Left Beyond the Horizon: A Land Rover Odyssey 9783667103154, 3667103158

Table of contents :
Cover......Page 1
Title......Page 4
Contents......Page 6
Foreword......Page 8
Travel Warning......Page 9
Curiosity (Matilda – 1 May 2002)......Page 10
Comprehension (Russia Part One – 1 August 2002)......Page 14
The Tale of Kyakhta (15 November 2002)......Page 24
Affinity (Mongolia – 25 November 2002)......Page 29
The Tale of Life at Low Temperatures (25 December 2002)......Page 40
Resilience (Russia Part Two – 21 February 2003)......Page 45
The Tale of the Bush (USA Part One – 26 April 2003)......Page 50
Tranquility (Canada – 8 July 2003)......Page 58
The Tale of Shadows (USA Part Two – 23 October 2003)......Page 63
Dependency (Mexico – 17 March 2004)......Page 69
Jealousy (Belize – 13 April 2004)......Page 75
Intensity (Guatemala – 9 May 2004)......Page 78
Desperation (Honduras – 24 July 2004)......Page 82
The Tail of Paddy (27 July 2004)......Page 86
Irritation (Costa Rica – 2 September 2004)......Page 93
Anticipation (Panama – 1 October 2004)......Page 97
South America......Page 99
Prejudice (Colombia – 5 November 2004)......Page 101
Confidence (Ecuador – 8 January 2005)......Page 106
Grievance (Peru – 15 April 2005)......Page 108
The Tale of Conduct (1 May 2005)......Page 113
Integrity (Bolivia – 24 May 2005)......Page 114
Desire (Chile – 8 August 2005)......Page 123
Relaxation (Argentina – 6 October 2005)......Page 127
Exhilaration (Argentina / Chile – 8 January 2006)......Page 132
The Tale of God's Evolution (20 March 2006)......Page 137
Melancholy (Patagonia – 15 September 2006)......Page 140
Africa......Page 147
Racism (South Africa Part One – 11 April 2007)......Page 149
Incompatibility (South Africa Part Two – 20 May 2007)......Page 155
The Tale of the Boss (30 August 2007)......Page 162
Courage (Lesotho and Swaziland – 28 November 2007)......Page 173
Absurdity (Kruger National Park – 9 January 2008)......Page 177
Insanity (Zimbabwe – 30 March 2008)......Page 180
Bewilderment (Botswana – 27 April 2008)......Page 186
Purity (Namibia – 6 July 2008)......Page 189
Enjoyment (Angola – 25 August 2008)......Page 193
Hostility (Democratic Republic of Congo – 10 September 2008)......Page 197
Gratitude (Zambia – 20 October 2008)......Page 204
Incompetence (Malawi – 28 December 2008)......Page 212
Love (Tanzania – 15 January 2009)......Page 215
The Tale of Generations (1 May 2009)......Page 223
Brutality (Kenya and Uganda – 10 May 2009)......Page 231
Fury (Ethiopia – 20 July 2009)......Page 236
Optimism (Somaliland – 1 September 2009)......Page 245
Torment (Djibouti – 23 September 2009)......Page 255
The Tale of "IF" (20 October 2009)......Page 259
The Arab League......Page 265
Transcendence (Sudan – 9 November 2009)......Page 266
Wisdom (Egypt – 31 December 2009)......Page 278
The Tale of Another Bush (15 February 2010)......Page 283
Chivalry (Jordan – 31 March 2010)......Page 294
Perceptiveness (Syria – 1 May 2010)......Page 299
Home......Page 303
The Gateway (Turkey – 1 July 2010)......Page 304
The Return to Europe (10 August 2010)......Page 308
The Tale of Home (1 September 2010)......Page 312
The Tale of Utopia......Page 318
References......Page 320
Acknowledgements......Page 322
Top 10 Reasons Not to Purchase a Land Rover – An Ode to Matilda......Page 323
Interview with the Author – Frankfurt Book Fair 2011......Page 326
Update: January 2015 – What Became of ...?......Page 333
About This Edition......Page 335
Copyright......Page 336
Bildteil......Page 337

Citation preview

Left Beyond the Horizon A LAND ROVER ODYSSEY CHRISTOPHER MANY

DELIUS KLASING VERLAG

A must-read for anyone interested in learning more about foreign cultures and what makes them “tick”. Convincing and relentless in his pursuit of presenting a clearer global view, the author detonates a concentrated charge of information like few authors have done before. - Kleine Zeitung Not only does the author’s curiosity propel him towards foreign countries, cultures and adventures, but his narration also awakens the same curiosity and wanderlust in the reader. - Neues Volksblatt This book paints more than a lively picture of a world voyage; it’s also a gripping documentation of global affairs between 2002 and 2010, written by somebody who was actually there. - Börsen-Kurier A travelling philosopher, Christopher Many recounts his adventures around the world in his delightful book Left Beyond the Horizon. With wit and a sprinkle of humour, he describes the weird and wonderful as well as political and historical aspects of countries visited. - Moments Magazin Christopher Many’s experiences, including the comical, the dangerous and the heartwarming, are enough to fill entire volumes. The manner in which he describes encounters with people and their cultures distinguishes him as an extremely critical observer, who ­incessantly asks questions, yet never condemns. Come along and enjoy a tour de force of our planet – you’ll understand what it’s like to suffer through -50 degree nights in Siberia, discover how tasty rat-burgers can be, be arrested at the border to Mongolia, or … - Buchtipps Online Just do it. Escape from the stress of everyday life and discover the world. Don’t just do what everyone expects of you. Have you ever had similar dreams? This book is more than a travelogue; Christopher experiences places and people with far more intensity than most travelbook authors can, simply because he has time, lots of time. He attempts to understand how the world “ticks”, by the meticulous observation of people he encounters all over the globe. Readers partake in his journey, discover the world and ultimately themselves. This is precisely what makes the book so very unique. - Genussmaenner Magazin

Contents Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Travel Warning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

7 8

Europe and Asia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Curiosity (Matilda – 1 May 2002) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Comprehension (Russia Part One – 1 August 2002) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Tale of Kyakhta (15 November 2002) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Affinity (Mongolia – 25 November 2002) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Tale of Life at Low Temperatures (25 December 2002) . . . . . . . . . . . . Resilience (Russia Part Two – 21 February 2003) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

9 13 23 28 39 44

North and Central America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 The Tale of the Bush (USA Part One – 26 April 2003) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tranquility (Canada – 8 July 2003) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Tale of Shadows (USA Part Two – 23 October 2003) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dependency (Mexico – 17 March 2004) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jealousy (Belize – 13 April 2004) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Intensity (Guatemala – 9 May 2004) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Desperation (Honduras – 24 July 2004) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Tail of Paddy (27 July 2004) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Irritation (Costa Rica – 2 September 2004) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anticipation (Panama – 1 October 2004) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

49 57 62 68 74 77 81 85 92 96

South America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 Prejudice (Colombia – 5 November 2004) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 Confidence (Ecuador – 8 January 2005) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Grievance (Peru – 15 April 2005) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 The Tale of Conduct (1 May 2005) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112 Integrity (Bolivia – 24 May 2005) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113 Desire (Chile – 8 August 2005) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122 Relaxation (Argentina – 6 October 2005) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126 Exhilaration (Argentina / Chile – 8 January 2006) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131 The Tale of God’s Evolution (20 March 2006) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136 Melancholy (Patagonia – 15 September 2006) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139

Africa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146

Racism (South Africa Part One – 11 April 2007) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148 Incompatibility (South Africa Part Two – 20 May 2007) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 The Tale of the Boss (30 August 2007) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 Courage (Lesotho and Swaziland – 28 November 2007) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172 Absurdity (Kruger National Park – 9 January 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176 Insanity (Zimbabwe – 30 March 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179 Bewilderment (Botswana – 27 April 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185 Purity (Namibia – 6 July 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188 Enjoyment (Angola – 25 August 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192 Hostility (Democratic Republic of Congo – 10 September 2008) . . . . . . . 196 Gratitude (Zambia – 20 October 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203 Incompetence (Malawi – 28 December 2008) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211 Love (Tanzania – 15 January 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 214 The Tale of Generations (1 May 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 222 Brutality (Kenya and Uganda – 10 May 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 230 Fury (Ethiopia – 20 July 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 235 Optimism (Somaliland – 1 September 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 244 Torment (Djibouti – 23 September 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 254 The Tale of “IF” (20 October 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 258

The Arab League . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 264 Transcendence (Sudan – 9 November 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265 Wisdom (Egypt – 31 December 2009) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 277 The Tale of Another Bush (15 February 2010) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 282 Chivalry (Jordan – 31 March 2010) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 293 Perceptiveness (Syria – 1 May 2010) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298

Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 302 The Gateway (Turkey – 1 July 2010) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303 The Return to Europe (10 August 2010) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 307 The Tale of Home (1 September 2010) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 311 The Rat’s Tail . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317

The Tale of Utopia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 317 References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 319 Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 321 Top 10 Reasons Not to Purchase a Land Rover – An Ode to Matilda . . . . . 322 Interview with the Author – Frankfurt Book Fair 2011 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 325 Update: January 2015 – What Became of ... ? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332 About This Edition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 334

Foreword

O

f all possible titles, I almost decided to call this book “The Laotian­ ­Rat-Burger”. In order to explain, I must look back upon an experience in Laos, early spring 1999. After having survived on little more than rice for weeks, I came across a small restaurant overlooking the Mekong River near the town of Vang Vieng. Advertised outside on a blackboard menu, I deciphered “Hamburgers”. For the culinary-challenged traveller spending years in remote parts of Asia, the mere mention of simple Western dishes can evoke unparalleled cravings … and so I ordered. The burger was delicious. Upon leaving the restaurant I glanced upward to the tin roof of the establishment. There, neatly laid out in orderly rows, were dozens of large rat skins drying in the warm sun. Overcome by curiosity, I returned inside to question the waiter about the meaning of his odd rooftop collection. He replied with a single word: “Hamburgers.” I might have felt nauseous, had they not been so irresistibly good. The ­following week I visited the restaurant daily to order my minced rat-in-a-bun. The lesson learned is an important one: had I initially known the burger was rat, would I ever have ordered? Would you? Probably not. We are all severely conditioned by our upbringing and the media: Colombia is dangerous, America is the “Land of the Free”, Muslims are terrorists, “Aid for Africa” is good and rat-burgers cannot possibly be tasty. But how much of this, if any, is true? Travel has the ability to challenge your most fundamental ethical values and beliefs. There are more risks lurking: not only will a traveller’s views of the ­“outer world” change, but he will spend a fair amount of his time on the road soulsearching … his own, as well as those of his fellow earthlings. Emotions be­come intensified, ranging from a state of blissful ecstasy to one of selfdestruction. Upon returning “home”, NOTHING will appear the same as before. This book is an account of more than eight years spent on the road in 100 different countries. My objective is to present you with questions, not answers. My hope is that you will seek these answers yourselves by undertaking your own world voyage. It’s worth it: we inhabit a wonderfully strange planet, and the days of exploration are not a thing of the past. They have only just begun. Enjoy Your Laotian Rat-Burger. Bon Appetite!

7

Travel Warning

I

f you prefer political correctness over observed reality, then you may find a few chapters disturbing. I call a spade a spade and let stupidity and ignorance shine where they merit mention. Thus, at times, countries and cultures – including our own – do not fare well in the following, though of course individual people will always sparkle brightly. Should your educated opinions differ from mine, they are just as valid, as long as they are based upon first-hand experiences abroad. Important is not who is “right or wrong”, but that we express our personal truths openly and honestly. Hiding behind political correctness, patriotic dogmas, religious beliefs and social conventions will only smudge a traveller’s perspective and lead nowhere. And please also remember that this book describes our planet as I witnessed it, alongside many global events, in the time period between 2002 and 2010. It is possible that in the meantime, the world has changed – hopefully for the better. Apropos: the “Rat-Burger” title did not tickle the taste buds of my publisher, and so my manuscript was renamed Left Beyond The Horizon. I borrowed this phrase from the tale of Peter Pan, who gave similar vague directions when asked for the route to Neverland. He points to the heavens with a smile and replies: “Second star to the right and straight on ’til morning”. Your GPS will have a hard time plotting a course with this information – as is precisely my intention. I want you to become lost. Turn right, turn left ... it is of no import­ ance. You are entering virgin territory, EVERYTHING you encounter will be new and fascinating, no matter where you turn. Christopher Many Winter 2015

8

Europe and Asia Exploring the Zeroth Dimension In the beginning it all seemed so ridiculously simple; there was never any doubt in your mind as to where you were in the global scheme of things. “Right there,” you had said, pricking the world map with a drawing pin slightly north of Inverness, Scotland. … The mathematician may classify your pinprick as a hypercube of zero dimension within Euclidean space. It resembles an infinitely small spatial point without width, length, height, edges, faces, volume, area or cells. They can be denoted with the equation: P = (a1, a2, ..., an) Whereby n is the dimension of the space in which the point is located. Below is an image representing zero dimension as a point:

Curiosity (Matilda – 1 May 2002)

T

“

his is it!” I exclaim from behind the cobweb-covered steering wheel. “I’ll buy it.”

Amidst the Scottish Highlands, near the quaint town of Fort William, stands a neglected Land Rover. The morning light on a rare rainless day does little to improve its appearance. Battered by the elements for three decades, this wonder of British engineering does not seem to be the ideal vehicle for a trip around the world. Yet, seated inside, gazing through the dusty windscreen, I hear a voice pleading: “Take me with you!” Closer inspection reveals it will be less a matter of repair and more a question of resurrection. “Matilda”, as I named her – not in memory of a former

9

girlfriend but after the Australian slang term for a sleeping bag – began her life as a 1975 long-wheelbase Series III military Land Rover with a 2286cc 4-cylinder petrol engine. As a member of the UK Parachute Regiment, she had been tossed out of the occasional aeroplane in her youthful years, though bombing the enemy with chute-less Land Rovers would have surely been more effective. By the mid-1980s Matilda was forced into retirement, no longer deemed fit to protect the British Isles from potential invaders. Auctioned off to a Scottish farmer, she was moved to a Highland croft; her years of “honour and ­glory” now rewarded with the prospect of hauling sheep between paddocks. No wonder I heard the pleading voice whispering into my ear: my first job would be to remove all the sheep shit from the rear. But for GBP 700 (around USD 1,000), what could I expect? I quit my job with British Waterways two days after meeting Matilda. It’s a myth that a world trip requires long and careful preparation. I fail to understand why many travellers take years researching before they finally set off. One doesn’t spend months gathering information to prepare an Austrian skiing trip or a weekend in Paris – driving to Mongolia from Europe is no different. Yes, one might have a few additional borders to cross, but ultimately the procedure is identical. “Do I have sufficient funds?” Hmm … yes. My savings should last a few years. “Passport and credit cards?” Yep, check. “Well, I guess that’s it then.” I chuck my pre-packed trekking rucksack into the back of the Landy, turn the ignition key, and leave the British Isles for Germany for final family visits and to make Matilda more “liveable”. Sitting in my parents’ driveway, an hour south of Munich, I percolate coffee on my newly installed stove, the first of countless cups to come. Matilda’s appearance has changed considerably over the past month. With help from the local welding workshop, I’ve added a roof extension and various interior fittings. No longer is she the derelict wreck neglected in a farmer’s field, but a thing of great beauty – at least in my eyes. The only thing I seem unable to do, despite all cleaning efforts, is rid the vehicle from the lingering and pungent smell of Highland sheep. I give my parents the “Grand Tour” of my refurbished home. “It’s a four-room house on six square metres,” I explain, folding down the hatch: “upstairs bedroom”; showing off the running water from my 40-litre tank: “kitchenette”; swivelling the collapsible table into place: “dining room”;

