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.
Thursday, April 27, 2006: Melbourne Brochure
In this City of griddy-ness - main streets, little streets, back alleys, cafe culture, Victoriana (it could be England minus the chippy on the corner)- we have wandered far and ever-so wide. Every nook and every cranny has been carefully explored in search of a Melbourne we want. Frustration has dominated. The city had us in despair as we battled to become its close associates. But why should frustration play with us? Ask frustration; we could only clutch at straws and sniff our way forward with fingers twizzled. The call to escape our Youth Hostel was a strong'n and we so wanted a flat away from the sheet-hovering farts of a dormitory. It has taken one week of un-certain discomfort to clinch a deal and -we should add- a lot of initiative. Now the limbo time in which we were forced to find our footing has elapsed; we have found an apartment. There have been hundreds of questions asked, thankfully answered in the end, as they always seem to be.
Our slices of luck were cut -we are sure of it- after an unexpected meeting with an unexpected childhood face. His name, John Meadows. Ben was at Cubs with him. He, like Ben, is a Lowestoftian. They were at the same school, they had the same teachers and are presently in Melbourne together. Ben, by one year the elder, was surprised as hell to see John, as was John to see he. This unlikely meeting came about at the viewing of another down-town Melbourne apartment at which John was a resident. Ben - upon being re-united with a childhood face he'd grown up with - went a bit nutty and bounded around in the throes of elation in John Meadows' arms as a joy which can only be brought about by a happy coincidence took him over.
The omen of Meadows brought about a new lucky spell in which we have begun to promote FWE on the streets with a brochure, taking donations for the next continent. In addition: for two months now we will be Melbourne street creatures. Melbourne is our home for now and we welcome it.
Saturday, April 22, 2006: the devil drives a white road train
It was a bright and breezy Western Australian day when we checked out of the 'Old Fire Station' and headed on to the Fremantle streets with our minds befuddled and boggled, mushy splats of hurly-wurly uncertainty.
Sydney was our target destination but how the devil were we to get there? Our options were being shredded and gobbed at our feet in piles of mulch as quickly as they were suggested: hire companies didn't hire, relocations didn't have any relocations, trains were too expensive and, well, we all know about the airplane taboo. Heads were wedged in hands in a fit of despair, like pepper ham in a sandwich, gloom & doom, lady luck had taken leave and deserted us in our hour of need.
But wait, what was this? A bright light shone and a heavenly person arrived by our sides...was it an angel? No,it was Kent from Denmark.
'Hmm, let me think,' he said in a casserole of accents. 'I know someone who might be able to help...a trucky by trade...let me call him.' We were to make our way to Midlands, a small town an hour out of Fremantle and await his call. With his family in tow, Kent doffed his hat and disappeared into the hubbly-bubbly melting pot of cafes and restaurants.
We arrived at Midlands in a storm of anxiety. Several hours dwindled by, our Casio watches munching time like a trucky at a pie-eating competition. By and by we heard a piping of horns and were greeted by a grinning Kent, gripping the wheel of a Toyota pick-up and trailer. 'What ho, chaps!' he said. 'Good news!' We were all ears; two intense-listening receptacles as he detailed a plan that would deliver us to the Eastern shores. His buddy, sadly, was unable to help in our complicated quest but had divulged one pearly Pearl Jam of wisdom: 'If these two hero cyclists loiter at the BP petroleum station near the airport, they will surely be blessed with success and a lift to the yonder side of land Australia.'
The words were digested with relish and after a sumptuous banquet that was splendidly prepared by Elaine at the house of Kent, and an exquisitely refreshing night in a pumpkin-coloured caravan at the bottom of the 5-acre property, we journeyed to the fabled BP station. Never shall we forget Kent, Elaine, their charming daughter Pernille and son Benn for their warmth, enthusiasm for our cause and unfaltering belief in us. It's a rare day indeed when you meet such wonderful folk.
After several hours of pumping and probing late on the Tuesday night, our investigations were looking bleak and bearing about as much fruit as a banana plant in Scotland. We fell to our knees in prayer and were rewarded immediately.
A vast, gleaming white Road Train heaved into bay 5 and ground to a juddering stop. The door swung open and out popped 'Tricky'. 'Sure thing boys...meet me at the back of that warehouse down that dodgy black alley and I'll squeeze you in.' What a hero.
Tricky: a man of immensity with beard and tattoos and a Harley Davidson lover when he's not thundering down the highways in his Road Train. Tricky: a loan crusader in the battle for safe delivery of cargo.
