Glorious Gloopy Guyana - Up to the Carbs in Mud & Water - 15 July 2003
Colombian dog story
Back to the Land of Many Waters
Welcome Back
The all new all weather road
Fancy lodge, fancy price
Canít see what all the fuss is about
Can see what all the fuss is about
The Somme
Never laughed so much. A dog was getting yappy at Helen as we walked through the quiet streets of Villa de Leiva. Hippy is not too good with dogs and so, as I usually do in such circumstances, I turned round to swing my boot at the mutt. I managed to intimidate the beast enough to send it scuttling backwards at good speed. What it failed to notice was the childís bicycle lying at the side of the pavement and it managed to walk backwards into the wheel getting all four legs through the spokes ñ quite an achievement. It then just fell over sideways and whimpered. We walked on, triumphant.
Back to the Land of Many Waters
Many readers will be aware (probably because we never stop going on about it) that we used to live and work in Guyana. Indeed it was this work under the auspices of the VSO organisation that prompted for some part our travels around the world. It seemed impossible to pass the country by as we had many friends to visit and we wanted to be able to report on what VSO is up to these days and how things are shaping up for this extraordinary country.
The mission started with one or two problems. We knew that the road was going to be a nightmare. Guyanaís problems roadwise fall into three categories. Firstly, the name Guyana translates from the Carib tongue as ìLand of Many Watersî. Enough said. Regrettably the surface of Guyana is generally pretty flat and not made of the most resilient material and manages to collect much of the aforementioned. The third and perhaps most crucial factor affecting the road is the lack of finances and organisation to build a decent road in the first place. All this having been said, we had been promised that a new road had been constructed. To our surprise it was when back at the Brazilian border post with Venezuela that our grief started when they told us that it was impossible to take a vehicle into Guyana.
It was so frustrating that weíd just left a country where weíd just about managed to get a grip on the language when we were faced with this logistical nightmare. Portuguese and Spanish are similar enough for them to have been able to explain the problem, but when it came to reaching a solution, we were at loggerheads. Eventually they gave us two days (including that day ñ the clock was ticking)
to get to the major customs office in Boa Vista, sort the problem out and get across the border with Guyana. Thanks for the help guys. Oh and to cap it all, they shallied around for so long that we had to speed all the way to town to get into the office before it shut. The police let us off when we wailed that we had got to get to the customs office ñ it was just a roadside document check anyway (just wanted an ogle anyway, really!) We then got guided to the customs building by a very nice chap on a bike. (Weíd approached him outside a bank where he was obviously waiting to give a lift to someone to simply ask directions and he promptly hopped on his bike and guided us. I hope his passenger didnít come out while he was away and start cursing him.) Of course we arrived bang on closing time at the office and I was left banging on the door of the Oficina of Fazenda like that famous scene from ìThe Graduateî. Eventually a security guard came over and prised open the door a little. I rapidly interjected my boot and commenced negotiating my way in. He was having none of it until our raised tones clearly attracted the attention of reasonably superior figure who allowed me to enter.News was not good. The full story was that although I could take the bike out of Brazil they would not let me back in again. This due to an ongoing trade moan between the two countries. This makes it impossible to bring merchandise from Guyana to Brazil. (Seemingly going the other way is OK which probably suggests why there is a dispute!) I was in the same communication gulf as before and although I explained at length that my bike was not for sale and therefore not merchandise I made little headway. Eventually, the superior of the chap I was speaking to came over to help out. He was incredible, speaking Portuguese, French, Spanish and English he was the answer to my dreams in a sticky patch. He saw the problem straight away and took it upstairs to the chief honcho. In ten minutes he was back saying that in our case they would make an exception so long as were only intending to travel through this province back to Venezuela. The border post had been contacted and were expecting me the following morning and had been instructed to expedite my departure from the country and be ready for my return in a months time. Alex Sardenberg, translator, friend of travellers, general hero, we salute you.
Boa Vista as a whole gets a thumbs up. Even though we were linguistically challenged, every single person we dealt with was courteous and helpful. Many were positively excited to meet us. For the first time in a long time, someone offered to carry our bags in the hotel and promptly turned up with a little trolley. He wanted not a jot of a tip. There was free coffee and water. Breakfast was an excellent buffet. This was not good news, really. What we needed was a bit of toughening up for the rather harsher lifestyle over the border!
Sure enough, the customs office in Bin Fim were ready and waiting for us and processed us in 15 seconds. Passport control was similarly easy peasy. Come on, thereís got to be a problem looming somewhere. This is all too easy.
It was a bit of a pity that we did not have any more time in Bon Fim or Bon Fee as it locally known, because we had been given the names of some people to pop in and see, relatives of our old neighbours and eternal friends Fazi and Mansoor. Hopefully, we will be a little more relaxed with we come back through the other way.
Having lived in Guyana we arrived early into Lethem to allow plenty plenty time for ëjust nowí time, which in the rest of South America is the manana attitude. Ten thirty and raring to go. The foundations in place for a bridge of across the river between the 2 countries looked like the works were on permanent suspension, so we were awaiting the pontoon. A chap getting off the pontoon heading into Brazil, claimed that the road to Georgetown was fine and he had done it in nine hours the day before. But there was a very sceptical look from the guy running the boatÖ. We shall seeÖ.. It was great though to hear the Caribbean accent again, it gave me a warm feeling. Something of an affected island accent rather than Guyanese, but nonetheless Ö..