10

Norway Sweden Finland Oslo Stockholm Helsinki

Moscow

Russia

Astana

Kazakhstan

Ulaanbaatar

North Korea

Mongolia

Beijing

Seoul

Japan

Tokyo

South Korea

China

ic of Trop cer Can

EQU

11

R ATO

and pointing towards the multiple storage compartments in the rear: “basement. So what do you think?” “Where’s the bathroom?!” my mother asks bewildered. But I see by the twinkle in her eyes that she’s impressed. Matilda is approved. Despite all intentions of making a clean break with society’s conventions, complete detachment is impossible. Medical insurance is wise to keep, likewise a postal address and Carnet de Passages for one’s vehicle in order to facili­tate customs procedures worldwide. But otherwise, Matilda is neither taxed nor insured.1 I do hope I have no accidents on the road. Though leaving Scotland marked the actual beginning of my trip, saying farewell to my loved-ones in Germany brought the first realisation of indefinite separation from all so dear to me. Unlike many other travellers, I’m not actu­ ally running away from Europe. I’m simply curious as to what lays beyond the horizon. I’ll be picking up Rob, a British friend of mine who’ll join me on the trip. Then we’ll turn north through Scandinavia for as far as the road will take us. Following the contours of the Norwegian coastline with its countless fjords and isles, we intend to enter Russia north of the Arctic Circle. Standing atop a hill near Kirkenes, I have my first glimpse of Russia over the border. Grey smoke pours from a dystopian industrial site. Polluted air wafts between the cubistic concrete slabs of a grey housing project. I imagine grey people coughing their way to work, tired of a Soviet five-year plan gone horribly wrong. I pivot 180 degrees and look down at Norway. The sky is blue, homely red-painted cabins dot the beautiful scenery. “Why am I going to Russia?” I ask myself. In the back of my head I hear the opening lines of every Star Trek episode, ­complete with melody, words slightly altered: “Europe – the Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the Land-Ship Matilda. Its multi-year mission: to explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life and new civilisations. To boldly go where I have not gone before.” 1 No European motor insurance company provides worldwide coverage. Country-specific insurances can be taken out at every border en route. Outside of the West, this is seldom mandatory, and the traveller must decide if these insurances are worth the extra expense. Many companies in the Third World never pay out anyway if you have an accident, and even when they do, the maximum claim is often only a few hundred dollars.

12

Comprehension (Russia Part One – 1 August 2002)

R

ussia is not merely big, but massive. Spanning 11 time zones,2 it is ­truly a country where the sun never sets. The UK, for example, would fit snugly 13 TIMES into the single Russian republic of Sakha, with room to squeeze Ireland in as well. Despite various former Soviet republics recently gaining independence, Mother Russia is still by far the largest country on the planet.

The border customs officer offers no welcoming greeting; his expression is as dour as the framed Putin hanging on the wall behind him. A few dozen forms in Cyrillic are signed, no questions asked, not that I could decipher them anyhow. For all I know I could have just conscripted myself to 10 years hard labour in some proverbial Siberian gulag. The barbed gate opens and we are waved through. My first bleak impression of Murmansk had been from a viewpoint atop a Norwegian hill. My second impression is no better. All colours have drained from sight and greyness engulfs the entire city. A Murmansk documentary filmed in black and white would differ little from witnessed reality. Rob and I check in to the most central hotel, a drab megalith building seemingly constructed to confirm the notion that “size matters”. Its 500-plus rooms are as cubical as the building itself, and offer little more than a well-worn mattress, a naked light bulb, a stained sink and a flickering television set. We wipe a circular area clean of grime on the pane and peer through. So this is it: Welcome to Russia. The whole idea of a Siberian vacation formed when Rob and I met for the first time in New Zealand on my previous world trip by motorcycle. It didn’t take long for us to realise how much we shared in common. Our hobbies, phil­ osophies and interests were mostly identical. But it was our mutual passion for travel that became the strongest bond in our friendship, and when we heard that Russia was relaxing its tight control over tourism, we decided to join forces on a Russian overland journey. Prior to 2002, independent travel was difficult, with 2 Reduced officially from 11 to nine in 2010

13

visitors restricted to a few weeks on a pre-planned itinerary with prebooked accommodation in government controlled hotels. A camping holiday was out of the question. With an atlas on our laps we had sketched a route from Murmansk to Vladivostok, deciding to avoid well-known and easy-to-visit cities such as Moscow or St Petersburg, and instead follow the northernmost route possible on a grand transit west to east. Choice of roads was made easy by the simple fact that Russia has very few once you’re passed the Urals. The thoroughfare generally follows the Trans-Siberian Railway, the main lifeline connecting remote areas to the outside world. With an adventurer’s spirit akin to Britain’s Henry Morton Stanley, we wish to experience numerous encounters with Russia’s “natives”, previously secluded from direct contact with the West. We applied for, and received, a one-year visa for the heart of the former Soviet Union. But first … a cup of tea. I turn the tap above the discoloured sink to watch only a rust-brown muck dribble out. Usually the first few days in a new country give you the preamble of what lies ahead. I sincerely hope this country will be an exception to the rule. Surely Russians in Murmansk have found a solution to the tea enigma. I doubt diluting the taps’ brew with vodka would make it drinkable. The answer to all our wishes sits in a hallway corner opposite the elevator door. She is massive and old, the aphorism of Mother Russia herself, and said to have a heart of gold: the maître d’hôtel and babushka responsible for our hotel’s seventh floor. She alone has the power to grant you tea, bread or clean towels. She may serve dinner and even allow prostitutes into your room. All of it depending on how much she actually likes you. My first lesson in Russia: be friendly to your babushka! Babushkas are easy to recognise, for they all seem to have the same stocky appearance with arms the size of tree trunks and, often, a delicate moustache adorning their lips. We receive our tea in cracked cups from a sizeable samovar solely under her command Late that night there is a persistent tapping on our door. I open to find two rather pretty girls standing outside our room, wearing very revealing clothing. I thank them profusely, decline their offer of intimate company, and return to bed with a smile on my face. It’s official: our seventh-floor babushka likes us.

14

Murmansk itself is quickly explored. The dying Russian Fleet is sitting in the harbour, sunk not by capitalist warships but through neglect from the enemy within: a broke and corrupt government. A 40-metre-tall, reinforced-concrete statue of Alyosha – a colossal soldier commemorating the defenders of Russia’s arctic territories during the Second World War – proclaims Soviet immortality from atop a hill, waiting silently for the days of the empire to return. There is also a permanent amusement park which looks like it hasn’t amused anybody for decades. The few functioning fair rides creak precariously, perhaps too dangerous for children to enjoy, and paint is peeling form the horses of the merry-go-round. I feel a melancholic sadness sweep through me, but it’s readily replaced by euphoria once I purchase my first Russian Belomorkanal smokes: a pack of cigarettes sells for the equivalent of just seven US dollar cents in Murmansk. We start the Landy and head south-east to the White Sea. Every town, regardless of size, has a police checkpoint at its city limits; sometimes we are waved through but more often than not we are stopped and asked to produce passports and driving licences. “Where are you going?” they always ask. “Vladivostok!” is always the answer. An appreciative nod is the usual reaction. They know the distances we must cover and understand the hardships we might endure. “Be careful,” we are warned. “Here you are safe. Once passed the Urals it becomes dangerous. The people are not like us …” Solovetsky Island, in the White Sea, became famous through Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s book The Gulag Archipelago. The Russian novelist and historian was imprisoned at various labour camps for eight years and survived to tell the tale. We desperately want to visit the island, and after meeting an elderly Norwegian who has chartered a replica of one of Peter the Great’s sailing vessels, the Nikolai (complete with on-board cannon), we are offered a free one-way passage. How we return to the mainland will be our problem. Setting sail from Kem harbour, we see Solovetsky Island slowly come into view. For the first time I glimpse the Russia of my dreams. Onion-domed Ortho­dox Church steeples glitter golden in the sun. We spot a village of rustic log cabins and people toiling in their gardens, digging potatoes and cabbage.

15

Fresh farm air wafts from the island’s shores over the last remaining mile of water. Soon we are sitting outside the walls of the monastery, indulging in some people watching. Gone are the dour Putinish faces of Murmansk, replaced by genuine smiles and waves of greeting. It may be true that people resemble the environment they live in. A young stonemason, employed in restoring the monastery, invites us to his home for supper and a bottle of vodka. Or is it vodka with supper? For in Russia, vodka is the elixir of life – sometimes cheaper than water and considered the panacea for all ailments, without which life would be impossible to bear. We eat pasta and drink abundantly. Conversation held in a Russian-GermanEnglish hybrid becomes increasingly easier proportionate to the contents drained from the bottle. Unaccustomed to vodka, I feel my speech slurring, but I soldier on. If I am to spend a year in this country, I had better prepare my metabolism to cope with local customs. There is no alternative. A few travellers have escaped Russian drinking sessions by proclaiming they are alcoholics. It works, but will also build a barrier between cultures. You will be pitied, looked upon as a sad curiosity, and never quite admitted to the inner sanctum of Russian friendship. Suffer. Get used to it. Soon enough your body will adapt. Moreover, one’s senses will belie reality, allowing Russian cities to blossom for a brief time into a multihued spring. ... I find myself being whipped by naked sweaty monks with birch branches in a Soviet cellar. And no, this is not some perverse Russian fetish or an unorthodox orthodox method of purgatory for excessive consumption of vodka. All is completely as it should be. I’m in a Russian “banya”, the equivalent of a sauna. The fact that nudist monks – and not ordinary locals – are doing their best to exorcise my bodily demons by lashing my back with adolescent birch trees is only because we are camping at the Syktyvkar Monastery. But soon enough I can have my sweet revenge and whip my monk in return. Visiting a banya regularly is Russian tradition, and Rob and I try to partake in the ritual at every opportunity. After some initial hesitations we find the visits rather cleansing. Birch leaves have a soothing aroma, and the whipping

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strengthens circulation, or so they say. And it definitely helps cure a vodka migraine! We often see women on the side of the road selling fistfuls of branches they’ve obviously picked from nearby forests. Choosing the right branches for your private banya is an art akin to inspecting a thoroughbred stallion. They should neither be too old nor the twigs too thick, or otherwise the whipping may turn sadistic. Soon, I learn another significance of the banya. It is the epitome of the socialgathering place in most communities. One house in every dozen will usually have one, and all the neighbours communally share it. While sitting on wooden benches, stories are swapped, politics discussed and poetry recited. I assume, albeit without proof, that this is where potential built-up aggression towards annoying neighbours are vented. You just whip them harder than you usually would when it’s your turn to swing the cane. I fail to find any equiva­ lent of community intimacy within the rest of Europe; even those of us who hold a weekly back-garden BBQ invite mostly friends, not every neighbour. Could this banya tradition work in, say, England? Would we then finally lose our hostility regarding petty issues such as “whose branches are hanging over whose fence” or “at what time our dear neighbour decides to mow his lawn”? A few months into our journey, we are now following the Trans-Siberian Railway. Every diversion northward off the parallel running road has ended either in a dead end or peat bog. Sometimes we follow a sidetrack for hundreds of kilometres, only to find it peter out into a forestry road for timber-mill workers. But true to our initial intentions, we encounter Russians who have never met outsiders before. On one such “road to nowhere” we cross a wide river by ferry. Our Russian has improved significantly, enabling a conversation with the ferryman. Rob has a vocabulary of 100 words, and I somewhat fewer, albeit different ones. By combined efforts, with the constant use of our dust-covered Land Rover as a drawing blackboard, we make ourselves understood. Proudly, the ferryman shows us his ship. We descend into the bowels of the engine room, where the pistons noisily pump away, not quite camouflaging the unhealthy gnashing sound of worn ball bearings. “It’s all the fault of Gorbachev,” he explains. “He was the worst thing that could happen to Russia.

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We all hated him.” This is new to me. The West considers Gorbachev an ambassador for peace, a hero, a Nobel-Prize winner – apparently, however, only because his actions were good for us, not for Russia. “Perestroika, I know, I know. What do we have from Perestroika? Mafia, crime, corruption and no ball bearings for my ferry!” When we reach the other side of the river, I pull out a few roubles to pay for the passage. “No, no. For you it’s free. You’re guests in Russia; you mustn’t pay. But wait ...” The ferryman disappears into his cabin and returns with a hard-boiled egg, his lunch for the day. “For you.” The past months have humbled me to the point of humiliation. Wherever we travel, people shower us with presents, expecting nothing in return. A teen­ager knocks on our window at a non-functioning traffic light and hands us a cas­sette by the latest Russian rock band. “So you remember us,” he smiles, before turning away; a fisherman presents us with his catch of the day; a businessman from St Petersburg passes us a Russian street map CD-Rom … T-shirts, stickers and postcards are piling up in our storage boxes. When visiting someone’s home I have to be careful not to over-admire any household item as it might be offered later as a present. We give in return what we can, knowing the exchange is not in proportion. Many Russians have next to nothing. The T-shirt may be a week’s wages, the egg is more precious than a dinner invitation to the Savoy in Paris. Rural Russia only functions nowadays because the people have adapted a lifestyle of bartering. Essentially, it’s a moneyless society. Teachers are paid with farm produce from students’ families, the village mechanic might have his leaking roof repaired by a former customer and the doctor may find a pile of firewood delivered to his banya. The odd ones out are the police, disliked by all. They may not have received a government salary for months. With nothing to barter, they rely on traffic-fines and corruption as a source of income for their families. We camp wild at roadsides behind bushes and eat our meals at “Stolovayas”, the Russian canteen-equivalent. Only two dishes are ever available, making a menu choice easy. It’s either a miniscule slab of dead cow with cabbage, or “borscht” surprise: a traditional stew with unidentifiable ingredients. Wash it down with a cup of watery Nescafé, and you are on your way again. We refill

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our water tanks from wells in the villages we pass through – there is always one in every street, because few houses have the luxury of running water – then head to the local kiosk to restock on edibles, an experience in itself for a firsttime visitor to Russia. Entering any shop, you will find three queues of equal length. The few wares are shelved behind counters, out of a customer’s reach. At queue one, you point out the items you wish to purchase before queuing at queue two, where one is told the price and expected to pay. At queue three, you finally receive your goods. God forbid you forgot that tin of tuna; one would have to endure the whole procedure again. Just beyond Perm-36, a former Soviet gulag and one of the last to close down in the late 1980s, an almost imperceptible incline leads through the forested Ural Mountains. Without a detailed map, we might have missed them completely. Only the slight decrease in Matilda’s speed indicates we are heading uphill. On the top stands a stone pillar: “ASIA” it reads, and on the far side “EUROPE”. We switch off the engine for a moment of solemn celebration. It seems we have already come so far, yet the distances deceive: we are still seven time zones from Vladivostok. Better get moving … a turn of the key and we roll onward, always towards the rising sun. ... The sound of an approaching train breaks the evening silence. I watch as a long, regular row of passenger carriage lights briefly illuminates our campsite, a staccato flashing with glimpses of faces staring out from behind the windows. They too are going to Vladivostok, and in a week the passengers will be wetting their feet in the Pacific. For us, Vladivostok is still several months away. “That was the Trans-Sib,” I tell Rob, who is busy cooking another delightful dinner from our meagre assortment of edibles. I don’t know how he does it. I look into our food box and see only potatoes, cabbage and salt. An hour of rustling in the kitchen, a call of “dinner is ready”, and behold: before me lies a vegetable lasagne complete with a starter and dessert. Magic. Either that, or Rob is wisely hiding all the goodies somewhere I can’t find them. For days now we’ve been camping near the tracks laid over a century ago. It took 25 years for convicts and the military to complete the 9,441-kilometre line – their diaries reveal the suffering they endured:

