eating salami, cheese and chunks of bread then sleeping some more...just because we could. The bus from La Coruna took over 12 hours to work its way east over the top of Spain to the French border town of Irun. We slept all the way then cycled to the train station.
Now, however, we were utterly stuck. We spread a map of France on a bench and ran a finger over our intended route north. By the end of the day we somehow had to get from this nowhere town on the Spanish border to Dunkirk, a town just about on the Belgium border. It was nearly a thousand kilometres away and already it was fast approaching mid-morning.
A squat middle-aged woman who was dressed in a black head scarf was looking frantic. She wore dirty clothes and had eye brows which met in the middle. It turned out she was from a Baltic country and didn't speak any English. Her nightmare of getting to Paris was compounded further by her autistic daughter who was becoming more and more anxious with every passing moment. Another woman, a plump French lady, strode into the train station and immediately began shouting at the one man who was on duty; a volunteer who had come along to direct, advise and help people in any way he could. His information was limited of course, yet most who understood him were grateful for the slivers of insight that he was able to provide, but for this lady...who walked straight up to him and unleashed a barrage of abuse in an almost hysterical manner. Our French is only marginally better than our appalling Spanish, so the content of the rant was lost, but the tone of it certainly wasn't...and neither were the well-aimed gobs of green spit she was launching at his face. The raised voices and tension were too much for the young autistic girl who reacted loudly to the erratic noises and chaos, sending her mother into an even deeper frenzy. It was a surreal and helpless scene that lasted for five minutes before the police arrived to calm everyone down and cart away the plump lady.
We had one option remaining and that was to hire a car from the Biarritz airport. Ideally we would have liked to have taken everyone with us, helped them all out if we could but the last, very last car the rental company had was a fairly small vehicle and it was all we could do to fit in the two bikes and a young American couple who needed to get to Paris.
We drove for nearly 9 hours almost without rest. The countryside became greener and greener and altogether more English looking the further north we went...there was even a chill in the air. The longer the day went on and the closer we got to Dunkirk, the quieter we became as a sort of recognition and realisation began to sink in with ominous weight. Through the centre of Paris we went, dropping Katie & Dan off at the door of their hotel and continuing on, straight out the other side. The first sign for Dunkirk loomed in the head lights; 250 kilometres still to go and it was now past midnight. The roads were quiet, the stereo only picked up a French fuzz and so the only sound in the car was the annoying clatter of a leaf that had got its self stuck in the air vents. I can't remember what time it was when we finally arrived in Dunkirk. Tired and unsettled by the emotion of the day, we found a dark car park by the water's edge, down near the back of the university, turned the engine off and slept upright in the car for the remainder of the night.
The following day, having collected our thoughts and aimlessly walked the streets, we set our alarms for 5am and on Saturday morning crept quietly out of the hotel room and into the dark of Dunkirk. The ferry was due to leave at 8am so we had plenty of time. The previous evening we'd found time to set up at a bar and have a few beers. They were all of local import, just across the border in Belgium and with a reminiscing chat had washed away the entrenched anxiety that had been building over the past few days. That morning, though, as we pedalled the final few miles of Free Wheels East and with our heads now fuelled with a hangover, we felt utterly spun around and bewildered with everything that was, and soon would be, taking place.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007: The Final Count Down
It was on the 17th September that the Frederiksborg pushed off from a privately-owned port in Houston and began a 22-day voyage via Jacksonville and Baltimore to Casablanca.
Preparations were hampered by delays and stow-aways. Several desperate men had jumped aboard in the Dominican Republic and successfully hidden themselves for nearly three weeks amidst bundles of ropes, before finally being caught out in Texas and throwing the trans-Atlantic operation under the weight of yet more paper work and protocol.
The kindness of Chris, our friend within the ranks of Nordana USA, was extended beyond just passes to board the vessel and went on to encompass an evening, prior to departure, of sumptuous food, beers, whiskey, double-barrelled shot-guns and a night time session with an AR15 assault rifle. It was as surreal and fun as it sounds.
We arrived in Casablanca with the customary bouts of cabin fever and nervous anticipation of the road ahead. After the securing lines were cast down, we saluted our Captain and his humble crew, waved a fond farewell and rode the bikes onto African soil. Continent seven had been achieved and with it came the completion of our challenge. All we had to do now was get back to England.
