Colonia, Uruguay.
10-2-12
It snowed the night
before I left. Lashed it down with flaky white bastards all night.
Heathrow had cancelled a third of all flights but the Gatwick website
said it was OK, I chose to believe it. 20cm of snow overnight and
fortunately no blocked roads on the way to the station.
Yorkshire looks pretty
in the snow, for a few hours at least before the traffic turns it to
black sludge, Rows of terraces with white roofs and the odd slate
gap. Wonder who's got a loft full of skunk?
Last time I took the
bus to London it was pure lumpenproletariat. Underlying odour of
piss and heroin from bus station to bus station. The comfort and
style of a cattle truck. This time it's uni students and French
speaking Africans. No grief, no hassle, I'm the only one drinking
and the only one with a seat to myself. Map of Patagonia prominently
placed in the tank bag I'm using as hand luggage just on the off
chance I can strike up a conversation with the cute 21 year old on
the seat opposite;
“Oh, where are you
going?”
“Around the world on
my motorcycle. Actually.”
Doesn't fucking happen
of course. Past 40, put on weight, missing teeth, what the fuck do I
expect?
I remember the bus
getting into Victoria, I remember queueing up to get off the bus but
I have no idea how I got to King's Cross to check into a Travelodge.
Probably took the tube but that's what a six hour bus journey with
nothing to do but drink premixed M&S cocktails does to a man.
Long and easy lie in
the next morning. My flight isn't until five and I don't have to
check out until twelve. Apparently I have planned ahead and have
half a dozen beers, some bittorrent downloads and a congealed donner
kebab to last out the morning.
Take it easy on leaving
the hotel, don't want to get too pissed to be allowed on the plane
now. An easy beer and a walk up to St Pancras, overland to Gatwick,
move my stuff between bags and check in.
“Did you pack your
bags yourself? Is this all you're carrying?”
Map positioned
prominently in the tank bag.
“All my stuff is
being sent as cargo.”
Not even a raised
eyebrow.
Dull flight, only an
hour late. Still plenty of time to catch the connection in Madrid.
Some crappy airport food, some vinegar like airport wine and three
hours later I'm strapped into an economy seat with not enough room
for my legs and although the Russian girl next to me is cute, she
doesn't speak a word of English and I'm old enough to be her father.
Her grandfather even.
“Do your folks know
where you are love?”
Thirteen hours later
approaching BA, cramps and bruises on my legs. Russian girl has
changed into short-shorts. I'm still dressed for the median European
winter and South American summer. I'm soaked through within five
minutes of leaving the airport. I bottle the bus and grab a cab.
I've arranged to meet
people who can help me import the bike. They hear the taxi and the
door is open before I get out of the car. Sandra and Javier are
(much to their surprise) very well known and respected in the
motorcycle travel community. They explain that my bike hasn't yet
arrived, checking my email shows that it's been delayed by customs in
Manchester. Something to do with it not fitting in the x ray
machine. They kindly allow me to stay in one of the bunk beds they
have set up next to the workshop. Judging by the stickers on the
wall and the contents of the guest book there are a lot of people
that pass through here.
I'm soaked. It's forty
degrees in the shade, I'm wearing black and too many layers. I get
some beer and crash. Everything can be sorted in the morning. I
spend the night alone in the workshop, apart from the cat.
Wednesday, I have a few
missions. Sort out insurance, buy some appropriate clothes and get a
local SIM for my phone. Thanks to Sandra's direction, getting into
town and the insurance is easy, the SIM and clothes take a little
longer but only because I'm in a touristy area and I have to pay top
dollar.
Back at the workshop
there are a couple of other bikers. A Japanese guy on a GS (never
seen a Japanese on a German bike before) and a US father and son on a
Ducati and a G650 taking a couple of months out to “do” South
America. Nice folks.
Yoshi, the Japanese guy
has already been everywhere that I've planned. I grill him for
information all evening.
Next day, everyone
leaves. That's what you do when you've got a bike.
I spend a day in BA not
really doing much. Hanging around bars, drinking beer and eating.
By the time I get back to the workshop, a French couple has arrived
on an Africa Twin; just collected from the boat.
My bike has finally
left Blighty. The air waybill shows that it has left Manc for Dubai
and is currently in transit between Dubai and BA. It should arrive
at 20:30 Friday night.
Of course, customs will
leave work around 16:30 and won't be back until Monday. There is no
realistic chance of collecting the bike until Tuesday.
With this in mind, I
have taken the ferry to Colonia in Uruguay. I've checked into an
overpriced hotel near to the port because I couldn't be arsed walking
any further. I'll find something cheaper tomorrow. A weekend of
backpacking will probably do me some good.
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