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“The winters, yes, they were bad. Minus 50 degrees, sometimes lower, we were always freezing. Suicide would have been preferable to awaiting winter’s end. Or so we believed. Come summer and the melting snow softened the ground into a swampy marsh attracting millions of mosquitoes. We could not escape them. Day and night we breathed insects, our bodies sore and swollen from hundreds of bites. Some were driven into insanity and made true what had been discussed on winter nights. In summer, that was when some committed suicide …”3 Such stories help to lessen our own misery. It’s the height of summer and temperatures can reach 40 degrees in Siberia. The mozzies even manage to follow us into the oblast capital, Novosibirsk. Sleeping on Matilda’s roof in front of Hotel Sibir because of the heat wave, we descend in the morning with scores of itching bites. As with the builders of the Trans-Sib, we are longing for winter to arrive. Seeking a bit of entertainment, we’re surprised how little this huge city has to offer. Visiting the Russian State Circus seems our best bet. Childhood memories reawakened, we sit in silent expectation, for it is well known that Russian acrobats are amongst the world’s finest. Then the grand moment, the ringmaster appears and with him is a … parrot. Parrot? No tigers, lions, elephants? But how often is one deceived by first impressions? Perhaps the parrot speaks Latin? It’s when the bird takes flight around the arena, occasionally shitting on spectators, I feel a first hint of disappointment. An embarrassing few minutes later Polly disappears into the furthest reaches of the tent’s rafters, oblivious to the ringmaster’s calling, and will perhaps never be seen again. Act Two opens with a white poodle being tugged in circles around the centre ring on a leash. It reluctantly jumps over hurdles half its height. The camel in the background doesn’t do much. The ponies, in contrast, merrily dump away as their riders sit facing backwards, observing the mess dispassionately. Then the “Last Great Russian Bear”, the eternal mascot of the Soviet Union, takes centre stage. He has seen better days, just like his country. With a bit of chain-pulling, he finally manages to pull himself onto his hind legs to please the cheering crowd. A diversion leads to Tobolsk, where in a flash of spontaneity, we decide to pay the local Communist Party Headquarters a visit. Instead of finding a smoke3 Copied from a rail-worker’s diary displayed at a museum in eastern Russia.

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filled room of hard-line Soviets, we are welcomed by a dozen spotty teenagers. Every attempt we make at discussing politics is thwarted. Yes, Stalin was a genius and Gorbachev wrecked our country, but wouldn’t we like some tea and biscuits? Together we visit the Tobolsk cemetery, where unmarked paupers’ graves lie next to the mafia’s magnificent catacombs, and pose for a photo in front of a bust of Lenin. With a party-pioneer badge pinned to our T-shirts and a red Communist Manifesto booklet in hand, we bid farewell – no wiser than before regarding communism, but at least our bellies are full. I’m glad to have met the people McCarthy so feared. One never quite knows what to expect when entering a new “oblast”, or province. The scenery has now become an endless birch forest and the distances between villages are increasing the further east we head. Time zones are crossed without our noticing. Were I to foolishly leave this road I might walk 3,000 kilometres through uninhabited tundra before finding myself lost on the equally empty shores of the Northeast Passage. Why environmentalists make such a fuss over the felling of the Amazon Rainforest but rarely mention the Siberian birch forests at climate-change conventions is beyond me. Compared to this, an Amazon expedition is merely a short stroll in the woods. In a sense, the warning we had received west of the Urals proved to be true. The people in the eastern oblasts are indeed very different, but, of course, none seem dangerous. Russia is not a homogenous society, but a colourfully mixed group of peoples with different cultural backgrounds. Stalin had once decided to grant many of the Soviet Union’s numerous ethnicities (of which today a total of more than 170 are officially recognised) a designated terri­ tory where they could pursue their cultural autonomy. Well … almost. It would have had to fit within a socialist framework. Some groups were welcomed more than others. The Altai received an autonomous republic near the Mongolian-Kazakhstan border, where their ancestral homeland lies. We spend a few weeks amongst them, trekking the mountainous area around Belukha, a picture-postcard peak more than 4,500 metres high. The Tuvans in the republic “next door” have achieved international stardom through the art of “throat-singing”, a practice where the throat is constricted while the mouth cavity is shaped to select overtones. The result seems humanly impossible: a single musician can simultaneously sing multiple pitches. Tuva is also the world’s only republic where shamanism is the official state religion. Jews were

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not so lucky, but then again, they seldom have been. In 1934, Stalin carved out the Jewish Autonomous Oblast for them in one of Russia’s harshest areas, near the Sea of Japan – essentially a region no one else wanted and as far away from Moscow as possible. At the Irkutsk city limit checkpoint, Rob and I are flagged over by the dreaded police. “Get out of the vehicle!” the sergeant barks. “Are you Christopher Many? We’ve been looking for you. Come into the station.” Being led inside, I expect to see “Wanted. Dead or Alive” posters pinned to the walls, complete with a blurry mugshot of me and a promise of a millionrouble reward. America’s Wild West may have long been tamed, but in Russia a sense of Wild East is still thriving. Whatever crime I’ve committed, it was definitely not for going through a red light. “Sit. Wait,” I’m ordered. “Anita will be here soon.” Anita? Who’s Anita? Then it slowly dawns on me. Anita is a woman living in Irkutsk we’d thought of visiting. Her address was given to us by Juri, a St Petersburg businessman, months ago, but we’d never phoned her. With blaring sirens, a police car pulls up outside. A woman emerges and runs to greet us. “Hello! I’m Anita!” Anita is squeezed in beside me on a passenger seat as we head to her home. It’s a tight fit, for Anita is rather well proportioned. Every police squad car patrolling Irkutsk attempts to stop us. “It’s ok!” Anita shouts out of the window. “I found them!” Recognising her, the cops wave us on. “You see, I went to school with the chief of police. He’s a good friend,” she explains. “And when Juri told me he had met two travellers coming to my city, I wanted to meet them too!” I suspect they might have been more than mere classmates, for the police chief had instigated a city-wide search for a foreign registered green Land ­Rover and informed all units. The scale of operation “Find Chris” must have been massive – Irkutsk is no backward town in some remote region, but a metropolis of around 600,000 inhabitants. “And what do you do?” I ask. “Oh, I’m the head of the Baikal Amazons, an automobile club for women.” An Amazon. Yes. That would explain it.

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Irkutsk lies near Lake Baikal, the “Blue Eye” of Siberia and the largest freshwater lake on our planet by volume: it’s greater than all of the Great Lakes between the United States and Canada combined. Only sheer willpower allows me to take the plunge, for the crystal-clear water is beyond cold. Soon it will freeze over to become a single, vast ice-skating rink and remain that way until April. The swim is my own little ritual of saying farewell to this wonderful and wondrous country for the next few months. It’s also a good way of removing the dirt and grime sticking to my body; I haven’t showered in weeks. I smell. No longer feeling my feet, I decide to head for shore.

The Tale of Kyakhta (15 November 2002)

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t Kyakhta there is a new international border post into Mongolia. Until recently, foreigners wishing to exit Russia were forced to do so via the nearby Beijing branch of the Trans-Siberian Railway. The ungodly procedure entailed leaving your car in Kyakhta to be driven over by a Mongolian national, for a fee of course, train-hop the few kilometres into the land of Gen­ ghis Khan, and collect your vehicle on the other side. Provided your Mongolian didn’t fancy it too much and decided to start his own overland expedition. Rob and I arrive at the border on 2 October. We’ve become accustomed to unsmiling government employees over the past months, but a Kyakhta customs officer has mastered the art of unfriendliness to perfection. Stone-faced, he scrutinises our vehicle documents just a bit too thoroughly. “Wait,” he grumbles, eyes narrowing to slits, and disappears into the main building with our papers. Something is amiss. Rob and I exchange innocent shoulder shrugs. Ten minutes later, Boris – our customs officer looks like a Boris – returns with Svetlana, a Buryat (a northern Mongol people) woman acting as translator. “Your vehicle is illegally in Russia and will be impounded.” Further inquiries reveal that whereas we were given our one-year visa, Ma­ tilda inexplicably received only 30 days. One of our signed Murmansk customs forms seems to state this, albeit in – to us – illegible Cyrillic. Appeals to common sense are of no avail, the massive wheels of Russian bureaucracy have been set in motion, grinding, churning and utterly unstoppable. Murmansk’s

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officer Pavlov had issued a warrant demanding the confiscation of Matilda, the payment of a USD 9,000 fine and our extradition from Mother Russia. Not here … but back at Murmansk. Our jaws drop. One can almost hear them hitting the ground. Surely not even Kyakhta’s officials expect us to accept such an absurd demand. True, we unknowingly broke customs law, but do they really expect us to say: “Sorry, yes, here are the keys and I just happen to have nine grand in my pocket”? “Svetlana,” Rob suggests calmly, “try calling Mr Pavlov. I’m sure this mess can be sorted out over the phone.” We have forgotten Murmansk is in a different time zone, not one hour but eight separate the two departments. Pavlov is fast asleep. Murmansk cannot actually “speak” with Kyakhta, for the offices are never working simultan­ eously. Facility of communication may be one reason why small countries usually outlast empires, and are generally speaking better governed. “We’ll send a fax,” Svetlana explains. “In the meantime, you must leave your vehicle here and go to the hotel.” We are easily persuaded when further Boris’s appear in the background. “Tomorrow there will be an answer,” she promises. Finding the hotel is simple. There is only one. … By 16 October, still awaiting Pavlov’s response by fax, we are on first-name terms with all the cockroaches residing in our hotel room. We feel helpless, hopeless, taken hostage by the Russian government. Little can be done to alleviate our boredom. Kyakhta is explored in a few minutes, and after two weeks, our feet are beginning to wear deep ditches into the pavement by our repeated strolls to and fro along the only street. News of our dilemma has spread throughout town: “In the days of the Soviet Union this would not have happened,” we are told, pitied for our predicament. But then again, in the days of the Soviet Union we would never have reached Kyakhta. Rob begins giving English lessons at the local school, and in return, the teacher offers to help us translate the Murmansk fax, should it ever arrive. We trust her more than Svetlana. It has begun to snow, and temperatures are well below freezing. A Siberian winter will soon be upon us.

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Late that night there is a knock on our door. The hotel manager informs us some guests have arrived wishing to meet us and “could we come to the restaurant?” Any reason to break our monotonous routine will suffice, so we make our way downstairs. The guests are an English-speaking couple from St Petersburg and pleasant company. Over dinner and vodka we tell our tale, a topic they seem keenly interested in. In the morning the couple has already left. “Do you realise who they were?” the manager whispers from behind the reception desk. “Um ... Two tourists from St Petersburg?” The whisper, barely audible now, replies knowingly: “KGB. Undercover.” It appears we have attracted the attention of Russia’s feared secret service, even if the feared KGB in reality is long gone, replaced by the FSB. We have most certainly outstayed our welcome in the borderlands. … It’s 20 October and the fax has arrived. Svetlana tells us to pack our belongings and proceed to the border post. Could it be true? Is the nightmare finally over? “Yes,” Svetlana assures us. “The Regional Chief Customs Inspector is here and you can continue to Mongolia.” It takes us no longer than five minutes to stuff our rucksacks and bid farewell to Alfred, our favourite cockroach. Our elated feelings disintegrate when we find ourselves locked in the backroom of the customs house full of threatening Boris’s. “Sign at the bottom,” Svetlana orders, passing us a lengthy document over the table. “But what does it say? And where is the Chief Inspector?” I ask. We’ve been scammed. “You agree to empty the complete contents of the Land Rover so it can be moved to the railway station. Then you may proceed to Mongolia.” “Without our vehicle?” “Without your vehicle. It is now Russian property.” I feel a Boris’ breath down my neck. “Apart from the impossibility of removing 300 kilograms of private gear

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from our car … we won’t do it!” Rob attempts a menacing glare. I’d laugh if the situation weren’t so serious. “Then you’ll be arrested.” With timing more accurate than an Olympic synchronised swimmer’s, we cross our wrists in a mock imitation of handcuffs. “Then arrest us,” we say. Silence fills the room. Up until this instant, Kyakhta’s officials had been passive, relying on lies and evil looks as a method of persuasion. But actually arresting us would be a serious affair, with unforeseen consequences. Can customs officials imprison two foreigners for such a minor transgression, especially when the fault lies with their colleagues in Murmansk? We don’t want to wait to find out. “Chris,” Rob whispers, while the Boris with most shoulder stars is distracted, arguing with Svetlana. “Be sick.” I understand his plan. Somehow, we have to escape the border compound and return to our hotel. Once outside this square kilometre of barbed enclosure, jurisdiction lies with the police and not customs. We might win some time. The main difficulty will be crossing no-man’s-land to the main gate. “Can you carry both rucksacks?” I ask quietly. Rob nods. “Then get ready.” What follows must be some of the worst acting since any film featuring Jean Claude Van Damme. I clutch my stomach and moan loudly. “Is everything ok?” Rob asks, looking worried. Only I can see a hint of ­humour sparkle in his eyes. “Do you need a doctor?” “Cramps,” I wheeze. “Might throw up.” Rob shoulders both our packs and helps me to my feet. “We must find a doctor!” he shouts to Svetlana, making his way to the door. I lean on him as much as I dare, hunched over, imitating a limp. “Njet!” a Boris yelps. “You stay here!” Svetlana apprehends him when he tries to stop us. Whether because she believes us or simply wishes to avoid physical violence we do not know. Seizing the moment of mayhem, we hobble outside. “Faster,” Rob pleads. “And don’t look back.”

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A militia is guarding the gate. Boris and Svetlana are now running, trying to catch up with us. “Let us pass! We need a doctor!” I crawl under the barricade and collapse into the snow, rolling in pain for emphasis, while Rob distracts the guard. I hear a breathless Svetlana arrive. “Ok, he goes to the hotel. You remain here!” she says. “Bugger that! It’s Chris’ signature you need, the vehicle is his! Anyway, look! He needs help!” On cue, I roll some more. But damn, the ground is cold! Rob slips through the gate and hails a taxi. We are back in our hotel room expecting the police to arrive any moment. “Your acting was appalling,” Rob laughs. “But if we want to give it any credibility, we must call a doctor.” While I position a bucket at my bedside, contemplate what to stick down my throat, and manipulate the toilet cistern to produce an eternal flush, Rob phones from reception. Less than 20 minutes later a rubber-booted babushka is at our door with a massive black leather medic’s bag. Yes, she is Kyakhta’s doctor. “And what’s the problem?” she asks, seating herself heavily next to my bed. “Ah, stomach cramps and dizziness? Perhaps food poisoning?” It wouldn’t even be such a far-fetched assumption considering our hotel restaurant’s kitchen. Opening her case, Dr Babushka pulls out an assortment of needles. The one usually used to tranquillise elephants is intended for me. I roll up my sleeve. “Njet,” she says, pointing at my buttocks. If I haven’t been sick until now, that might soon change. Rob is in the bathroom cracking up. Dr Babushka won’t accept any roubles for the treatment. Perhaps, the sadistic pleasure of ramming a needle into a German’s bum was payment enough. … It’s now 23 October and I’m hungry. One doesn’t usually order room meals when recovering from food poisoning, so I’ve been set on half-rations, sharing Rob’s dinner. But we haven’t been inactive over the past few days. Both British and German embassies have been notified, something we should have done weeks ago. The British consul is furious, and uses weighty words such as “intimidation, blackmail and hostage taking” to describe Kyakhta’s handling

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of our case. He promises to contact the EU’s committee for international customs co-operation and suggests we seek a lawyer. Kyakhta has a lawyer, of sorts. Entering a threadbare office we have doubts. Apart from electric curling tongs and typewriter, her desk is empty. But first impressions are deceptive, for the girl knows her stuff. No, customs may not enter or move your vehicle without your written consent. No, don’t go to the border again under any circumstances until this is sorted out. Yes, I will write a lengthy legal letter and fax it to the British Embassy. That will be six dollars please. For six dollars you couldn’t get a Western lawyer to shake your hand. I love Russia. The bureaucratic gearbox has been engaged into overdrive and all cogs are spinning at warp-velocity. Somebody high up the hierarchical ladder has sent a damning report to both Kyakhta and Murmansk customs ordering our immediate release. “Pavlov will be sweeping floors,” we are told. Finally, after almost a month in this forsaken village, we are free to continue without the payment of a fine. The Boris’s are absent when we reverse Matilda from the compound. Only Svetlana is there to wish us goodbye. “I apologise,” she says. “But I was only following orders.” We actually believe her. “Here, a good-luck charm.” I’m given a miniature Mongolian boot dangling from a key ring. “To remember us.” For now I only wish to forget Kyakhta, but there will come a time when the experience becomes part of my travel history’s fabric and I look back with fondness. I apply more pressure to the accelerator until the border disappears from view in our rear-view mirror – just in case someone requests an encore.