Guyana had been part of the plan for a long time in this trip. But it always seemed so far ahead that it was an almost unattainable goal. Now that we were finally crossing the river to Lethem I was overcome we a feeling that we had made it. On the other side there was no sign of immigration anywhere, but we were back in the land of English (well sort of) and asking the way to the office at each dirt track we came to led us to the immigration by the airstrip. Now an airstrip in Guyana is generally nothing more elaborate than a flat dry stretch of land.
ìImmigration shut, wonít open till 12pm.î OK we gaffed a little with others hanging around in the shade of a tree changed a little money in a local shop and waited. I canít describe how warming it was to just listen to the folk gaffing around us, the creolese full of light hearted banter.
Looking around I was impressed! A cyber cafÈ! When we had been here 6 years ago, you were lucky if after 2 hours you managed to get a phone line working; now there was internet. I mentioned it to the lady next to me. She said ìThe internet good, but we got blackoutî. Maybe things here still have a way to go.
Immigration officer arrives ñ stage 1 sorted. Stage 2 ñ customs. Oh he doesnít arrive till the flight arrives from Georgetown. Someone mentioned that he was staying by the guesthouse, so we went to find him. This may seem a little unconventional going to someoneís lodgings to get customs sorted, but this is Guyana.
As I stood chatting to a guy outside while Pat was in negotiations I suddenly couldnít see. I looked down and on the ground lay one of my glasses lenses. The screw had somehow remained in the frame. Unfortunately, I knew that the mini screwdrivers were buried in the depths of the luggage somewhere. Hey ho Iíll manage with the prescription sunglasses.
We needed to get some piece of paper from the police then get copies done of registration of bike and passport. The police station was a single storey wooden house with a couple of wrecked police cars in the grass at the side, that looked like they could have come from a scene in Z cars. We had the necessary pass from the police. Photocopies. In the market. Blackout - no power. There hadnít been power for days since in the last big lot of rain the hydro plant had been buried as a mountain side of mud had dropped on it. No saying when it would be back on. We had to think of a plan B. What did people do before photocopies, we thought. Then it came to us.
Pat ëIs there a JP here?í
(meaning of course a justice of the peace rather than our old friend in Nottingham)
ìYouíll be wanting Humphries, a white haired, old guyî said the owner of the non- functioning photocopy kiosk in the market.Back to the customs chap who is now at the airstrip, posing and chatting up his girly, to ask if our plan to copy all our documents by hand and get Humphries to witness them would be acceptable to him. Trying to prise him away from his courting activities was not an easy task. You could sense the burgeoning testosterone that filled the air. Looking agitated that we were cramping his style he muttered that it would be OK. I think mostly to get rid of us, so that he could get back to more pressing business.
It was at this point that I realised how mad it all was. All of the immigration staff and customs folk had turned out to meet the plane at the strip which had originated in Georgetown, Guyana! Not much immigration or importation there, then.
We got directions and were off. One of the great things about this little travelled country is that everyone knows everyone. So finding the JP was easy enough. We pulled up outside a little shop and behind the counter was a white haired white guy in a baseball cap, faded t-shirt and shorts. This indeed was Mr. Humphries JP. We explained our plight that we needed copies of documents but there was blackout, etc etc. Not the most self assured chap he seemed a little apprehensive and muttered in broad Creolese that he may get into trouble for not doing the right thing. He decided in the end that if the customs chap said I was OK then why not. The next hour Pat sat at the worn stripped wooden counter and copied out all the relevant bits. Twice. I did not want to fall foul of the geezer at the customs and so pretty much did an exact replica of the registration document. If youíve got a spare hour or so some time, try it. What a pain! When it came to Humphries putting his paw print on them, it became clear that the poor chapís eye sight was failing and he couldnít check them anyway. But regardless he did the necessary. Guessing that the customs chap would now be back at the guest house we headed off armed with hand written copies. I rather like Guyanese inspection of documents. Just as when we used to submit pieces of paper to the headmaster at the school on the coast, the legend ìSeenî was appended and the chapís signature. Writing ìSeen and recognised as a fair and accurate copyî would involve too much writing and leave the signatory liable for something which I guess is a bit much to ask, especially if their eyesight is so bad.
Wow, another traveller. A Japanese guy, called Kazu, on a Yamaha 250 dirt bike who had been stuck in Lethem for a long weekend waiting for customs to open, and having problems getting the paperwork from the police. We chatted for a while to discover that he was travelling without a carnet de passage but had now nearly cleared customs. Good effort. Sadly we left Kazu to complete his trial by paperwork and headed off on the only ërealí road out of Lethem, the new ëall weatherí road to Georgetown. We felt sure weíd bump into him again on the way and although it would have been nice to wait and ride this road together, it looked as though he was more of an off road pro than me and so likely to catch us and overtake us in no time.
Petrol. Gas station, has gas but blackout (of course), so no working pumps. There was a chap in town with tanks of gas. Another set of directions, and we set off. The house with huge plastic tanks of petrol and diesel outside was hard to miss. He kindly filled a bucket again and poured it by hand with a funnel into the bike.
It had taken 4 hours to sort everything in Lethem, but by 2.30 we were finally off.