For three days straight we ploughed our path, day and night a blur of semi-controlled machinery that hurtled past kangaroo and camel at dizzying speed, a runaway freak of demented metal. At nights we bunked in the rear trailer. Sleeping mats & bags battling the below-freezing temperatures for several hours at a time before we took to the race track once more. On the second day we discovered that our destination, although lying east, wasn't Sydney but in fact Melbourne. A meeting was held and it was decided after several moments that this was just fine and that we'd live in Melbourne instead.
On Friday morning we spilled off the clogged Melbourne artery, bid farewell to Tricky, jumped a train and headed for down-town. Our journey complete, we had arrived; from Singapore to Melbourne via the least conventional methods on selection.
Sunday, April 16, 2006: Connery pink cakes
Two boys went to sea on a beautiful pea-green boat. There was captain Antonio, the meek and humble Chief, Coke-Cola Connery (the first mate), Comrade commando Costa, Jerry the cook - 'cookie' with a pink cake and pinnie, not to mention all seven dwarfs: Smiley, Randy, Porky, Perky, Richard, Mincer and Berk. The boat did bob for 23 days from the South China Seas to the eastern Indian Ocean. Let us tell our tale.
It was a fine day when we set off, blue sky and cotton wool clouds. As we looked to the limitless ocean ahead we had no idea what to expect of this our first nautical adventure of the expedition.
Our voyage to be was by no means direct. First we steamed north a thousand or so nautical miles at a steady 13 knots, the water beneath calm, tranquil, a lapping sea like a sheet of glass. In two Thai ports we stopped to load a cargo of steel pipes with the ship's special power, her spectacular yellow on-board cranes. The Princess Mary steamed on, past Cambodia and Vietnam, past tiny Phillipino islands to port and to starboard; true desert islands, inhabited only by sea birds and who knows what else?
From our favorite spot in the bows, wind making melody with the mast, we saw sharks: a Hammerhead and a vicious battleship-grey monster we are yet unable to identify. The hair on the back of your neck prickles when you dare to imagine yourself falling in...
Our voyage was turning us into keen naturalists. Not naturists - we know the difference. Never did we go far in those warm seas without seeing a good many flying fish, those darts of silver that took flight as we disturbed them. They really do fly as well as a bird -although they never flap- and when the time comes for them to become fish again they unceremoniously 'splat' back into the water having successfully escaped the turmoil of The Princess Mary's boiling white wake. Post flight, you can see them under the water looking just like any other fish. Who would've thought they could fly? What a marvel of evolution they are.
Then there were the Dolphins, pods of them. They came to us as the sun was setting -usually just after supper- to play in our bow wave, leaping, spiralling and flipping at breath-taking speed. Appreciating an audience, the Dolphins showed us all their most tricky tricks. The more we cheered the higher they breached. We came to call these wondrous creatures 'The Dolphiniums'. Everyone looked forward to the call of "The dolphiniums are here!". These Dolphiniums had an inexplicable way about them, something in their souls, which leaves the beholder all warm and peaceful inside. They, the bows and its joys will be missed.
Each night we had a 6:00 curfew. Pirates were about, merciless sea bandits who would slit your throat for a groat. The ship's doors were firmly closed and locked just before sundown. These modern-day Pirates of the South China Seas like to attack by night. Any odd sound, any unusual utterance from the men on board had us clutching the hilts of our leatherman knives. As if life depended on it we cringed in our cabins, ready to retaliate against a malicious boarding by the deadly Thai or Indonesian Buccaneers.
Another thousand or so nautical miles on, there had been no Pirate attack; this time we'd been going East to our next stop, a little port in the state of Sebah, Malaysian Borneo. It was only then that we began to head towards the place of all Englishman's dreams, Australia. The last threat of Pirates boarding was at the Lombok straight, the gateway to the Indian Ocean. Thankfully we passed into the open ocean without incident.
At the mercy of the Indian Ocean we ventured intrepidly south. Tropical storm Floyd was replaced with Hubert. We felt his wrath. Only a few hundred miles to the north we were exposed to the swell he sent northward: 6-metre waves turned our 100 metres- long ship into a Pooh stick in rapids. At the climax of this squall on the 6th April, when exactly one year had passed since our departure from Mother England, there came a call on the satellite phone: it was the BBC! Jamie gave an interview in which he professed that the food we missed more than any other was "sausages, beans and chips". They must've been short on terrorist attacks to broadcast that! Soon cyclone Hubert was replaced with Elayne. The sea became rougher still.
On the 15th April we arrived in Fremantle having sailed a total of 4,500 nautical miles, nearly 9,000 kms; that's the same distance we have cycled so far.
contact us | news | travellers | gallery | sitemap