Affinity (Mongolia – 25 November 2002)

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f I were to stage a dinner party and could invite any five historical personalities, one would surely be Genghis Khan, aka Temüjin. Seated around him may be Albert Einstein, Laozi, Walt Whitman and Richard Branson. Perhaps Mr Bean could wait at the table.

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Come to think of it, I might need a whole battalion of Russian Boris’s as security guards should arguments turn nasty. The warlord Genghis Khan was said to have crushed enemy nobles to death under his massive stone platform table whilst dining above. But despite his unusual sense of humour, one must respect his achievements. Genghis Khan and his descendants managed to conquer 22 per cent of the world from an undeveloped Asian steppe, cre­ ating the largest contiguous empire in history. His troops, later led by his sons and grandsons after his death in 1227, rode all the way into Europe, defeating ­armies from Poland, Hungary and Bulgaria. On the death of their leader, Oga­ dei, in 1241, they retreated back to Mongolia, much to the bewilderment and relief of eastern Europeans. In this enormous country, a single tarred motorway exists, running from the Russian border in the north to China in the south. This 1,000-kilometre-long road is little more than a route suggestion. Nothing stops you from veering off left or right towards a distant peak on the horizon. Once reached, you may choose the next topical feature, then the next. Mongolia has very few ­fences, and in the steppe, no concept of private property ownership. Around 30 per cent of the population follows nomadic lifestyles, living from subsistence herding of camels and horses. All are free to venture where they please, in pursuit of a freedom lost to most Westerners long ago. As a vagabond, I feel perfectly at home. Just as Mongolia has only one road, this country has only one city: Ulaanbaatar. The rest are mere settlements where the Russians had once built administrative centres. Today, they function primarily as trading markets frequented by nomads a few times annually. You will not find banks, supermarkets or Kentucky Fried Chicken. A few crumbling brick buildings, a hand-operated – usually empty – petrol pump and hastily thrown-together market-stalls are all you can hope for. Stock up well, for the next village may be hundreds of kilometres away. Mongolia is the most sparsely populated country in the world; today, around 2.9 million live here and around 40 per cent reside in Ulaanbaatar alone. … Our stomachs are grumbling. After a peaceful night in the steppe, Rob and I search for something to eat. We’ve noticed over the past few days that in irregular intervals, gers straddle the highway: tented truck-stops for the weary

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traveller. A ger, or yurt, is the nomad’s traditional abode. It’s a round structure of long wooden poles covered with skins, carpets or canvas. When necessity or wanderlust tempts the owner to move on, it can be dismantled quickly and transported by horse. Soon a ger is spotted and we pull up alongside. A stocky woman begs us to enter. There are a few rules to follow once inside; old customs passed down from the days of Temüjin: don’t step on the threshold, avoid sitting at the corner of a table (it’s believed doing so will ensure a lonely life), don’t whistle, roll down your sleeves before taking or giving something (always with both hands), hold your cup by the bottom rim, avoid standing up when drinking and never throw trash into the fire. When offered vodka or airag – fermented mare’s milk – dip your ring finger into the drink, raise your hand above your head, and flick your finger to the four winds. Finally, when offering a cigarette, you should also light it. Two people may light their cigarette from one match, but three is not permitted. I had memorised the procedure days before. Not stepping on others proves to be the most difficult task, for the truck-stop is a private home, not an autobahn restaurant. The family is lounging, some still asleep, on warm furs throughout their tent. It’s cosy, and the fire’s embers provide welcome and much needed warmth on this chilly morning. We discuss the weather in a mixture of Russian, English and, surprisingly, German. In the days of the Soviet Union, many Mongolians benefited from Russia’s inexpensive railway system, which allowed the more financially fortunate to obtain a solid formal education in East Germany. Seated awkwardly on the ground, our breakfast is served. We haven’t even ordered. There is no menu. Mongolian roadside eateries will serve whatever is currently available, and it’s always a chopped-up animal in broth. Afterwards we drink butter-tea, a beverage I had learned to appreciate years ago when travelling in northern India amongst Tibetan traders. It’s admittedly an acquired taste: the tea is mixed with melted butter and a hefty sprinkle of salt instead of sugar. By the way, if you are vegetarian, and heading into the countryside, you might as well consider yourself dead. Nomadic Mongolians do not eat vegetables. In addition to the above list of “dont’s”, I should have added the deplorable practice of eating anything green. Withdraw a long-hoarded

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apple from your rucksack inside a ger, and your hosts might send you out to dine with the horses. Vegetables are for animals and unsuitable for human consumption, or so they say. I don’t mind. I’m a carnivore. If I had ever paid heed to a Western dietician’s suggestions, now is the time to cast my first doubts. The eldest family member in the ger is a chain-smoking great-grandfather many times over. He’s 85 and still rides his horse like a madman. Sometimes I ask myself whether most of our Western ailments are chiefly a result of our stressful society and have precious little to do with culinary habits. I’m in a country where life expectancy is 64 for men and 72 for women, with an average of 68 years. I know Europe’s senior citizens live around ten years longer, but remember: most of Mongolia has no access to hospitals or even pharmacies. I strongly doubt we would reach half this great-grandparent’s age if all our medical facilities closed down and everybody was forced to become a DIY doctor with little more than butter-tea for medication. Do Mongolians appear so healthy because they learn to ride before they can walk? Is it the clean air of the highland plateau and decades spent outdoors? Is it the absence of stress? Perhaps an odd notion, but can it possibly be that our worries over pensions, social security and health insurance, for example, actually counteract their benefits? My Mongolian nomad friends will say the secret to a long life is to eat your kilogram of dead horse every day, wash it down with plenty of airag, and leave the rest to Buddha. For the next few months, I’ll do exactly that. … We enter Ulaanbaatar. The singular city presents a stark contrast to all outlying regions. Here you find traffic jams, hotels, banks and supermarkets that even sell those curious green round things called “apples”. We camp under a bridge on the outskirts of town and plan our next steps for the trip south into the Gobi Desert. First, we’ll need warm clothing. Already, the temperature has dropped to minus 12 degrees. We mustn’t waste time. If snow begins to fall heavily while we are out exploring the steppe, we’ll be stuck there until spring. Our hassles at Kyakhta have postponed our arrival by three weeks. Locals direct us to the so-called Black Market, a sprawling trading centre where everything, from Chinese imports to horse saddles, is on offer. Inappro­priately named, there is nothing really “black” about it. The market is the all-important bazaar of Ulaanbaatar, where nomads flog their wares.

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Rob and I both choose Mongolian “dells”, the traditional sheepskin-lined robes weighing a tonne. Rob fits into his on first try, but with my 1.94-metre frame it’s more challenging. Mongolians, though built as solid as a rock, are rather small of stature. The market women laugh as I try on one after another, with the sleeves always stopping at my elbows. Humour is still as important today as back when Temüjin conquered vast tracts of the world, though the jokes have changed – nobody has tried to crush me under a table yet. Finally, a beautiful dell is found, once specially tailored for a tall foreigner who never returned to collect his order. When I ask if they have some fur boots, all heads bob down to look at my feet … and then they crack up completely. I’m a UK size 12 (a European 46) but Mongolian shoe sizes stop in the mid-30s! But here as well a solution is found; one stall sells Russian wares more suitable for the vertically gifted. We are turned in circles, admired and inspected by the ­locals from all sides, then given a sash belt to tie at the waist. They nod approval. “Now you’re a Mongolian!” the women laugh. I feel silly in the garb, and in truth I’m sure they think likewise, but damn these dells are warm! Our second task is to purchase paraffin for Matilda’s heater – without it, not even our warm clothing will protect us from the severe climate. We visit a ­dozen hardware stores, but the managers all shake their heads in regret. “No, you won’t find paraffin in Ulaanbaatar,” they tell us. A German customer overhears our dilemma in the last shop. “Use aviation fuel,” he says. “It works just as well. I’m a technician at the airport and could sell you some.” Following him to the aerodrome’s maintenance gate, we see him disappear with our 20-litre jerrycan and return some minutes later. “Hey! Fantastic! Thanks a million!” “Yeah, well … if you hear of an Airbus crashing just short of Beijing’s runway tomorrow, just keep your mouth shut,” he smiles. We set off, leave the tarmac, and steer towards the next district’s capital of Mandalgov1˘ a few days’ drive away. Snow lines both sides of the track but we are unworried as we’ve been told that the further south we travel, the less it will become. The Gobi Desert boasts one of our planet’s most arid climate zones. As the city skyline dips behind the horizon, I decide to call for a celebratory coffee break to mark the beginning of our “Mongolian adventure”. The snowy plains to my right seem a perfect spot to stop, and I turn off. Yet barely a few metres into the field and Matilda begins to angle precariously: hidden

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beneath the snow is a deep ditch! There’s no turning back or time to break as our momentum carries us forward and we watch as Matilda slowly cranks sideways like a stricken ship keeling over. A moment later and we are hanging from our seats in a lop-sided world. Out of Rob’s passenger window I see only sky. Rob himself is dangling above me. “Shit. You ok?” he asks. I’ve seen too many Hollywood movies with vehicles bursting into flames followed by a bomb-style explosion in situations like these. I suggest we climb out quickly. But what now? The Landy is resting on a white cushion and apparently undamaged, but no bushman trick I know can turn her upright again. I do what I always do when at my wit’s end: I light up a cigarette and take a five-minute contemplation break. “There was a police checkpoint a few kilometres back,” Rob says. “I’ll go get help.” He begins retracing our tracks towards Ulaanbaatar. The sun is setting as I puff smoke clouds into the twilight. Minutes pass while I wallow in self-pity a safe distance from my toppled home. I almost don’t notice the familiar-looking, khaki-green Russian-made UAZ 4x4 pull up alongside. Seven Mongolians squeeze out to inspect the accident. “Come on!” they cheerfully call out. “We’ll lift it!” Mongolians are far stronger than their small stature suggests and we have nothing to lose in trying. Lined up on one side I shout: “Heave ho!” Loud grunts and my first whiff of a Mongolian fart follows. Bad, I say. Smells like dead horse. But to my surprise, we manage to lift the Landy a few centimetres. “More people!” we agree. Buddha is with me today; there is wisdom in leaving everything to him. A pair of headlights is nearing and an off-road van with 13 sardine-likepacked passengers comes to our aid. Twenty Mongolians and I are now shoulder-to-shoulder seeking handholds along Matilda’s roof. This is it: “Heave ho!” Ever-so-slowly, the vehicle rises, and calls of encouragement combined with ungodly vapours fill the Mongolian steppe. “Hurrah!” we all shout as the Landy flops back onto her wheels. How is that for a Who-Wants-to-be-aMillionaire million-dollar question? “How many Mongolians do you need to lift a Land Rover?”

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I pass out packs of ciggies to all who helped – the most common token of gratitude in this country – then shake everybody’s hand and exchange bear hugs. I don’t know who is more delighted about our success, them or me. With waves and best wishes they depart with their vehicles, while I’m left grinning from ear to ear. A bit of engine cranking and Matilda fires up. The brakes and clutch will need bleeding, and I don’t want to think about the mess in our living-quarters, but otherwise all is well. A very surprised Rob pulls up in a police car, barely 30 minutes after our “roll”. “I was having a strong day,” I tell him. We head back to Ulaanbaatar to sort out the havoc. Tomorrow we’ll set off again. … On our second attempt we safely manage to escape the capital without rolling over, and enter a world void of the man-made. I had asked a few nomads in the market whether they preferred the city over the steppe. Their answers were always the same: they wanted to sell their wares and return to the desert as quickly as their horses could carry them. Urban life was not for them. I understand this desire. The beauty of sleeping out under the stars is something I’ve cherished since I moved out of my parent’s home at 18. For the past 14 years, my only domiciles have been various vans, camperised 4x4 trucks and tents – I cannot imagine awakening every morning in a bed boxed in by brick walls. A week later we enter Dalandzadgad, capital of the Gobi Desert’s Umnugovi province. We hadn’t followed any particular road to get here, nor do we possess a GPS to locate our position. Keeping the sun ahead of us and the telegraph poles just in sight to our left was sufficient. By now, we are dangerously low on petrol and need to refuel. We head to the town’s only station, but it’s empty. Petrol comes from Ulaanbaatar we are told. Not today. Not tomorrow. Sometime. With time to waste waiting, we drive a short distance east and camp in a riverbed that last saw water centuries ago. I stroll around looking for rocks; it is said these hills contain gold. A young Mongolian seems to be doing the same. We wave and he clambers over to greet us. What are we doing here, he asks. “We’re waiting for petrol.” “Ah! Me too,” he explains. “I need to go to Ulaanbaatar.” His family lives

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around the corner in the adjacent canyon. He says it like we would describe friends living on the next city block. The young man works occasionally for a mining firm and drives his own Toyota. The “house” he shares with his brothers, parents and grandparents is a collection of gers nestled alongside the cliff ’s walls – Rob and I are welcomed inside. “This is my brother,” he tells us “He is a champion wrestler at Nadaam!” Nadaam is Mongolia’s “World Cup”, but far more entertaining than watching a group of men kicking balls around. They hold a triathlon in Ulaanbaatar every year, comprised of horse racing, archery and wrestling. It is said that the best riders can pick up coins from the ground while in full gallop. Once, a long time ago, there was a major national embarrassment at the Nadaam Festival: after defeating a final opponent, the new wrestling champion was revealed to be a woman in disguise. This was deeply humiliating for the proud men folk, and ever since, wrestlers have had to fight topless to prove their gender. I’m not suggesting Mongolian women are unattractive, but in general they are not the high-heeled, lipstick-painted damsels found in London nightclubs. Mongolian women can occasionally be confused with a Leopard II tank. I’m curious as to the rules and beg our new acquaintance’s wrestling champion brother to teach me. He’s as tall as he is wide when he stands up, but he has a kind smile. We step outside. The rules are simple: do nothing “nasty”, no punches, and when your knee or elbow touches the ground, you’ve lost. There are no weight classes in Mongolian wrestling, and I soon find out why: brute strength is not vital to win. Though I tower over him by half a head, three times I am defeated in succession. To the amusement of all, I do an “eagle dance” around the victor, the traditional way for the disciple to celebrate the champion. “No, no,” he says. “Too much honour!” The grandfather speaks no language I understand, but he’s part of our social evening just the same. He dusts off an intricately carved box and points – it’s a chess board. I nod – yes, I play the “game of kings”. In the end we produce a stalemate and no honour is lost. Many Mongolians learn to play chess from a young age, to counterbalance a healthy body with a sharp mind. In many ways, the label “third-world nation” does not apply to Mongolia. One of the axioms Europeans use to define poverty is income. In this respect, rural Mongolia would have to be considered worse off than, say, the Central African