There had been the full range of descriptions of the condition of the road from, fine to impassable. We had learned that the buses from Georgetown cannot make it through and run a back to back service. On making it to the bad section on one side, the passengers disembark and go on a Bedford truck and transfer to an awaiting bus on the other side of the bad patch. Even on the ëgoodí part the last bus that came through got stuck in the mud for 4 hours. We heard it was so bad that the repair vehicles could not get through to fix it. This was not promising news. The all weather road had apparently a 1 to 4 mile section (depending on who you spoke to) where in some heavy rain the creeks washed away the road, and returned it to swamp land. It is a shame (and, regrettably, fairly predictable) that this new road hasnít survived itís first big rains. We planned to go as far as we safely could and if necessary abort and put the bike on a truck. As weíve said before, weíre not heroes and although getting to Georgetown would be a great thrill for us, weíd rather get there in one piece.
The road was absolutely fantastic smooth dirt for the first 10 miles. Then we hit our old friends the corrugations. At least there was a solid surface and so we just gritted our teeth and pressed on. We were heading toward a range of hills on the western edge of the Rupununi Savana and so increasingly there were slight inclines and then more marked hills. One of them had obviously had a seasonal river running down it for some time and had developed an 18 inch deep sandy channel running diagonally down it over a length of about 200 yards. It had to be crossed and so it was, but at rather higher speed than I had intended (weíd come up to it over a blind crest) giving rather an unsettling shake over the top. Bertha just keeps amazing me with what sheíll put up with.
We passed through he mosquito capital of the world. Visors shut to prevent the swarms entering facial orifices we pushed on. I looked at the back of Pats jacket and even on a moving bike I counted over ten mosquitoes trying to force their noses through bike gear. These are for sure the biggest mozzies in the world. If weíd been stuck and had to camp, it would have been pretty straightforward to swat them in mid air with a lazy swipe of the hand.
Rain was showing up in the distance and so I donned the proofs. Even though it is pretty warm in these parts, the tropical storms are not to be taken lightly and will drench one in double quick time.
I took the opportunity of a break to deal with a call of nature. We hadnít seen any signs of habitation of hours so I took Patís advice to avoid dense undergrowth, and the possibility of all manner of bitey things and went for the open area (to wit the middle of the road). Just as I stood up, with trousers round my ankles, I saw three local cyclists approaching. I frantically tried to make myself decent, fighting my biking trousers that were by now damp with sweat and uncooperatively sticking to my legs. Pat meanwhile was laughing and joking about Sods law, and has moved round to stand to hide my semi-naked form from view. I sensed the cyclists slow down respectfully realising the situation and giving me the time to become respectable. I thank them for their sensitivity. Pat continued to guffaw with laughter. My face burning with embarrassment they stopped to chat, my bike trousers still undone. They confirmed that the next village was a couple of miles and Annai, our destination for the day, was ëfarí. Not that helpful, then.
The rains, as ever, proved to be light ñ letís face it, you sweat in your waterproofs and the rains are not worth it, but leave them offÖ The road had noticed the rain, though, and developed a nice greasy layer on top When riding on roads like this, youíve got to stay in the wheel ruts. If you try to ride the crest in between either the front or back wheel will slide down into the rut anyway leaving the whole thing badly out of shape. Ruts are where the rain lies, of course, and so we were getting pretty wet feet and legs.
We approached a section where the two wheel ruts disappeared into very deep looking puddles and, like a plonker, I didnít stop and check it out. I just went for the middle line between the wheel ruts. Bad mistake. This line, too, disappeared under water in what turned out to be an extremely sharp drop and rise. I should have squirted on a bit of power but I backed off and we ended up stopping dead and rolling back into the pond. I nearly held it up, but noÖÖ splash. Now we got very wet. Although Bertha has big boxes on the side which really help when she falls over, the pannier this time was completely under water my boots were completely under water and doing that annoying welly thing where they fill up and suck themselves to the bottom.
I found myself unceremoniously laying on my side in a muddy pool trying to scramble out, to help pick up the bike. Lying there, petrol was running into the pond. The thing had to be lifted before we lost too much fuel. Dumping my helmet and other encumbrances on the far side of the pond, I was ready for action. Re-submerging my boots in water I was on back end while Pat was on the front. Fully loaded and fighting the suction on the water, meant that brute force was the only thing that would shift her. We got her up and petrol off while we considered the best way to get her out of there. Miraculously a very wet Bertha started and Pat decided to give it another go, with me pushing from behind. She made it.
In the midst of the mayhem I had noticed my map bag complete with maps and my gloves filled with muddy water, floating in the pond. I looked at them and wanted to cry. As anyone will know who has been to countries such as these decent maps are impossible to buy - these had been bought in the UK before we left. I tried in vain to try and wipe off the mud, but they were saturated, every fold was drenched in murky water, they were unsalvageable. The loss of some maps in the scheme of things maybe very little, but for me it also represented my redundancy in the role of navigator. I carried them with me almost as a child carries a worn much loved defunct cuddly toy, beyond its recognisable lifespan.
Dusk was beginning and we were seeing no signs of life. I looked about me for a sensible place to rough camp. There was nothing. The land waterlogged from the rains and only the spindliest shrubs to sling a hammock from. We had heard that there was a hotel in Annai we had to press on.
An onÖ and darker...