Today we are in northern Spain, tomorrow we'll be in France and the day after that in England...two years and seven months on from when we departed. For now we're focusing firmly on getting home in one piece...recent events, including our Atlantic crossing, the ride through Africa and the final leg through Europe will be revisited and detailed upon our return, but for now our minds seem preoccupied with a few other pressing matters.
These are magic days and yet, although the ride is coming to a close, perhaps the toughest challenge of all still remains.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007: M/V Frederiksborg
'M/V Frederiksborg' is the name of the steel cork which will float us across the Atlantic Ocean. Heavy lifts, break bulk cargo, project cargo, containers, yachts, planes, houses...the list of oddities which will accompany us goes on and on. We board in Houston on the 13th, set sail on the 14th and arrive in Africa on the 4th October. It will be the shortest of our four voyages, yet by the time we disembark in Casablanca it will have stretched our tally of sea kilometers and time-at-sea to 50,000kms and four months...and still, all for the grand sum of zero pounds.
Corpus Christi has a strangely familiar feel this morning. An end-of-an-era touch about it. The streets all seem a bit quieter, the sun has lost its verve, the clouds are grey and heavy with moisture and yet there is an undertow of expectation and anticipation which permeates through from an unknown source.
Yesterday we filled our panniers with vital provisions that would sustain us for the journey ahead. On our last outing we'd seriously underestimated the required quantities to keep us going for the duration and on day three, after leaving Townsville, the chocolate eclairs were already extinct, the fizzy worms were dangerously depleted and the sour skittles were only marginally better off than the Werthers Originals.
So long Land Lubbers and fare thee well...
Friday, September 07, 2007: Castles seen through a spyglass
After our weather-beaten arrival in the USA, Corpus Christi became our improvised destination. It's a small city on the Gulf of Mexico with a port.... and a Condo owned by none other than Rob Boling. "Take the keys and stay as long as you like," said the kindly Rob over the telephone. This was a Godsend, a golden chance for us to set up a FWE operations base for finding a ship across the pond without having to camp in the path of any hurricanes.
At the Corpus Condo we have all the facilities necessary for a fine Head Quarters. Our final hurdle of almost three years -to cross the Atlantic by sea and ride on African soil- should be easy now that we have the very bare essentials, i.e access to the internet, a supermarket where we can buy budget ingredients for home-cooked meals, 2 swimming pools, an always-hot hot tub, sea views from a balcony from which we may be spectators to the sunrise and a beach to play on when we are not working hard. The water is as warm as tepid tea, and a marvellously refreshing escape from the Texan blast furnace. I should also mention that we are both big fans of building sandcastles and pride ourselves on attention to detail; our ramparts, towers and turrets are built with unparalleled sandsmanship.
By and by, a few weeks of ship hunting and sandcastle construction later, we received one rather vital piece of shipping news from our friends at Nordana, this time the USA branch: "Dogger, moderate, Tyne, squalls; Free Wheels East you may board a vessel which will take you to your destination of primary preference, Northern Morocco. You will depart from Houston Texas. Bring sea sickness pills, you are going to be crossing the Gulf of Mexico in the middle of Hurricane season. This message will self destruct when you are 40 feet west of Spyglass Hill. Good luck."
Our golden ticket home has been delivered to our trembling paws. Not only do we have the last piece of the puzzle, we know where it goes. Every continent and the history books are only one month away. Electric shocks of elation and disbelief ride the spine. This is such a vast piece of news that we cousins are left dumbstruck, incontinent and dripping with disbelief in its wake. The challenge in which we invested our lives over four years ago is soon to conclude. Can you believe that?
Friday, August 24, 2007: Tex-Mex
One family has been responsible for the well-being of FWE since our arrival in the United States: The Bolings of Eagle Pass. This great family who were complete strangers a few weeks ago took us in and made us honorary Bolings. Just before crossing the border, Ben had asked a Texan fellow for some advice. The advice was gladly given with a bonus as the man we were talking to was none other than the legendary Rob Bowling, head of the Bowling family, who immediately offered us his advice for riding in Texas: "The weather is bad ahead, there's flooding," he warned. "But it's o.k for the time being. You can camp just fine by the side of the road and you'll find yourself a great big hard shoulder to keep you safe from the traffic, which there isn't too much of aound here as long as you stay off the Interstate. If you want somewhere to stay here in Piedras Negras, there is a hotel just around the corner." At the time we thought this was the last we would see of Rob Bowling as he drove off in his truck with his wife Patty.