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Republic. Some nomads average less than a dollar-a-day in earnings, but few seem to be starving. Money itself has little value outside the capital. One barters for necessities and breeds animals for food. A lack of formal education is another axiom. But here too Mongolia can hold its own. Around 98 per cent of the population is literate and nearly all speak multiple languages. Many Mongolians play chess to a frighteningly good standard, enjoy philosophising over complex topics and are relatively well informed about current affairs. I cannot see how this knowledge is obtained through schooling alone; for though the districts do have primary schools, any further education requires a long voyage to Ulaanbaatar. Without money, few have this option. What I do notice is an unusual display of curi­osity amongst the population, combined with a strong desire to incessantly ask intelligent questions. I’ve never seen the likes amongst any “indigenous peoples” encountered before; even many “first-world” countries might feel ashamed. I’ve met very few in Britain or the United States who speak a second tongue fluently, let alone three or more. Only three per cent are officially unemployed. On paper, this sounds like a fairy-tale dream to many nations, but this negligible number is deceiving. How can one measure employment in a country full of family-business horse her­d­ers without income? You can’t. For the Mongolian government, if you ever sell a dell on the market, that’s employment. It seems to me that Mongolia defies any conventional UN-definition of a third-world country. A few days later, I’m sitting with Grandfather on a small rise. Suddenly his old eyes pinpoint something on the distant horizon, invisible to me. “Petrol,” he says, and hobbles down to his ger, returning with an ancient set of binoculars. Now I see it too: a dust cloud is breaking the skyline. We take turns with the scope for the next half-hour and watch as the fuel truck approaches. Both Landy and Toyota are refuelled. I pay in tughrik, the local currency, and our acquaintance, to my surprise, pays with gold dust! Now, how does one account for that when calculating a country’s GDP? With warm farewells we depart for the Gobi Desert. …

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Landscapes in Mongolia are varied. You find high plateaus, rocky steppes, crystal-clear lakes and lofty mountains scratching the sky at more than 4,000 metres. And you find the sand of the Gobi. Rob and I play around in the dunes for a few days, until we wake one morning to find ourselves surrounded by white. The temperature at dawn is minus 23 degrees and our water tank has frozen solid. We decide to make a beeline for Ulaanbaatar before it’s too late. Just 70 kilometres short of Mandalgov1˘, the engine block makes a clanking noise, steam pours out of the radiator and the temperature gauge rises into the boiling red zone. Inspection shows that the spindle driving the water pump has snapped cleanly in two – and, of course, I don’t have a spare. When driving around the world some breakdowns are only a nuisance. Who cares if suspension leaves crack, the brakes fail (unless you happen to be on a mountain pass), the lights don’t work and third gear won’t engage? You can still continue driving for weeks until a quaint village is found to conduct repairs at leisure. It’s only when the engine and/or components break that one becomes nervous. There are analogies between humans and vehicles: a cracked frame is a­ broken bone and can be splinted. An empty petrol tank is a hungry stomach, pistons are our lungs, air-filters resemble nasal hairs, distributors and electrical wiring nerves and brainstem. A CDI-microchip unit would be the brain, but Matilda doesn’t have one. Oil and water tubing perform the duties of arteries, meaning the pump is the heart. Thus, in other words, Matilda has just had a cardiac arrest. I’ll have to attempt bypass surgery. The operation is a failure and my patient’s life is hanging by a thread. I’ve managed to plug the heart chamber with a 19-millimetre bolt so her bodily fluids won’t spill, leading to death from blood loss, but now she is effect­ively comatose. If walking 70 kilometres is difficult with a weak heart, imagine ­covering the distance without one at all. Matilda must be admitted to hospital immediately, but after driving five kilometres her fever reaches 100 degrees. It subsides after half an hour of rest to within acceptable limits, and we set off again. At this pace we will reach Mandalgov1˘ in 50 hours. Luckily, a truck passes, heading in the same direction. For ten dollars it tows us the rest of the way.

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An elderly Mongolian living in a disused railway carriage has a lathe. Within 20 minutes he engineers a new spindle out of a rusty iron rod. It fits to perfection! Unbeknownst to the world of medicine, the greatest heart specialist of all times lives in a tiny village on the edge of the Gobi Desert. Now we need to make haste – the snow is already deep enough to warrant the use of a plough. Should more flakes fall tonight, we’ll be stuck for six months. Rob and I make it safely back to Ulaanbaatar and this time opt to camp in a heated public garage rather than under the bridge along the river. It’s not exactly scenic, and with the constant coming and going of vehicles, we feel slightly fumigated, but at least it’s warm, and a full 60 degrees warmer than just beyond the car-park’s door. Outside a Buddhist temple we meet the MP and governor of Servey, in town to attend a parliamentary meeting. Unlike any minister I know of in Europe, he arrived on horseback after an arduous week’s journey. I look him over more closely, for a man holding the same position as a US or German state leader is not encountered every day. Elfish eyes set in a weather-beaten face smile at me mischievously. He is of an indefinable age, clad in a stylish dell, and of small stature even by Mongolian standards. Perhaps people here become politicians if they lose too often at wrestling? He invites us for tea at his favourite tavern. As our MP knows only a few words of English, our conversation is limited. Too bad. I would have loved to bombard him with questions. In the silence, still smiling, he suddenly says: “Woof !” “Woof ?” I ask. “Woof !” he confirms. Seeing my confusion, he stares up at the ceiling in deep concentration, searching for a word I may understand. “Woof, woof, good!” The meaning begins to dawn when he points at my fur boots. I place two fingers behind my head and ask: “Deer?” I was certain I had purchased reindeer boots at the Black Market. He shakes his head. “Woof !” Oh, dear me. Of all possible animals, why did I have to buy dog? I adore dogs! However, our politician believes their fur makes the warmest shoes.

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We continue sipping our tea, the discussion having died down again. My eyes wander round the tavern. The far wall is covered by a massive poster depicting New York’s skyline, World Trade Center still standing. The MP for Servey follows my stare. “Boom!” he says. “Boom!” I say. “Boom! Boom!” he continues, pointing at both towers. “Boom! Boom!” I repeat, nodding, for he is right of course, and we crack up, tears welling into our eyes, “booming” at each other every time we manage to catch a breath. The topic was surely not meant to evoke laughter, but we just can’t help it. The idea of us and the MP barking at each other in a tavern is too ridiculous. After a few days of rest we leave Ulaanbaatar and make our way towards Kyakhta, the dreaded frontier post. We need not have worried. With minimum hassle the Boris’s stamp our papers and wave us through.

The Tale of Life at Low Temperatures (25 December 2002)

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t’s 2 a.m. and the alarm clock is ringing. Pass me a sledgehammer. I burrow deeper into my sleeping bag in the hope of blocking out all sound, but the damn thing is one of those Japanese inventions built with the sole purpose of torturing people: the ring tone increases by ten decibels every ten seconds. I hate it. I despise it. But it’s vital we use it. I free my head from the sleeping bag’s hood and I’m greeted by a blast of cold air, followed by a handful of loose frost fluffed down my bare neck. The zip is welded shut, encrusted in ice, but somehow I wiggle my arm through the opening to slam a fist upon the clock’s off-button, just hard enough not to demolish it. I reset the alarm to 4 a.m., when it will be Rob’s turn to wake up. I needn’t get dressed, for I never undress. All available woollen sweaters have become permanent attire. With these multiple layers of insulation, I resemble the Michelin Man.

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If you were ever too lazy to defrost your freezer for two consecutive years, you might get the picture of our living conditions. The ceiling and walls inside the Landy are slowly closing in on us by a few millimetres each day. At this rate we’ll be frozen into a solid Ötzi-like iceblock before spring arrives. It’s the humidity of our breath that’s creating these icicle formations. Some are already five centimetres long. “German Tourist found Impaled in Land Rover,” the news headlines might soon read. I never thought humans contained so much water. I make the mistake of looking at the thermometer. Minus 25 degrees inside, minus 50 outside. Why do I never learn to simply ignore it? Ignorance is bliss, or so they say. Perhaps I have some hidden masochistic tendencies? Although I have yet to meet the person who could ignore minus 50 degrees. According to the Guinness World Records, “the coldest permanently inhabited place is the Siberian village of Oymyakon,” at a freezing minus 68! Testing my paranormal abilities, I stare intensely at the read-out, hoping that by sheer willpower I may persuade the temperature to rise. Minus 51. Damn! Now for the hard part. Shoes. They are beyond stiff. They are cast-iron foottraps. I need to beat them with a mallet for a few minutes before the leather becomes pliable enough to wear. Not that I feel anything in my feet anyway. But frostbite can quickly lead to toes falling off if one is not careful. Fingers too. And probably other important body parts. I only have 21 digits and no desire to find them strewn throughout the Landy one day. However, putting on these boots would definitely be easier without toes, I agree. Time is ticking away. Ten past two. I’d better hurry up. We’ve agreed to ignite the paraffin heater before every watch. Sadly, we cannot leave it on for very long for fear of asphyxiation. These periodic intervals of heating warm up the interior by a few degrees. When I return, I will be welcomed by a balmy minus 15. Rob and I have been keeping watches since winter descended upon Siberia. Why? Because vehicles will not start at these temperatures, and especially not a Land Rover. This is not Norway, where houses and shopping malls have power outlets at every parking space to plug in your engine pre-heater. We are hundreds of miles from anywhere, driving on frozen rivers. Initially, about a month ago, we sought and followed local advice.

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“Build a fire under the oil-sump every morning,” they recommended. So I began laying bundles of birch under the engine, keeping a close eye on the flames licking my fuel filter. Experience soon taught me that seven litres of 5W30, the thinnest oil available in Russia, proves difficult to heat unless the fire is massive. A kerosene blowtorch might do the trick held close to the engine block, but not my fistful of twigs. My decision to seek an alternative approach came when I passed three burnt and blackened UAZ jeeps smouldering at a roadside. Oops! Many Russians have an easy going relationship with death; it doesn’t frighten them to the same extent as us in the West. One searches in vain for crosses marking the sites of road accidents. Instead, Russians plant a simple red tombstone with a bent steering wheel attached. Sometimes a vodka bottle is cemented into the base as explanation for the accident’s cause. Then a truck driver suggested not turning off the engine. Ever. Let it run 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Easy for him to say. His 15-tonne Kamaz carries 800 litres of petrol. Correct: petrol, not diesel. If you think starting a petrol car is difficult at minus 50, try to crank a diesel. You can’t. For this reason, almost all Russian vehicles run on gasoline. Then I remembered how, when crossing an ocean, sailors keep “watches”. The greatest danger on board a sailing boat is a collision with other vessels, followed by flotsam and whales. Due to earth’s curvature, one cannot see further than about 50 nautical miles, a distance quickly covered by ships approaching head on. The crew maintains a constant lookout; the duration of each shift depending upon the number on board. Rob and I decide to do the same. If we start Matilda occasionally throughout the night, we might just be able to prevent her from freezing solid. I do the 10 p.m., 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. watches; Rob takes the 8 p.m., midnight and 4 a.m. shifts. Idling the engine for five minutes at these intervals does the trick. I open the rear door and step outside. The temperature drops instantly by 26 degrees. I take shallow breaths through a filtering woollen scarf; to inhale without is painful. Now spit. I know that if my dribble freezes before hitting the snow, we have minus 60 and I‘ll be forced to start the motor with a hand crank. That cold, and I may witness another phenomenon locally known as “star-whispering”, a crackling, hissing and tinkling sound produced by ice

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crystals formed upon exhaling. As with spit, my breath would literally fall to the ground. With effort, I clamber into the driver’s seat, my thick clothing making it a tight squeeze. The front doors always remain unlocked. In the past, I’ve broken off more than one key in struggles to force them open. Now for the big event: will the engine turn over? Car batteries swiftly lose power at these temperatures. “Please,” I beg, patting the steering wheel. “Now! Ignition!” The sickly sound of a tortured cat with stomach ulcers emits from beneath. Churning piston rods reluctantly move, sub-zero petrol sucked into bore chambers, too cold to ignite. There! A single sparkplug fires … and the engine dies. Try again. I only have three attempts at most, then the battery will go flat. This time two cylinders ignite. Slow on the accelerator … easy does it … three! For a brief instant I forget all the suffering and feel elated by my success. Cylinder number four, always a bit low on compression, fails to run tonight. Apart from the reverberation caused by unbalanced firing, it is of little concern. A Jumbo jet can fly on three turbines too. There will be five minutes of waiting now, just long enough so the watertemperature gauge budges. Of course, there’s no water in the radiator, but 100-per-cent good-quality antifreeze. I pass the time by lighting up matchsticks to create an illusion of warmth. Lighters do not work in winter. Neither do pens nor candles. A wick’s flame is just too far from the wax to melt it. Removing one glove, five flaking fingers wiggle at me. I press each tip in turn to test for nerve damage. Frostbite is akin to a burn without the pain. Until you try to warm your extremities in warm water, that is. My feet are a different issue, which I don’t want to think about. Toe nails will soon be falling off, but who cares? Life at low temperatures puts everything into perspective. A while later there is a hint of movement in the gauge needle. My vigil is over, I switch off the engine – it dies gladly – and it’s time for bed again. Looking up at the starry skies, I regret that I’m unable to fully appreciate the glory of Siberian nights. Occasional meteor showers streak the heavens … snow weighs down heavily on tree branches … the stillness. It is said that only in silence can we hear our hearts whisper. I only hear my chattering teeth.

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Back in the living quarters, I turn off the paraffin heater and tuck into my sleeping bag. In one hour 40 minutes, the alarm clock will ring again. And again. For at least another month. Dawn breaks and bathes the Tundra in cold light. A birch tree splits due to the cold, cracking like gunfire. The river is silent, for it is solid to its core. Black rings circle our eyes from lack of sleep. Our coffee is of melted snow, because the water tank has been frozen since Mongolia. It’s 10 a.m. At minus 40, a warm morning welcomes us. Starting Matilda involves the same procedures as during the night, but pulling away from our campsite can take somewhat longer. Every car contains various lubricating fluids. Engine and transmission oil is available in different viscosities, but lithium-based grease, vital for steering joints, axle hubs, propeller shafts and ball bearings, comes in one grade only. Put a tube into your deep freezer at home, next to the frozen chicken (if your partner allows) and see what happens. It turns to rock. Bear in mind that a deep freezer’s lowest setting seems tropical compared to here. Engine running, I engage first gear at low range to provide maximum torque. Rob is vigorously scraping at the iced-over windscreen from inside. Releasing the clutch halfway, Matilda shudders, but will not move. With more pressure on the gas pedal, I try again. This is like making a getaway with police wheel clamps attached to all four tyres. Suddenly a “crack” and we inch forward! Luckily, I parked yesterday with a straight line of escape in mind. Due to the grease, stiff steering increases the turning circle to a few hundred metres. ­After 10 ­minutes of crawling at a snail’s pace, Matilda’s innards have warmed suffi­ciently to attempt second gear. Rob is still scratching away at the window in a race with renewed ice build-up. We never win. The Landy has no heating in front. Onward to Vladivostok! And if I forgot to mention how one goes to the bathroom in a Siberian winter, a single word of explanation will suffice: QUICKLY!