At last signs of life. Houses scattered randomly to either side. We stopped and asked.îThe hotel is 3 miles further on.î Why couldnít it be on this side of town? We soldiered on. I am reminded of a scene in the Blues Brothers as my eyesight became more limited by the conspiratorial effect of the approaching night and my sunglasses. There was no point at all in trying to use the other glasses, as it was my more short-sighted lens that was now not in the frame.
A sign, a hotel, but saying another one and a half miles. Come on, Hippy, donít exaggerate 1500 metres is less than a mile. Arriving, it was a little (little?) plusher than we were used to. I was in no fit state to do negotiations - I was visually challenged. Pat returned grim-faced, 10 dollars each to sleep in a hammock and 65 for a room fully inclusive. We were wet and very tired, Pat went to see a room and returned more grim-faced ñ the 65 dollars was per person! Err, I donít think so! We have slept 2 up in a hammock before and we can do it again and negotiated for one hammock. I knew that the hotel was owned and run by a former VSO and thought that we should be able to come to some arrangement over the price. Regrettably, he was away on business and was due back the following day. Not to worry, in our present frame of mind we fancied an extra day of r and r before setting off again, if at all.
Already set up in the benab (a circular open sided thatched hut) was a couple of Canadians coming to the end of a 6 month stint volunteering in Guyana. Our hammock joined theirs.
Rock View Lodge at Annai is rather a lovely place. The approach is along a palm tree lined avenue with lovely lawns to either side. Further back from the road, one can see enclosures containing local beasts; tapir, peccary (a type of wild pig), agoutis and labba to name a few. They have photos of Prince Charles having his hand licked by the tapir all over the place. He didnít actually stay at the lodge but his mere attendance there gives a fair idea of its status. Colin, the partner who manages the place was a VSO in Guyana in 1969 and returned to marry and settle. His lodge is a bustle of activity with all manner of little projects under way and clearly is one of the major employers of the area. Perhaps we were harsh to choke at the prices as the cash does seem to be distributed fairly well.
I set about the task of seeing if there was anything I could do with these limp, soggy and brown maps. The difficulty was that to get the mud off to make them readable, meant sponging them with more water. Saturated as them were, they were pretty fragile. I delicately unfolded one map at a time, sections pulling apart as I went. I set about dabbing with a moist sponge to remove some of the mud and immediately dabbing out the excess water. It was a long slow process, most of the map was at the point of disintegration from the water and if I was too hasty the surface print began to roll up into minute little cigar shaped clumps. I persisted, determined to give it my best shot. I felt like someone cleaning a painful wound. Roads began to reappear from under the mud, maybe there was hope. I was ruthless, I dispensed with sections that we had either already travelled and parts we werenít going to go to make the task more manageable (sorry Mum, I had been in the habit of sending maps home for my mother to track the route). It took a while but I did it. I did get a few funny looks from the ladies working there. Fair play really I had rather taken over the laundry area laying out soggy muddy maps. By the next day they were dry, if a little crinkly and looking tea stained - but they were readable. With a bit of sticky tape they became again recognisable as maps. I was back in the role of navigator.
In the morning we awoke to see a delectable dawn, from the comfort of our hammock. The clouds were tinged salmon pink in fluffy rows across the sky with silhouetted palms in the foreground. Perfect.
Our day waiting for yer maun was pretty relaxed even though we had to wash quantities of mud out of clothes that had been in the submerged pannier ñ and dry out the rest of our gear of course. Once again, the boots proved to be un-dryable and for this reason, more than any other I got it into my head to leave the bike here and take public transport for the rest of the way (having ones feet in a pair of sodden boots behind the cylinders of a boxer engine for long periods of time is like spending far too much time in the bath and then repeating the experience endlessly for hours). Feet very clean but awfully puffy, too.
The dilemma was that if we were going to give up, was it worth taking the bike on a truck or should we just leave it here and save the cost of transporting it. To be honest I felt rather sad, that we were not going to ride into Georgetown. We had come all this way; been through the worst of bureaucracy to get the bike into Guyana and now we may not be able to ride it. This would be the first road on our route (rather than a day trip) that we had given up on. And in many ways it was the one that meant most to us, to ride up to the coast and park up to see old friends. Practically, I understood that sentimentality was not worth breaking the bike for, but in my heart I was bitterly disappointed.
Guyanesically, Colin did not arrive in the afternoon and we retired to bed (or hammock to be more accurate) expecting to be holed up here for a few days. In the morning, we were proved wrong as he had arrived in the late evening when we had retired. Over breakfast he managed to convince us (he was speaking to my heart rather then my brain) that the road would be perfectly manageable for a BMW like Bertha so long as we walked the difficult bits and guided her wisely. As the next obvious leg was quite short, to Kurupukari, we decided to pack and go that very day but leave all manner of excess baggage at the lodge to pick up on the way back.
Canít see what all the fuss is about
We were promised two little patches of mud before the river crossing at Kurupukari and sure enough, we found them. We got through with reasonable ease. I was astounded. A little pushing (and lifting the back end out of the mud, as well as doing reccies on foot in the pasty mud to avoid the really soft patches) from Hippy was all that was needed on the stickiest bits. The rest of the road was a vast improvement on the previous day and we started to feel a bit silly for having considered backing out - the dayís riding came out at a total of two and a half hours.