Outside the hotel Rob had recommended, we were planning our next move as the hotel was not only very expensive, but it was full too. There was a screech of tyres and round the corner came Rob Bowling and Patty in the truck! One of the electric windows lowered and Rob said in his mild Texan accent, "Why don't you boys come and stay with us?" This was perfect! "I live just across the border in Eagle Pass." He gave us an address in the Land of the Free, a couple of telephone numbers and we arranged to meet in half an hour for a Tex Mex BBQ! Neither of us could believe our luck. All we had to do was get into the USA, a task easier said than done. For no less than three hours we struggled with US customs who asked us every conceivable question before not stamping our passports. After both our personal, probing, booth interviews were over, we were eventually given the all-clear to cross into the States, "But you haven't stamped our passports," Jamie reminded the thorough officials. "Saary, I forgat," said the lady in charge who promptly added the stamps. That came just after nearly being sent down the big snake with its head at the top of the board for not having US currency to pay a $12 entry tax. "We only have Pesos!" we'd explained, fully expecting that there would be some facility to change our money on 'the other side', but no: "Sarry sir, you're going to have to go back to Mexico." We managed not to lose it -although we were boiling inside- and used our one phone call to call Rob Bowling, not only to apologise for our being three hours late, but also to ask him if we could borrow 12 bucks, and would he mind nipping down to the border to bail us out? "Sure!" said Rob who later apologised on behalf of his country for our being messed around in customs. "It's post-9/11 security gone crazy," he explained. The amusing thing is that we have never had our panniers checked in all the time that we have been on the road, not even at US customs. We could quite easily have filled our panniers with TNT. I guess the rule is that English fellows who look Swedish are unlikely to be deadly bike-bound suicide bombers.
Soon the border was behind us and we were good to go for three months in the U S of A. The Bolings' house was in a leafy suburb not far from the border, the perfect retreat. For 2 days we ate the finest food and drank the finest Whisky, we told stories in Rob's company and with our batteries topped to the brim we rang our bells in honour of the Bolings who stood outside their house waving good-bye with white handkerchiefs. We rode into the State of Texas where heat, trucks, ranches and chewin' tobacca rule.
In a small town in the middle of nowhere called Charlotte, at a cross-roads in a gas station, the first theft of FWE history occurred. We had 140 bucks stolen along with our kitty made of Bolivian knitwear; we have passed through some of the 'most dangerous' countries in the world only to have our money stolen in Texas! As I'm sure you can imagine, that sort of money is a small fortune to us, perhaps a week's budget.
Contrary to our expectations, Texas is lush and humid with absolutely no tumbleweed and very few cacti. The Texan ride has followed a road which stretches into the distance as far as the eye can see. Chunky farm pick-up trucks pass us as we pass entrances of ranches with names like 'Bob's Farm' and 'The Big Beef' carved out of steel and hung above gates, creaking in the wind.
Our cycling in the States has been a big game of cat and mouse played with thunderstorms; the last element you would have thought we would have to battle against in Texas was rain. Our arrival was timed pretty badly. Floods have been wreaking havoc across the state, some of the worst for decades. On one occasion -feeling quite miserable- we rode through a downpour to a service station where we stopped for a snack. Next to the counter was a stack of local newspapers; the front page of one showed a photograph of two men sitting on inner tubes floating down their street. Our bad luck was almost funny.
Another thing, we thought the States would be the one place where we would not have a problem finding supplies... Well, in the Texan countryside it is often no less than 40 miles between service stations and when it is not raining it is brain-boilingly hot: 40 miles without shade or refreshment and no emergency bedsheet like the one we used in the Peruvian desert is a recipe for disaster and on more than one occasion we came dangerously close to heatstroke.
Flash flood warnings dominated the news, huricanes brewed in the gulf of Mexico. The cycling became more and more demoralising, time seemed to stop in its tracks. Ben got bitten on the toe by a spider which a few poeple thought might be deadly, but aside from the pain he was fine, thankfully it was not a rattle snake. Rob had warned us to watch out for those. Then Ben's tent pole broke which would have left us unable to camp with no escape from the rain or the mosquitos if we had not been able to fix it with gaffer tape. Then Ben's tent zip broke and the rain started coming in, but he managed to use his sewing kit to close out most of the rain. Jamie's tent did not break at all; it kept the weather out admirably.
The high humidity made us unbearably greasy and on our third day with no shower, soaked to the bone, unable to dry out our gear and feeling even more miserable we knew it was time for us to improvise a new plan...
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