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Resilience (Russia Part Two – 21 February 2003)

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eyond the far eastern Russian city of Chita, we might come to a dead end. All guidebooks mention that a few kilometres further on, the road simply disappears. But recent reports are conflicting: apparently, since the end of the Cold War, Russia has shown interest in constructing a road link with Vladivostok. None of the locals in Chita can inform us how far the construction has progressed, or if the story is merely a myth. We intend to find out.

What we do know from research and hearsay is meagre pickings. In Soviet times, fearing potential deployment of American tanks on Russia’s Pacific coast, the Kremlin intentionally left a 300-kilometre “gap” in the road connecting Vladivostok to Moscow. The swampy marsh between Chita and Skovorodino could stop advancing capitalists literally dead in their tracks, should the mosquitoes not have done so already. Merely the Trans-Siberian Railway connected Europe to the East, its bridges easily detonated should the need arise. In more recent years, a few intrepid travellers have attempted a crossing. The rational approach would be to load your vehicle onto a flatbed train and piggy­ back a ride to Skovorodino, the preferred option of all previous expeditions. All, that is, apart from two: a summer crossing was accomplished by driving on the actual tracks, bumping over the sleepers, and breaking numerous leaf springs. Then a winter traverse was successfully concluded by negotiating frozen rivers and driving on the ice. This latter route we plan to follow, should the rumours of a rudimentary road under construction prove untrue. Matilda is packed with sufficient edibles to lay a lengthy siege upon the gap, and we continue east. We cannot allow ourselves many mistakes over the next few hundred kilometres: conducting major repairs at minus 40 would be immensely difficult. The road disintegrates and tarmac gives way to compacted snow. Soon, near the village of Amazar, a construction site blocks further passage. We pull up alongside the nearest bulldozer. “Does the road continue?” we ask, fearing the worst. “Yes and no. It’s not yet finished and won’t be easy, but feel free to give it a try.” The site worker’s warning was not an understatement. Barely more than a

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swathe cut in the woods, the planned road resembles a battlefield strewn with boulders and felled trees. Yet the ground is frozen solid, and absent bridges can be detoured by driving on the frozen rivers. It’s a formidable 4x4 trail, but nothing Matilda cannot conquer. Every day brings us a few kilometres closer to Skovorodino, the eastern end of Siberia’s Gap. A week later and we are watching the BBC from our heated hotel room in Blago­veshchensk, recuperating from all the hardships endured. We have ­frozen dearly, and Matilda has taken the brunt of abuse. I’m proud of her. With her little 21/4-litre engine, she’s the first foreign vehicle to have driven this particular stretch of Siberia. For a few days we indulge in relative luxury, our floor’s babushka alternatively bringing tea and hookers to our room. The former we always accept, the latter politely refuse. I hope we are not insulting the poor girls, or confusing our maître d’hôtel. She’s testing our preferences by providing a whole prostitute assortment, fit to suit every possible taste. Gazing through the window over the frozen Amur River, we look into China. Beyond lies the city of Heihe. During the Cultural Revolution, Maoist propaganda was blasted from loudspeakers over the river 24 hours a day in a war over idealistic principles. Today, the war continues, albeit using different tactics. With Heihe’s glittering high-rises, bustling streets and hypermarkets selling the very latest in luxury and technology, it’s all too clear where the wealth lies. Blagoveshchensk is dreary and dead by comparison. A steady stream of Russians cross the Amur, walking over the ice to find employment as day labourers or to sell their potatoes on the market. I presume many prostitutes are amongst them. Slowly, I begin to understand why Gorbachev is so disliked. Not too long ago the hoards crossed in the opposite direction, with the Chinese selling their sweat and souls to Russia. We decide to make a detour to Terney, home of the Siberian Tiger, on the Sea of Japan. From the shore, we stare out towards the endless expanses of the Pacific Ocean. Solitary moments like these are surreal – like a sea captain of old, we fall to our knees to kiss the wet sands in gratitude and relief. We have crossed Russia.

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As for the Siberian Tigers, well, not many remain. Basically, the Chinese ate them all, or at least the parts they found most desirable. Bones and dried penises are ingredients in some traditional Chinese medicines said to boost sexual stamina. Whether this practice really accounts for China’s huge popu­ lation, I cannot say; but now that the numbers have topped one billion, I’d think enough is enough, and the Chinese should leave the poor cats in peace. In 1991, when only 300 Siberian tigers were left in the wild, Russia created the Sikhote-Alin Reserve and China was persuaded to ban tiger-part imports. As expected, black-market prices skyrocketed. Whereas the fine for killing a tiger in Russia is USD 3,000, a carcass in Beijing will fetch ten times that amount, sufficient to keep the poachers well in business. The chances of being caught by a Sikhote-Alin ranger are slim in a national park where the core area alone covers an area of more than 4,000 square kilometres. For patrol they have a single Antonov II aeroplane built in 1948, and a long-wheelbase Land Rover Defender. We park in front of the reserve office and are immediately welcomed by the station’s chief scientist. Laying all his work aside he boils up the samovar, pours us tea, serves biscuits and makes us feel at home. When he hears that we usually camp in our vehicle, he insists that we stay with his friends. “And tomorrow we’ll track tigers!” he exclaims, reading our minds’ next question. Misha’s family live on the outskirts of Terney in a small cabin. They have not been pre-warned of our visit, and their cottage is not a guesthouse, but a private home. Misha, 17, speaks fluent English. She’s in her final school years in Vladivostok and currently on semester vacation. For as long as we stay, she wishes to act as our translator. “My parents won’t allow you to sleep in your Land Rover in the yard,” she explains. “You can have their bedroom!” With effort we manage to convince her how the living-room floor is more than adequate for our needs. The fire in the banya is kindled and borsht prepared for dinner; meanwhile we help in the household where we can. Hospitality never seems artificial in Russia. It’s neither a custom based upon religious dogma nor given in expectation of profit. Being friendly towards others comes natural, effortless and without falsehood.

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Following the ranger’s Defender, we set off in search of the elusive tiger. One would imagine finding a 3.5-metre-long cat weighing up to 380 kilograms is easy, but not with so few left. Twenty have been radio-collared and through means of telemetry we attempt to locate them. We only discover some ven­isondinner leftovers near the roadside, with tiger prints disappearing into the woods. Without cross-county skis we cannot follow them, so we return to the station. “You are welcome to fly in the Antonov,” the chief scientist suggests. ­“Sasha’s going up today. Finding your tiger is easier from above.” The free offer is genuine: our broad smiles are payment enough. Bartering with happiness instead of money will not make anybody rich, but it does raise the quality of life. Russians make poor capitalists but great friends. Terney Airport is little more than a snowy field where Sasha and his co-pilot are already busy with the pre-flight inspection of the Antonov. “Single star-engine and space for 12 paratroopers,” he explains. “A good plane. It has a very low stalling speed and is ideal for tracking. You can buy it if you like?” Lacking funds, Sikhote-Alin is considering selling the aircraft for USD 2,000. For a bit more the pilot could be included. Once we are airborne, we follow the magnificent coastline with its countless frozen fjords and icebergs. Sasha puffs away on a cigarette, flicking the ash out of the side window. It slides open from the side, just like a Land Rover’s. “Would you like to take control?” Sasha asks. “I’m bored.” He gives us a quick rundown of the most important instruments and vacates his seat. To my astonishment, the co-pilot follows suit, making room for Rob! “Just shout if the tiger radio signals” are his final words before the plane’s fate is ours. Scanning the instruments, I’m surprised to find that most appear vaguely familiar: everything is analogue, like in Matilda. Before long we relax, 1,000 feet above the Tundra. Flying an Antonov is akin to driving a large truck within four spatial dimensions. Hours pass while we search above today’s segment, a circle of 100-kilometre radius. The radio remains silent. Occasionally, I glance over my shoulder to Sasha lounging in the rear, chain-smoking his cheap ciggies. Did I just see a bottle of vodka being passed around? The following day we are airborne again, and Sasha pushes his luck by letting us fly once more. Suddenly the tracking device comes alive!

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“Sasha! Tiger!” Racing into the cockpit he takes over and follows the strongest signal. ­Lower, lower we descend, hill summits first visible alongside, then clearly above us. We are barely a hundred feet from the tree tops. “Too much turbulence!” he shouts over the engine’s noise “We must rise!” The co-pilot believes he saw movement below, but by the time we follow his pointing finger, the distance is too great. It matters not. We know that somewhere here, in this remarkable country, walks a Siberian tiger. An email arrives on our day of departure from a Russian friend in Tobolsk. We use the “Babblefish” website for a translation into English. Web translators are not very accurate, so I don’t understand it all, but the meaning is clear: “Friends! I am very glad that we support the friend friend communication! I wish you to finish the travel is class! I hope we shall be eternally friends further. Dog clap for me, the class machine at you! So long! We look forward to hearing! Juri.” Matilda is lifted onto a flat-rack at dockside in Vladivostok. She’ll be shipped via Busan in South Korea to Seattle, Washington. We have apprehensions about visiting the States with news of the Iraq War on every television channel – US President George W. Bush’s invasion began only a few days ago. Boarding the plane, I send my thoughts across 11 time zones to all the wonderful people encountered during our visit. Yes, I hope we shall be eternally friends further, as Juri said, and here’s a dog clap for you.

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North and Central America Exploring the First Dimension But one day curiousity got the better of you, and you decided to explore beyond the confines of your sheltered surroundings. The map was unfolded again and a course plotted for a lengthy road-trip. With a pen you connected Inverness with Vladivostock by means of a thin straight line. All of a sudden you became aware of the difficulties ahead … … If you drag a zero-dimensional point in any direction, you will obtain a one-dimensional object. The mathematician will classify your line segment as a hypercube of dimension one within Euclidean space. A line consists of an infinite collection of zero-dimension points connecting two vertices. It is of infinitesimal width, height and volume, yet it has length and an edge. If you were to expand the line infinitely, it would cover the entirety of one-dimensional space. Lines can be denoted with the equation: L = {(a1, a2, ..., an) | a1c1 + a2c2 + ... ancn =d} Whereby c1 through cn and d are constants and n is the dimension of space in which the line is located. Below is a picture of a line, representing dimension one:

The Tale of the Bush (USA Part One – 26 April 2003)

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»

know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully.« George Bush, 29 Sept 2000

Well, yes. I hope so, Mr Bush. But wouldn’t it be even nicer if America could coexist with the rest of the world peacefully? The second war against Iraq is in full force as we board the plane for Seattle. Rob and I are unsure whether it’s

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wise to be entering a war zone; one wouldn’t usually choose Somalia or Rwanda as a holiday destination while they are busy machine-gunning each other down. But somehow I doubt Saddam’s tanks will be patrolling the streets of San Francisco, drones bombing Las Vegas or our Airbus shot down by an Iraqi missile. American conflicts don’t run like that. Much of the population will be experiencing their war on wide-screen TVs in the comfort of an armchair, watching how their so-called “good-boys” beat the living daylights out of Evil Empires. And should, by pure coincidence, the reality of war be brought home, for ex­ample when a foreign fighter manages to blow up an American skyscraper or two, then they are dumbstruck. “Hey, that’s not fair! It wasn’t in the script!” The captain announces we are descending towards sunny Seattle and should fasten our seatbelts. No mention of a bomb-cratered runway, so all must be well. “When I was coming up, it was a dangerous world, and you knew exactly who they were. It was us vs them, and it was clear who them was. Today, we are not so sure who the they are, but we know they’re there.” George Bush – Iowa Western Community, 21 Jan 2000 I hope they don’t think it’s me. My passport has immigration stamps from Iran and Afghanistan in it from my previous world trip, as well as from dozens of other “suspicious” countries, and I have a bushy beard. The United States is currently on terrorism alert, and the population is panicking – all things foreign are suspect. At least my passport is German and not French. In a nation-wide campaign, anything that has remotely to do with France is being boycotted because its government refuses to support the war. Red Bordeaux has dis­ appeared from supermarket shelves, as well as baguettes and Brie. Merely life’s absolute necessities such as French fries remain available. They are now called “Freedom fries” at all fast-food outlets. The state of Maryland even passed a government resolution to this effect. I wonder if Americans no longer French kiss? Is this madness and hype temporary? Surely the war will be over in a few months and gradually the fear and Islamophobia will disappear.4 We are questioned thoroughly at passport control, but eventually manage to convince the officials that we are on a world trip and have no bad intentions. With our three-month visa we make ourselves at home on Vashon Island, a 4 How wrong I was – 12 years later, and the so-called War on Terror is still in full swing.

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Alaska

Canada

Ottawa

Washington

USA

TRO PIC CAN OF CER

Mexico

Mexico City

Belize Belmopan

Honduras

Matilda

Guatemala

Sea /Air

Guatemala

Tegucigalpa San Salvador

El Salvador

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Nicaragua

15-minute ferry-ride from Seattle centre across the Puget Sound. The island has a reputation for being very liberal minded and might be a good place for us to adjust to the American way of life. After such a long time in Russia and Mongolia, we’ll need to acclimatise: it seems like a minute ago we were still in the Gobi Desert sleeping in yurts. We don’t need long to find our campsite, owned by Judy, a hard-working woman in her late 40s, who fulfilled her dream of building an escape from the city bustle for herself and travellers. In a forest clearing are a collection of tepees, horse and wagons, and log cabins for guests – a wonderful getaway. When I remain in any given spot for a length of time, I need a project. We have several. My recently arrived Land Rover needs a full overhaul if she is to make it up to Canada. The winter crossing of Siberia left Matilda in a very sorry state. No vehicle will suffer Russia’s appalling roads and severe temperatures gladly, and my Landy passed her prime decades ago. I could have abandoned her in Vladivostok and purchased a newer vehicle in North America, but this was not an option I was willing to consider. Call me a sentimental fool, but one doesn’t simply dump an old friend when the first difficulties arise. My vision had been to circumnavigate the globe with this vehicle and no other, financial considerations taking a distant second place. When Judy notices my mechanical skills and hears of my background as a shipwright and craftsman, she asks if I can take a look at her vintage ’50s Ford pick-up and build a walk-in fireplace for the main cabin in order to brighten up the long winter evenings. I agree with enthusiasm, not knowing that gen­eral building designs in America differ greatly from European architecture. The structure is not to be made with riverbed stones, as I would have preferred, but prefabricated artificial rocks that almost look like the “real thing”. It’s quite astounding how detached many Americans have become from nature. Since the Wild West era was only yesterday historically speaking, one might imagine there would still be a strong symbiotic relationship with the environment. But no: supermarkets sell scrambled eggs in cartons labelled “natural eggs”, and many city children grow up believing milk comes from ShopRite or 7-Eleven stores, not cows. Going even more against my building ethics is her insistence that the fireplace

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must contain a gas insert instead of burning logs. On the property is a forest and enough timber to make a bonfire every night of the year. Her argument is that burning wood smells, creates a mess and is difficult to light. Judy shows me a brochure of the latest gas-fireplace models. The one she has ordered has a long-range remote control, fake logs, fake flames, but real heat. For a few dollars more you can include fake wood-crackling sounds from hidden speakers and fake smokeless-wood-burning smells from a bolt-on incense burner. I don’t understand: I thought the purpose was to avoid the smell of wood? What would Judy think about our friends in Mongolia who use horse manure? I give in, slightly less elated than I initially was; and the three-metre wide, two-metre high fake fireplace is finished by the month’s end. Judy stands at the doorway with the remote in hand, sets a temperature and presses the “on” button. “Click”. She smiles from ear to ear as the flames shoot up. From this distance the whole contraption appears real. I smile too, if only because I ­enjoy seeing Judy happy. She’s such a sweet lady. “One of the great things about books is sometimes there are some fantastic pictures.” George Bush – 3 January 2000 One of the friends we make on the island is a young teacher employed at an elite Seattle high school. She would like us to hold a few lectures during her classes. “These kids don’t often have the opportunity to listen to the views of out­ siders. They’ll be fascinated by your trip!” she says. Rob is quick to accept the invitation. He wishes to gain an opinion of the youth in every country we pass through. Sometimes, such as in Russia and Mongolia, we are pleasantly surprised by their curiosity and immense global awareness, and emerge from classrooms full of hope for the next generation. Usually I go along with Rob to do the map-holding and blackboard artistry, but on this occasion I decline. The Landy needs some valves adjusting and a paint job. Rob returns with the teacher late afternoon. He’s red in the face, and knowing him well, I’d guess it’s frustration. The teacher has her eyes cast down as Rob explains.