The settlement of Kurupukari is on the far shore of the Essequibo river as you head north and of course we were on the south. The ferries, too, were on the north side and we ended up in a bit of a row as to how we were to attract the attention of the ferryman. All of a sudden, a Frenchman who had ìgone nativeî pulled up in his boat and explained all. The ferry will not cross simply for a motorbike. If you are the only vehicle coming through that day, tough. I was all up for slinging the hammock for the afternoon, as there was a handy little shelter over the top of a cattle dip with excellent posts. Hippy was worried that weíd not have time to pack everything away if another vehicle arrived. Next argument ñ itís the heat, you know. After a few hours, I slung the hammock and be damned. Sure enough a pickup turned up, the ferry crossed and nearly set off back while I messed around with the hammock. Game, set and match to Hippy.
After hassling us to get aboard in a hurry, the ferry showed no signs of moving. The driver of the pick up had seen another vehicle coming up behind and so we waited for it. And waitedÖ. All the while, the blackest of black clouds were heading towards us. The crew shuffled uneasily and moaned about waiting until the captain eventually gave up and set sail. As we arrived in what the Venezuelans accept to be the true Guyana (they claim most of the land that weíd ridden through up ëtil now) the heavens opened in archetypal Guyanese fashion (and a stunning full rainbow, Patrick just has no romance these days). We scurried around the deck trying to find someone to pay for the crossing, but everyone had taken cover. As we were aiming to stay in the village 100 yards away, we decided that we could settle up later and so hooned off into the distance to find shelter. No one seemed bothered. The village turned out to be a shop. They did have a huge barn like building where we could hang our hammock though so there was in fact every facility that we needed; beer and hammock space. The guy running the place even unlocked his pit latrine for us. Later that night on a visitation I would have rathered that it was not already occupied by a colony of cockroaches scurrying about the orifice and up the walls. But it is the thought that counts, being the only female in the next 50miles, a little privacy goes a long way.
As we were ordering our second beer, the captain from the boat walked past. It turned out that bikes donít have to pay as they may be forced to wait for ages (weíd managed about 4 hours) and for this rare instance in Guyana, ones inconvenience is recognised and recompensed. We were so chuffed to be getting a bargain for once we bought the skipper a beer, too.
Actually, to describe Kurupukari as a shop is a little unfair at the moment as it is also home to the road construction/repair crew. Rather like most groups of chaps out in the bush who are deprived of variety of company, they instantly welcomed us and insisted that we come by and eat with them. Phew, I thought it was going to be another meal of biscuits and water. Their food was extremely good. (you tend to find that hard working guys do not actually put up with the greasy teaspoon food one is told about) Strangely, during the evening we had almost exactly the same conversation twice without any prompting from us. It seems a common held opinion among the working class of Guyana that to get the country in shape, that white people need to come back and organise stuff. One of the guys suggested specifically that Scotland Yard needs to come in and clean up the police force. If only they knew! One chap had hopes about Prince Charles visiting the country and sorting out the corruption. There was little point in trying to explain that he had no influence on politics in the UK, and legally he must stay apolitical. The thought that he would have any clout with a foreign government seems not just a little optimistic. The guy was very proud to have been born a British citizen, in the colonial days, and rued the day they took away his entitlement to be called British. It never ceases to amaze the store that foreigners often place in Britain when its own citizens have lost faith in their government. Or 70% of them, at least.
The construction guys filled us in on the road ahead. Seemingly just around the corner is an area where they had begun putting in drainage culverts. Then the rains hit and it all turned into a bog. They confirmed the opinion of others that so long as we kept to the sides and rode on the sand we should be OK. What was really important was to walk the route and weigh up options carefully.
As we were about to leave to go to bed, the driver of the 4x4 pick up that had crossed the river with us turned up. He had left us 3 hours earlier to continue on the road ñ he had made it a mile and been trying to get out ever since. He had eventually clearly admitted defeat and returned to ask the road workers to pull him out. It was now dark and I was dumbfounded that instead of returning there to make camp for the night and face the bad road in daylight he was hell bent on continuing to Georgetown through the night. This was not encouraging news that even the 4x4s were not making it through. What about poor Bertha? We mused with the road workers that if we got stuck, we could just ride it into one of the buckets of their diggers and they could delicately carry dear Bertha through the mud. Then lower her back onto terra firma on the other side, rather like a bride across the threshold.
We did not sleep too well. At the back of our minds was the prospect of grim mud and, to cap it all, this was the first time weíve tried sleeping two up in the hammock we bought in Ecuador. It is too small. It was not helped by a bunch of chaps setting up tents in the barn in the middle of the night, who seemed oblivious to the fact that others were trying to sleep, whilst they shouted, shone torches into each hammock and generally made their presence known. The greatest annoyance for me was that there was one of the number who had obviously heard what he considered to be the funniest joke of all time and rather than letting us all have the benefit of the elegance of construction of this witty ditty he simply endlessly repeated the punch line which was ìFat, fat, fatî and collapsed into hysterics. Not that funny however it is told.