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“My god, Chris! You won’t believe it!” A lengthy oration with plenty of vocabu­ lary from the Complete Oxford Dictionary of British Swear Words follows, which I choose to self-censor on grounds of future publishing permission. “You know, I give my little speech about our journey in front of the class, and finish without a single question having been asked. Silence. Complete and utter silence!” I recall how we are usually bombarded with questions regarding everything from world politics, history and social structures to more typical teenage ­topics such as dating habits around the world. “So I implored the students to ask something … anything. Then, finally, this one girl timidly raised a finger. I was all ears, you see … here we have a bright pupil … perhaps one of America’s future leaders. Do you know what this 14-year-old asked me? ‘What’s your favourite colour?’!” “Good you went to an elite school,” I reply laughing. “Could you imagine what it would have been like at a Seattle public?” I remember watching a BBC programme where a British reporter travelled to the States to question people’s general world knowledge. “Europe only has black-and-white television” was a common belief, perhaps based on the fact that most foreign films aired in America are pre-1950s classics. Others in­cluded “North Korea is Islamic,” “Canadians live in igloos,” “Europe is a country” and “All Africans live in mud huts, run around naked, have pet lions and are starving.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Meanwhile, the older generation asks us for our opinion about the current war and the bombardment of Baghdad. Our views are naturally quite damning – mine especially, since I’ve travelled extensively in the Middle East, and love the region and the people. But many Americans have the unique ability to let criticisms bounce off them like trampolines. Condemnations are met with humour and when we provide insight, information and facts about the Islamic world based upon our first-hand experiences, most simply laugh at their own admitted ignorance. Nothing we say causes self analysis, a storm on the public library or Internet to test our allegations, a moment of silence and regret, a search for better future solutions or an apology for the millions of civilians killed worldwide by a US military funded through American taxes. When we mention that the voter in a democratic country carries responsibility for every child who becomes collateral damage in past and current US wars against Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen, Kuwait, Sudan, Somalia, Panama, Iran, Libya, Viet-

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nam, Laos, Cambodia, Lebanon, Grenada, Guatemala, Indonesia and Korea, that THEY pay their soldier’s salaries, we often receive a shrug and a smile: “Hey! Let’s have a beer and watch baseball!” So, Rob and I open a can and watch nine innings of a ball game, if we can find a channel not broadcasting today’s army heroisms. The best comparison to explain this attitude is with religion. Facts don’t play a role for an ardent Christian, and neither do they for a patriot. America – its ideals, actions and dogmas – is a faith most of the population doesn’t question. America is good, by god’s grace, and holds the moral high ground. All “backward, undemocratic and evil nations” are in need of salvation, and if necessary, through the hands of a military that baptises by blanket bombing, should other methods fail to convert the heathens. Starting in elementary school, children are already encouraged to pledge allegiance to the American flag and recite the national anthem. Those who ref­ use to participate might receive a written “demerit”, detention, or in cases of “severe unpatriotic behaviour”, expulsion from school. I know: I spent five years attending elementary school in the US during my childhood. Even today, this daily patriotic exercise is mandatory in 43 states. Legislation only allows a student to decline to perform the oath with explicit permission from his/ her parents – except for Delaware and Illinois, where non-participation is cur­ rently simply prohibited. What should we think when we hear and see seven-year-olds with their tiny hands on their hearts, singing the fifth line of the American national anthem, which reads: “And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there”? Or when they vow: “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under God ...” As a German, I feel very, very afraid. “I think we ought to raise the age at which juveniles can have a gun.” George W. Bush - third presidential debate, St. Louis, Missouri, 18 October 2000 Michael Moore is in Seattle. Here’s one American who dares speak out – for there are quite a few – and is brave enough to produce a film in an attempt to bring the reality of American foreign policy home. His newest documentary,

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Fahrenheit 9/11, The Temperature at which Freedom Burns, will be released next year. However, ever since his anti-gun film Bowling for Columbine was aired, Moore’s been collecting enemies like some people stamps. Outside the university lecture hall demonstrations are being held. “Michael Moore is Satan!” one banner reads. True or not, Rob and I look forward to hearing what this man has to say about his country. Though eloquent in a folksy way, Michael’s two-hour speech was hardly the 911 degrees I expected it to be. His government criticisms were mild, the mil­itary portrayed as great kids following morally wrong orders and the foreign civilian casualty tolls mentioned in a single brief sentence. What are the demon­strators so angry about? Many Europeans criticise their own countries more severely on a daily basis. It’s common knowledge that some politicians lie and soldiers occasionally kill. We mention this to Michael when we meet him in the parking lot after the event. “Yeah, guys, I agree with you completely. But you must understand, I’m talking to an American audience, not a European crowd. I’m pushing my credibility enough as it is. Were I to tell the whole truth instead of a trickle, nobody would take me seriously. It would be too much for them to chew at one time.” He may be right. I never thought of it that way. Michael Moore has a more difficult challenge on his hands than I imagined. We wish him well. “See, free nations are peaceful nations. Free nations don’t attack each other. Free nations don’t develop weapons of mass destruction.” George W. Bush – Milwaukee, Wisconsin, 3 October 2003 One thing all visitors to the States will agree upon, regardless of their global and political views, is its natural splendour. We drive the 708-kilometre Cascade Loop through Olympic National Park, into Oregon along the beautiful shoreline, and visit California to experience one of the world’s most scenic roads, the famous Pacific Coast Highway. It feels good to escape for a while, forget world politics and war mongering, and just sit beneath a massive Redwood tree reading a good book, our backs against its thick bark. Sometimes a few minutes in the woods can refresh my body and mind, cleansing me of civilisation’s dirt and grime. I always emerge with enough positive thoughts to meet life anew again.

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I summon up all the good memories of the past three months. We’ve met amazing individuals and developed some lasting friendships, though I still believe it’s morally wrong for them to pay taxes to a government responsible for more than 10 million civilian casualties in the last half century alone. If only more Americans would holiday in the Middle East and the Arab world, it might lead to greater global awareness amongst the general population, more humility and less criticism of those who think differently – and it might make a telling difference to America’s foreign policy. Unfortunately, less than 20 per cent of US citizens currently have a passport, and only an estimated 4 per cent regularly travel beyond Canada and Mexico to overseas destinations. Indeed, the majority of Americans have NEVER ONCE left US soil! Will any of this change in my lifetime? Who knows, but hopefully – because as they say: everything is possible in America!

Tranquility (Canada – 8 July 2003)

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he first time I ever went to a cinema was on my fifth birthday – the movie was The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams. Adams is accused of a murder he did not commit, and he flees into the vast untouched wilderness to live out his days at one with nature. I, glued to my cinema seat, travelled with him, built log cabins and befriended the grizzly bear Ben. The heart-warming film must have made a grand impression on me and provided nourishment for my dreams. Throughout my childhood I waited impatiently to “grow up” so I could venture forth into the world. Canada specifically has always ranked high on my “must-see” list.

We reach the US-Canada frontier, ready to roll into the second largest country on the planet. Canada stretches its limbs in all directions, from the Pacific to the Atlantic and then northward to Ellesmere Island, only a short, cold hop to the Pole. The length of Canada’s coastline is a staggering 243,000 kilometres, a little under three quarters of the average distance to our moon. The immigration officer presses a six-month stamp into our passports without delay, no questions asked. A few hours’ drive north along the British Columbian coastline and the rocky dome of the “Chief ” (Stawamus Chief Mountain) makes its appearance, its

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grand walls falling off steeply into the boulder-strewn valley of Squamish. The area is world famous in the rock-climbing community, a true Mecca for those with vertical dreams. We park in a riverbed and unfurl our ropes. Hundreds, if not thousands, of routes snake their way skyward; lines ranging from bolted scrambles to multi-pitch 5.14s.5 Those few able to scale the latter have obviously taken human evolution a step further. I stand in awe beneath an overhanging wall 50 metres high. To me, it resembles a sheet of glass; nowhere is a handhold to be seen. A more experienced climber will notice features: a rough friction surface here, an indentation for a single fingertip there. The world of rock climbing is beyond comprehension to the uninitiated and a good climber’s abilities border on the magic. On this specific route I can’t even get my foot off the ground. But Alex can. We meet him hovering mid-air a few body lengths above us. Unshaven, bleeding fingers, big smile – he’s the ultimate rock-junkie prototype. “Yeah, I’ve been here a few months now,” he tells us having returned to earth. “In winter when it gets chilly I go down to Joshua Tree to climb.” Alex only works when he needs to purchase more quickdraws or runs out of coffee from Starbucks. I like him, his free soul and his attitude towards life, immediately. Often a mountaineer will justify his passion with the oversimpli­fied phrase: “I climb mountains because they’re there!” Or alternatively use many words to connect his hobby with some kind of spiritual journey. Not Alex. “Aw, hell! It’s fun. Sure beats sitting in some office 9 to 5,” he says. I can’t dispute that. Ultimately it’s the same reason why I travel. Life can be immensely enjoyable once you’ve found your passion. We team up every day to climb and spend our evenings around a bonfire in a river bed. The Pacific Ocean lies at our doorstep and the wooded hinterland contains pristine lakes untouched, save for the occasional angler. Many British Colombians fit the category of “rugged outdoors type”. Nearly all passing ve­ hicles are laden with sporting equipment, such as kayaks, hunting-gear or skis. Rob and I decide to follow suit and begin searching for a second-hand canoe. “Yes, I have one. But it might not float,” a local farmer tells us. “You’re welcome to inspect it.” 5 In America and Canada, most climbers use the so-called Yosemite Decimal System to rate the difficulty of a route. Class 5 climbs are “technical”, meaning climbers will generally use hardware for personal safety, such as ropes and anchors. This class starts at 5.0 and currently extends to 5.14 +.

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Behind his home, lying partially under a felled tree, is a dented piece of aluminium. There’s even a paddle perforated by bullet holes. It’s perfect! We ­purchase the canoe for just 10 Canadian dollars. Tied to our roof it fits Ma­ tilda’s battered appearance extremely well. The canoe does sink, but only slowly, and the fishing can begin. Our investment pays off quickly. For the remainder of our journey north, not a day passes where we don’t fry a trout or two over our campfire. The countless lakes and rivers are overpopulated with fish. “I’ll go get breakfast” involves climbing out of bed, walking five minutes to the shore, throwing a line and immediately reeling it in. If we park wisely for the night, we can even fish from Matilda’s bedroom window. Canada is turning out to be the least expensive country I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. Apart from petrol, our costs are nil. One can camp wild anywhere, drink from streams and easily live off the land, at least between spring and autumn, if you know your mushrooms, ­berries and fish. One must watch out for bears, however. On some days we count as many as two dozen sitting at the roadside watching cars go by. “Yeah, they may appear cute and cuddly, but don’ be fooled,” a ranger in the Tweedsmuir Provincial Park tells us. “They can be a damn nuisance. Every year a few tourists get mauled. Worst are the “rubbish bears”, the ones who have learnt to associate humans with food. They hang around parking lots until we shoot them.” He pauses. I know a tale will follow. Every ranger has a story to pass on. “Just a few years ago there was this family from Alabama who wanted to take a photo of their five-year old with a grizzly. The bear had been lingering round the bins a few days minding its own business. To attract its attention the father smeared some honey on the kid’s arm, while mom stood with the camera. I bet you that picture didn’t get into the album.” The ranger turns dead serious. “Stupid people. Not only was the kid dead, we had to kill the grizzly, too.” What should we do if we encounter a grizzly, I ask. “Well, you should buy these bear bells hikers tie to their ankles. The ringing warns the bears you are coming. You know you have entered bear territory by the scat lying about. Bear scat is easy to recognise: it has tiny bells in it!” Now he’s smiling. “But honestly, best you just stand still and don’t move, whatever

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antics he shows. Forget about running or heading up into the branches. Bears are faster than you and will either climb a tree or rip it out.” It doesn’t take long until we face our first bear obstacle. Paddling down a gently flowing stream, we suddenly find ourselves confronted by a black bear and her cub. Due to the absence of bear bells, she hadn’t heard us approaching. Startled, she decides to send her cub up the one single overhanging cedar spanning the river, while she herself disappears into the undergrowth. What to do? Paddle beneath the overhead cub and be sprung upon by a mother defending her young? I doubt we could ward her off with the bullet perforated wooden oar. So we back up and wait. Half an hour later we’re still waiting, while the cub patiently stares at us from the tree as if to say: “I dare you to come any closer.” We don’t. Instead we decide to portage around the obstacle in a very, very wide arch. Apart from bears and tourists, Canada has very little to worry about as a nation: violent crimes are famously much lower than in the neighbouring US. No one is running amok in high schools or blasting roofs off city buildings with bombs. In many parts of Canada, first-time visitors are surprised to find people leaving both house and car doors unlocked when going away for the weekend. Minority groups in the country include the Inuit, who have populated the Arctic regions of Canada since the last ice age, when they migrated over the frozen Bering Strait, and members of the more than 630 officially recognised “First Nation” communities. Long discriminated against by Canada, a new selfgoverning territory was established for the Inuit in 1999 by shearing off half of the Northwest Territories to create Nunavut, an area measuring around 1.88 million square kilometres, 14 times the size of England. We’ve been invited to a moose dinner by an indigenous Kispiox, near the Alaska Panhandle. It’s my first intim­ ate meeting with a First Nation Canadian, and I feel honoured to be his guest. I grew up in a world fascinated by “Indian” traditions. “Dream catchers” hung in many of my friends’ windows, Dances with Wolves was our favourite film, posters of Sitting Bull decorated our walls and some classmates wore moc­casins to school. Green Party supporting friends glued the famous Cree proph­ecy sticker to the bumpers of their old VW campervans, which read: “Only after the last tree has been cut down, only after the last river has been poisoned,

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only after the last fish has been caught, only then will you find that money cannot be eaten” – while driving around billowing carbon-monoxide clouds into the air, proud not to own a fuel-efficient, emission-controlled Mercedes Benz. My various vehicles never had a Cree sticker. I believe they belong on a horse’s rear end, not a car’s, if a Green Party supporter’s ecological values are to be taken seriously. Thus, I’m perplexed when we enter our host’s village: I can’t make out where the rubbish-dump ends and the residential area begins. So far, Canada has been spotless! Analysing the contents of the tip, one would assume the tribe lived off a pure beer diet. John (I have to admit, I’ve forgotten his true Indian name) lives in a two-bedroom house on the edge of the woods. He and his family are “dry” – no alcohol ever enters his home. A big man of few words with chiselled features, he could play the lead role in an old-school Hollywood western. I find it disrespectful and inappropriate to pester him with questions about his culture over dinner. Instead we sit munching our delicious BBQ moose in silence. Afterwards, with bellies full and a steaming mug of coffee in hand, he opens up a bit. Yes, alcohol is a big problem in the community. And no, nature is not respected. “Was it always like that?” I ask, knowing well the question might seem akin to asking a Brit how his medieval ancestors might have behaved at the legendary King Arthur’s round table. John doesn’t really believe nature was respected as such in the old days ­either. Nature was simply “there”. I gaze around the room. An old photo shows a few First Nation people building a traditional wooden canoe. John explains that the ancestors cut down hundreds of trees in search of the perfect wood for a single craft. Building a fleet could devastate a forest. Just then the dogs strike alarm. He jumps up and grabs his rifle leaning against the fireplace. “Damn bears. Stay inside you two,” he warns. “This one enters our property every time we have a BBQ.” A rubbish grizzly. It probably hasn’t much longer to live. We continue up Highways 16 and 37, make a detour into Alaska at Stewart, and reach Whitehorse, Yukon, by the end of June. That’s north enough for us

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this time around. Before we make a U-turn and head back to the States, I vow to return one day with an axe and my canoe, my dream of building a Grizzly Adams-style log cabin in the deep woods now stronger than ever before.