At least it meant that we had no problem getting up for the dawn start we had planned. The guys at the construction camp gave us a cheery wave, which I pessimistically interpreted as ìSee you later ñ when we come and pull you out of the mudî
Can see what all the fuss is about
We set off at day break, giving us plenty of time to push it for the next 4 miles if necessary. It was not long before we hit the first obstacle. The road was no longer and in its place was a creek of unknown depth. We went for it and Bertha cut out in the middle. Unsurprising really, spark plugs and water donít generally mix. No amount of cajoling would persuade her to start. I got off to push, needless to say both our sets of boots were submerged again. Now she was refusing to move. There we were in the middle of a creek with Bertha half under water and no prospect of shifting her. The bottom of this creek was a completely different material to the road on either side of it ñ pure soft sand ñ so soft that the wheels just sank lower and lower rather than rising up when pushed or pulled. It was a bit too much for us!
The cavalry arrived in the form of two chaps in a 4x4 on the road behind us. With no prompting shoes and socks were off and they were wading in to assist. With four of us we managed to get the old girl out. It was then that Pat noticed she was in a false neutral and hence her resistance to starting ñ there is a cut out that means you can only use the starter when in neutral and he had just thought that the neutral indicator switch was flooded and not working. Doh! Giving Bertha time to dry her sparks a little; we deposited the contents of our boots onto the road, and silently worried about the rest of the road ahead.
We resolved to next time follow the advice and through the next obstacle first and pick a navigable route, rather then go for it and end up, up to our neck in trouble. A couple of hundreds metres further on, boots off and bare foot I was sent on a reccy to traverse the next. Wading back in to be ready for on the spot pushing if necessary. Bertha took this one more gracefully, with only a teasing push from me when she began to lose momentum. Now feeling a little more positive and that with less haste and less speed we would make it through, we rode ahead to face the next problem.
Round the corner the picture changed dramatically. Instead of the neat stone capped road with a couple of clean creeks running across it, there was churned up red mud as far as the eye could see. Through the mire, there were several alternative routes that others had taken. On the far left of the road was a black mud option. Between that and the road itself was the white sand option and on the right was a shallow continuum of water with no real indication of the nature of the bottom. Hmmm.
Obviously the main route through the red mud had had the most abuse until it had got so bad that folk had resorted to the other lines. As a result there were deep ruts from large trucks (probably Bedford 4 wheel drives) and these were filled with an unknown depth of water. To take this route or indeed any of them meant a soggy walk down the line to see how deep the rut got and how hard the bottom was. Poor Hippy got the lionís share of the walking and I followed on to her directions. We soon got stuck but a bit of a shove got us going again. After a while I began to get a feel for the conditions and I would press on ahead and then do some scouting while Hips struggled on behind with all her bike gear on. The early start did at least mean that it was not as hot as it could have been.
It took a long time as the walking was pretty slow work but we only got bogged once or twice and we were rather proud of ourselves. I was quite a way ahead of Hips when I came to a big puddle with clear road ahead of it. This could well have been the last of it as weíd covered about 3 miles and folk had estimated varyingly around 3 miles. The last puddle couldnít really be that deep, could it?
Meanwhile the puddle ahead looked ominous to me, but I could see that the sand on the left was firm and the water shallow. I shouted ahead to Pat, to take the sand. I was ignored. Iím not sure whether I heard or not but do not contest this claim.
Thereís a photo that Will has put up on the website of me standing under a sign saying Prat. This now applies without any doubt. I decided just to ride through while waiting for Hips. I seemed to be still heading down hill when the barrels went under water. Indeed I was and for all my stupidity I did at least turn the engine off before the air intake went under water. When I came to rest the bottom of the tank was down to the water and the panniers that we had so carefully dried out the day before were submerged. It was essential to get Bertha back above water as soon as possible. I must confess as Pat shouted for me to hurry up and wade in knee high to push her out, I was muttering to myself ëWhy the hell didnít you take the sand like I saidí I silenced myself on my approach to Pat, knowing that an argument now would do nothing to rescue a drowning Bertha. By Christ we strained every muscle we have getting her back out of that one. (As I write this 3 days later I still ache all over). We had her half way out and she ground to a halt and no amount of brute force was shifting her. Pat rummaged underneath and found that pushing her through the mud backwards had pushed down the side stand and she was now anchored very effectively into the mud. This had the advantage that she stood up by herself and we could take a rest, but the last ten minutes of pushing against the anchor had worn us out. Thatíll be another doh, then.
I was gasping for breath in a way that Iíve only really experienced at 5000 metres. Should point out that we were down to about 200 metres here. Absolutely exhausted and slumped over the tank, I hardly noticed the big trucks and a 4x4 coming up behind us. For some reason they went past and stopped at the far side of the water hazard. It looked as if they were just going to carry on, on their merry way. In fact they did stop and 4 lads hopped down, pulled off shoes, rolled up trousers and set to helping. Even when we got her out of the water, the ruts at that point were too deep to cross and we had to push her an extra 20m back to change direction. The other people in their assorted vehicles waited patiently without complaint as we try to get her started. The guys told him to take the sand ñ I said nothing. The sand route was solid and had a maximum water depth of about 1 inch.
After mopping out the air intake, drying the plugs and emptying the water out of the carbs, Bertha obliged by starting easily and purring for a while before coughing and going rough. She seemed to be making enough power to ride out to the dry bit so we set off. Once theyíd nearly pitched me off the bike by trying to get it across the ruts it was the easiest bit of riding going. Now I felt really stupid.
All three vehicles waited until we were safely out of the bad patch. To the nameless people in those vehicles ñ thank you. As we stopped on the other side the 4x4 assured us that that was the worst of it and from now on the road was good. He promised laterite (which is the fantastic road stone weíd been riding on mostly) all the way to town. We would see. It struck me how lucky we had been that the 2 times we had got seriously stuck other vehicles had arrived on the scene in minutes, and in between times we had seen no-one. It was utterly feasible that without them we could have been stuck there for hours. Maybe someone up there is looking after us.
Somewhere down the line though, something had gone a bit nasty with the clutch. For some obscure reason Iíd suddenly developed loads of slack in the cable. It was just about still working when I adjusted the slack out but I couldnít help worrying about why it had happened. Had the thrust bearing collapsed? It was not the place and time to find out. It was not completely broken so I was not going to completely fix it.
It had taken us over 3 hours to complete 4 miles of road. This was without doubt the worst bit of road we had ridden through on the trip. But we had made it, without injury and with Bertha still able to move, if a little under the weather. Poor Bertha was caked in mud. If we rode her like this the brakes would be permanently on and the heat of the engine would set the mud into a casing around it and the poor old girl would overheat. She needed a wash. The puddles nearby had clean black water (in the rain forest the water is tinged deep amber with concentrated plant extracts, much as it is in peaty areas) and I set about repeatedly filling a plastic bag with water and rinsing her down, while Pat cleaned up the electrics and perused the damage to the clutch.
Now that we were safely out of the wars, I tried as politely as I could to ask Pat to please, if we hit a bad section again to let me check it out first. It served no purpose berating him, and in truth he was without prompting shameful that overconfidence had got the better of him. I didnít need telling, really. I know when Iíve been a pillock.
All three of us well rested and ready, Bertha started first time and we set off to face the rest of the journey. The man in the 4x4 had told us mostly the truth. Although the rest of the road was not perfect laterite, with slithery patches, muddy sections and potholes it was all ride-able. At each hamlet on the way, we got updated news on Kazu, he was apparently a day ahead of us and had also made it through.
Despite spending so long on the first section, we calculated that we could possibility make it all the way to Georgetown that day, mainly because we had started so early. At Mabura the police wanted us to fill in paperwork being a pair of foreigners. A little irritated about having to hang around in bike gear in the heat and humidity, at least it was an opportunity to eat something take a drink and squeeze some more of the lake out of our boots.
The road broadened into highway width with a mixture of corrugations, potholes and mini channels caused by rivulets in the recent rains. There were minibuses hooning recklessly in both directions now and again, in only the way that minibuses can.
We stopped in at 58 Mile, a shop 58 miles from Linden (I like these places ñ you know where you are) where the tar begins, as we heard the place had petrol and it looked a rather nice little eatery (for the middle of the jungle). Peter and Ruth, the proprietors, were making a fair trade as it was clearly the main rest stop for the minibuses and trucks on the road. And to be fair it was a veritable little haven in the middle of nowhere. They were presumably planning to develop with site and had built a stand on the other side of the road and were levelling an area for a cricket pitch. And why not, cricket in the jungle ñ it was OK to play rugby in Fantasia.
Refreshed and only another 58 miles till tarmacadam. Stupidly neither of us checked the mileage as we set, and it was the longest 58miles we have done and Linden seemed to be evading us.
The first sign we were getting near was a couple of people on bicycles, then speed limit signs. I could see a huge gravel speed bump ahead; Pat did not seem to be slowing up. He saw it too late! We hit it as Pat locked up the brakesÖthe back end kicked out as we did so. It was out of control as we rounded the crest. The bike lunged from side to side. I braced myself for the inevitable crashÖ
The bike was still upright and going forward. How we made it over there, I donít know. Bertha I salute you! It looks like our guardian angels are still with us. Or a genius bit of riding, as I prefer to call it. For a complete prat, that is. Blind I may be but spotting this behemoth really should have been easy as it was about 2 feet high.
Back on the black stuff ñ ahhhhh - relief. A brief stop to fill up and put the tyre pressures back up to tar levels. A lovely chat with a couple of local chaps, who seemed impressed by our insanity for riding round the world.
Still hoping to get to Georgetown before the VSO office shut for the weekend. The traffic police stopped us to check documents, we pleaded that we were in a rush to get to town and they let us go on. It was going to be tight but we might make it before 5 oíclock. On the outskirts of town, a bike traffic cop flagged us down. Normally the police like to chat with fellow bikers, and we welcome the friendly conversation. But today with a time schedule we would rather push on.
We had been on the road for nearly 12 hours and the first 3 of those had sapped our strength, and Pat was not feeling his most diplomatic. He felt it necessary to point out to the policeman that his number plate was falling off. I was not sure about Patís strategy, on this one; it was liable to provoke a defensive reaction. At this point in the proceedings I assumed he was one of the myriad coppers who just pull us over to ogle and chat and actually thought he might be pleased to have the plate problem pointed out. The policeman immediately berated us for not having a front number plate at all. We tried to point out that this was a temporarily imported vehicle and so didnít have one, and that in fact they are illegal in the UK. This cut no mustard with him, saying ëbut youíre in Guyana nowí. We remembered the reputation of the traffic police, that 9 times out of ten they are wanting a little remuneration. We didnít play ball. It was fair to say that the police in Linden, Mabura and Lethem had permitted us to travel and said nothing regards plates and so did the customs guy. So pleading ignorant tourist was completely fair play. Of course now he wanted to see all our other documents which of course means unloading the bike, because they are packed out of harms/water/muds way. Patís tiredness is beginning to show and his tetchiness, sarcasm and pedantry were rearing their ugly heads. It is clear to me that this particular policeman is one of those guys that likes to assert their authority on others to boost their egos, and their pockets. Getting ëcleverí with him was only likely to inflame the situation, and I knew we have no insurance document and by mistake we had left our dodgy one in Annai, we were not in a position to upset policemen.
He clearly had no idea what our carnet was and wanted to know why there was no stamp for a leaving day. To me this was obvious we are not leaving so it will be not be stamped until we do. But he wanted a form to say how long we could stay with the vehicle. We didnít have one and with a carnet we didnít need one, but he was now determined to make us suffer.
Next the driving licence, luckily although we had left the new one in Annai we still had the old one. Ssshhh, Hippy, donít tell the DVLC that Iíve got two or theyíll come and get us.
Next insurance. Ahh. BlufffÖ..rummage in the boxes again. Just at this point, a passing motorist wound down his window and shouted, ìCome on maaan, theyís travellers. Gi dem a break.î Bizarrely, Officer Officious did indeed ease up on us and told us to get a number plate and local insurance as soon as possible. I like the way that getting insurance soon as you can is enough. No real problem if you run someone over on the way there.
We were there. Georgetown, the garden city. Incredible. I was left feeling that the journey was over. This was such a huge milestone for us. We knew our way around, we spoke the language (kind of), there were lots of friends just round the corner. It really was like coming home. But no one was in! The VSO office had closed a while earlier ñ weíd have got there in time but for the number plate saga. As Mansoor would probably be busy at the mosque, with it being a Friday and all, we decided to find out where Kazu was staying so we could talk biking heroics. His hotel turned out to be an old favourite haunt of a friend of ours (no name, pack drill and all that) and to this day has a large section of the Georgetown prostitute population trading within its walls. It was the cheapest option but was lacking some necessities ñ fan, mosquito net and the like. I was so tired that I really couldnít give a stuff but Hips wanted to look at other options. A place we used to stay at was a block away and so after sharp words I took myself off in search of an alternative. Iíll be honest, although we have often stayed in brothels on this trip; somehow it felt different staying in one when we were likely to bump into people we know. Every where else we arrive as strangers and who really cares what others think. We would be contacting Mansoor, a dear friend, who is very tolerant of our atheist ways but brothel habitation is pushing it a little far.
I shuffled along with my head down muttering curses. My feet were hurting as I was now without socks in an effort to dry out me boots. I barely noticed a group of folk pass me. ìSir Patrickî, or thatís what I thought I heard. Very odd but it hardly registered. When it was repeated, I turned to be faced by one of Hippy and my favourite students. I was overjoyed to be able to casually say, ìHello Anthony, how are you?î His delight at me remembering his name was a picture. This guy has one of the most endearing smiles of all time. I really began to feel at home.
By the alternative hotel, which regrettably had no parking space, a lad was putting an extremely convincing looking off road bike to bed beneath his house. I asked him if he had any room for Bertha and he started on some long tale about how he was going to come and meet us down at Lethem and that heíd been looking at our website. Very odd. We never really said anything about coming up this way in our journal. Still, this is Guyana and everyone knows what is going on. His friend alongside him was a reporter who wanted to write about our journey. Stranger and stranger.
Back guarding the bike gear in the brothel, I began to notice how I appear and smell from the strange looks people were giving me. Twelve hours on the road in full bike gear at temperatures of 30 plus and 95% humidity, having wading through murky water, and your head having been sweating in a helmet all day, does not I assure you make you look or smell the best. Now I could read the minds of the professional ladies present as they eyed me up and down. And felt their disapproval of my unkempt appearance. Our unsavoury condition was the reason I dissuaded Pat from turning up at the mosque on prayer day to see Mansoor on our way into town.
Pat seemed to be taking a long time and had gone off in such a mood, that I began to wonder if he was wandering the streets in a huff. In his present muddy and sweaty condition, potentially muttering to himself about me, he could easily be mistaken for a lunatic. Whatís new?
Pat introduced me to the reporter, Jamie, that he had met. Who said that he had planned to come out and meet us, and show us the best way through the mud. Interestingly the puddle where we first fell on our side he had also fallen over on his bike and the section where Pat drowned the bike he said ëyou got to take the sand on the leftí. Pat knows that now! Bit fed up of everyone keeping telling me, actually.
The room in the end was better than we had thought as at least we managed to get the fan working to deter the mosquitoes. A drink with Kazu to a bar that the reporter guy had suggested. Which turned out to be far too loud for easy discussion with someone who first language is not English, but we had arranged for the reporter to meet us so we were stuck with it. Typically Jamie the reporter never showed up, and the 3 of us bikers swapped information on the Americas and Africa shouting over thumping ësocaí (the Guyanese believe in playing music loud, normally to the point of distortion). Although we had tried to get to the point in the bar furthest from the speakers, it was hard to carry out a conversation. To be fair to Jamie, it later turned out that he was sitting outside the bar and had assumed that we had not turned up. I canít believe we managed to stay up for so long after a day like this and my tiredness came out when we got back to the hotel. Even though the bar was now pumping to wild cabalistic rhythms (it was Friday night in the brothel, after all) I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.