The Tale of Shadows (USA Part Two – 23 October 2003)

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n our southbound journey we detour east through Idaho to Wendover, Utah. Nearby is the Bonneville Salt Flats, an area consisting of a 412-square-kilometre white pan. Its surface is completely level and devoid of vegetation, making it the ideal venue for motor sports. As we turn off the main highway we see a few people assembled on the salt with their turbo-charged vehicles. A 10-mile-long straightway has been marked out for speed trials and I’d love to give Matilda a test run. “Yeah. It’s free to anybody who wants a go,” an elderly chap tells us. The challenge I face is formidable: since 1912 daredevils have been competing to become the “fastest man on wheels” at this location. Andy Green is currently the guy to beat. He holds the Absolute Land Speed Record for wheeled-vehicles with his Twin-Turbofan ThrustSSC car. “How fast did he go?” I ask the old gent. “Oh, he broke the sound barrier in 1997 and reached a top velocity of 1,228 kilometres per hour.” Hmm. I’m unsure my old Land Rover is up for breaking sound barriers. I could excuse her by suggesting the ThrustSSC isn’t a real car anyway. It was propelled by rockets. My new acquaintance agrees with me. “In the wheel-driven category the record was broken only last year, by Don Vesco with his Turbinator-Turboshaft. He flew down this track at 737 kilometres per hour.” “What about motorcycles?” “Let me think – 565 kilometres per hour with the BUB-Racing-Number-Seven-Streamliner.” I gaze at poor Matilda. She has no chance to earn herself a trophy against these Bonneville monsters. Perhaps it’s all in the name. Had I called my Landy The

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British Super-GasketBlaster instead of boring Matilda, I’m sure she’d have won a prize. I manoeuvre her to pole position on the salt and rev the engine. All four cylinders are pumping madly, black fumes are pouring from her exhaust and the ground trembles. I release the handbrake, duck behind the steering wheel to aid aerodynamics, and observe the shaking dial on Matilda’s speedometer. Two minutes pass and she’s still accelerating! “CHRIS!!! How fast are we going?” Rob screams over the engine’s roar into my ear. “Eighty-two kilometres an hour!” I shout back, elated. Ten kilometres faster and we would have broken the 4 March 1899 speed record set in France by Gaston de Chasseloup-Laubat … I release the gas pedal and slowly roll to a halt before any permanent damage is done. We wave goodbye to the imaginary applauding spectators, and head towards Salt Lake City. Due south is Monument Valley, an area made famous in John Wayne westerns and by Marlboro Cigarette advertising posters. Red sandstone buttes, scattered in the distance like sleeping giants, tower 300 metres above the valley floor. We rein in Matilda for the night and I dismount from the driver’s saddle. Opening a tin of beans, we soon squat by a fire, and I light up a Camel. Sorry, Marlboro Man, I find Camels taste better. Leaning back against a boulder, I gaze up at the stars. Apart from the occasional headlight of a passing truck, no lights obscure the night sky. The only residents in the valley are Navajo Native Americans on a nearby reserve and the ghosts of roaming cowboys. My coffee is ready and I remove the percolator pot from the flames. This is the life! Tonight, I’m blissfully at peace with this country, and somewhere in the darkness, I drift off to sleep. It’s fascinating how much fun you can have as a traveller in the States – enter­ taining and “cool” activities are possible to pursue everywhere. Even more enjoy­­able for me are the outdoor freedoms, provided I keep a great distance from urban areas, where personal liberties are more restrictive than in any Western country I’ve ever visited – or come to think of it, many non-Western countries, too. Iranians, Mongolians, Arabs and Africans would be highly amused by all the “Don’t do this” and “It’s prohibited to do that” signs placed throughout the nation. Even the national parks have billboards at the entrance gates listing so many rules that foreign visitors often wonder what’s left to do and enjoy. Luckily, America is huge, so that even when you subtract the urbanised

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zones and regulated parks, a sizable area is left where one can off-road, build campfires, go skinny dipping, pitch a tent and feel “free”. But alongside this immense beauty, unpleasant details lurk in the shadows. Exploring the badlands of southeastern California and New Mexico, we halt at three historical memorials I find deeply disturbing. The first is an American flag almost the size of a football field, planted in the middle of the desert. It’s a landmark on the Mojave Trail, a track which was used by the first settlers and associated with the concept of “Manifest Destiny” – a term that was (and sometimes still is) used to validate the ethnic cleansing of Native Americans in the past, to make way for a so-called “new and better society of virtuous American people and their superior institutions”. In this day and age, wouldn’t planting a few ­dozen Native American flags instead of the Stars and Stripes be more appropriate? The second memorial is Manzanar. In 1905, California’s anti-miscegenation law was amended, permitting marriages between white Americans and “Mongolians”, as all people of Asian descent were referred to at the time.6 Yet the move towards equality was put on ice when Japan bombed Pearl Harbor 36 years later. Back then, General DeWitt testified to congress: “A Jap’s a Jap. I don’t want any of them here. They are a dangerous element, and it makes no difference if he is an American citizen. He must be wiped off the map!” I vaguely recall somebody with a silly moustache using a similar phrase, half a world away in Germany. Shortly thereafter, upon US Executive Order No. 9066, concentration camps were built, Manzanar being the first of ten on American soil. All those with more than 1/16 Japanese blood could be detained. More than 110,000 Japanese Americans were evacuated on short notice from their homes, and carrying barely the shirts on their backs, were incarcerated. At Manzanar, the temperatures range from zero in winter, to a scorching 40 degrees in summer. Without proper medical care and housed in “tarpaper” barracks without plumbing, 146 people died at this site alone. We enter the deserted compound. Perhaps its mere existence does not fit well with America’s version of history and patriotic propaganda. It’s an episode 6 It took a further 62 years until inter-racial marriages were fully legalised with black African-Americans.

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best forgotten, which was made a lot easier when most of the concentration camps were bulldozed at the war’s end. Few Americans we meet have ever heard of the place. “We don’t commit atrocities” was the most common reaction, followed by “That’s old history and not important today.” But is history ever irrelevant? As we leave Manzanar, wind blowing dust over our tyre tracks and leaving no trace of our visit, I glance over my shoulder at the wooden plaque hanging at the barbed-wire gate. “May the injustices suffered here as a result of hysteria, racism and economic exploitation never emerge again,” it reads. I sigh inwardly. “One American life is worth more than 1,000 Iraqis” is a quote I’ve heard all too often in the past months. Now, where did I hear that one before? Oh yes, it had something to do with that aforementioned moustached dictator, didn’t it? Around 60 years on and CNN is now broadcasting that foreign nationals in the US can be arrested and imprisoned indefinitely without charge, legal representation, trial or the right of appeal, and sent off to Guantanamo Bay if they are considered a “threat to democracy”. Nothing has changed since Manzanar apart from the minority group targeted. First the Native Americans, then the Japanese, Communists and now Muslims. Who’ll be next? Does this country need an eternal enemy to justify its existence? And the most important question: how should we react to US policy as a world community if American citi­ zens fail to act themselves? The third disturbing site is at Los Alamos, about an hour’s drive from Albu­ querque. Rob and I spot an Atomic Museum sign and decide to visit, not knowing what to expect. At first I believe it might contain an exhibition on nuclear fission or fusion for peaceful purposes. I was wrong: displayed are full-scale replicas of Little Boy and Fat Man, the bombs dropped upon Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. As we walk through the aisles examining detailed descriptions below every replica, we cannot find a single reference to the suffering these bombs caused. Little Boy and Fat Man are portrayed as positive achievements. I overhear a teacher explaining to her class of school children: “This one we dropped on Japan!” And in unison the kids reply, “Wow! Cool!” There are no photos of dead Japanese civilians, killed by the blasts or the effects of radiation. There is no footage of mothers burnt to a crisp still clutching their infants.

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Instead I learn: “Targets had to possess sentimental value in the mind of the Japanese people, have some military significance, be largely intact to demonstrate the destructive power, and contain a large urban area with a diameter of at least 4.8 kilometers.” The museum describes each weapon’s history and megatons of destructive power objectively, but always with a hint of pride: “Little Boy was dropped directly over Shima Surgical Clinic. The explosion generated heat estimated at 3,900 degrees Celsius and winds exceeding 1,000 kilometres per hour. The city looked like a graveyard with not a tombstone standing”. And the kids continue to run around shouting “Oh, man, that’s so cool!” In the aftermath, Japan sought worldwide abolition of nuclear weapons and now has one of the world’s firmest non-nuclear policies. The States became a nuclear-weapon superpower. You would have thought that after President Harry Truman had seen how many civilians he had on his conscience (140,000 in Hiroshima and 80,000 in Nagasaki by the end of 1945), he’d have done any­ thing in his power to stop nuclear proliferation. As at the Manifest Destiny Flag and Manzanar, what is most important are not the details of events that occurred long ago, but whether humanity has learned a lesson from past mistakes. I’m doubtful. The general consensus in America leans towards glorifying their achievements and victory over foreign nations. In 1996, the US even objected when UNESCO turned the Genbaku peace memorial, situated close to the epicentre of the bombing in Hiroshima, into a World Heritage Site. They argued that “had the bombs not been dropped, the war would have lasted longer, resulting in more deaths of American soldiers.” A similar argument is used today to justify the dropping of bombs in civilian areas of Iraq and Afghanistan: collateral damage abroad is acceptable, if it’s believed that the killings might safeguard the United States from possible future attacks. With regard to atomic weapons, I find it ironic that the only country ever to use an atomic bomb in history is currently dictating to other nations, such as Iran, whether they may develop them. We decide to drive towards Socorro, where the Very Large Array is situated. You’ll know it if you’ve seen the Hollywood movie Contact starring Jodie Foster. This science-fiction film, adapted from a Carl Sagan novel, is about the search for extraterrestrial life. Of course, the storyline is pure fiction, but the radio astronomy observatory is not. Here they stand, 27 massive antennas spread

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out along a baseline of 36 kilometres, each with a dish diameter of 25 metres. They are pointed towards the heavens, gathering information about galaxies, quasars, pulsars, supernova remnants and black holes. And, yes, sometimes they also listen patiently for alien life forms who might be sending us mes­ sages. I wonder what they would want to tell us? How to build a spaceship ­capable of visiting them? The formula for a unified theory of gravity? Or simply, “We’re watching you. Be nice to one another. Life is precious”? Americans appear to value life differently to Europeans. This is one of a minority of counties left in the world, for example, where criminals can still be executed. In the club of capital-punishment supporters, apart from the United States, are nations such as Afghanistan, China, Iran, North Korea, Libya, Burma, Somalia and a few more. None of these are democratic countries in a Western sense. The club membership narrows to eight should you ask, “Which nations can put juveniles on Death Row?” The United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child prohibits capital punishment for minors, regardless of the crime they may have committed. Currently, nine US states can sentence 17-year-olds to death, and in three at 16, as happened to Sean Sellers, who was tried as if he were an adult and forced to “walk the mile” in 1999. I’d heard about the electric chair. What I didn’t know was that there are actually five different execution methods still practiced today. Apart from Old Sparky, there are lethal injection, the gas chamber, hanging, and the firing squad. Last to be strung to a noose was Bill Baily and last to be shot was John Albert Taylor, both in 1996. When I hear “gas chamber”, a shiver runs down my spine. Remember, I’m German, and know our country’s horrible past. I make the effort to write to the DPIC, the “Death Penalty Information Center”: “Dear Sirs. Please tell me: If a Jew were to commit a capital crime and be sentenced to death in a state using the gas chamber, will this method be applied? Yours sincerely, Christopher Many.” The DPIC never replied. You see, according to my own very personal opinion, sometimes (though rarely) there is such a thing as a one-sided coin. Although I try to build a balanced perspective of everything I witness and experience when driving around the world, I do not support every viewpoint held by some of the individuals I encounter. Perhaps bombing Hiroshima and ending the war did save the lives of thousands. But does a hypothesis, however probable, justify the burning alive

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of a single child, not to mention a quarter of a million people? No, not in my world; I do not play with human lives as if they were mere numbers. I know the arguments of death-penalty advocates; how killing a rapist or murderer is the best insurance against that particular individual ever com­ mitting a similar crime again. Or how some may be dissuaded from pulling a trigger if it means they could end up in front of a firing squad themselves. Yet, all these arguments are null and void if a court errs only ONCE, and an innocent man or woman is executed. It’s a sad fact that this happens again and again. People make blunders, juries get it wrong, and some poor kid winds up strapped to a chair with a sponge on his head. Such mistakes cannot later be reversed. Death is always final. We escape to Joshua Tree National Park and pitch camp amongst yucca trees and rock-climbing boulders to inhale clean, fresh desert air. Here we try to forget about the dark side of the human soul – at least for a little while. I deeply love the natural wonders in the United States, as I love my friends and relatives here. Did I ever mention I was born in New York City and lived there for 13 years? Yes? No? Well, now you’ve heard it. But that’s irrelevant anyway. As a traveller with friends not just in the States, but spread out around the globe, I don’t like the aggressive stance of US foreign policy and find it hard to understand that most people here simply accept it. One may initially remain silent when learning from a foreign culture on a world trip, but sooner or later there comes a point where one must speak out. This is my contribution to creating – hopefully – a more peaceful future. It’s time to head to Mexico. Our second visa waiver is about to expire. Better be on our way.

Dependency (Mexico – 17 March 2004)

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s we approach the US-Mexico border, the scenery raises the possibility that we’re actually appearing in Escape from Alcatraz – The Sequel. The closer we get to the triple-layered fencing, the more I feel as if I’m attempting a prison-break. The FLIR (forward looking infrared) cameras have

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spotted our green escape vehicle and armed guards are patrolling the heavy barriers. To my surprise, the gate swings open, and we’re “outside”. The first to greet us is a Mexican immigration officer. “Welcome to Mexico,” he smiles. Every year tens of thousands try to break INTO the States, risking their lives in the attempt. It seems insane to wish to leave the country that invented, amongst other things, chocolate and the contraceptive pill. At least 2,000 have died crossing, whether drowning in the Rio Grande, succumbing to dehydration in the Sonoran Desert or at the hands of the US border patrol. So-called “coyotes” smuggle Mexicans into the States for thousands of dollars – the life savings of whole families. If successful, most find illegal employment in the agricultural sector earning a slave’s wages. An estimated 45 per cent of all farm labourers in the US are undocumented immigrants. Comparisons have been made between the US-Mexico border fence and the Berlin Wall. The former’s construction earned President Bush massive criti­ cism from the international community, foremost Latin American nations. With the fall of the Eastern Block and the rise of globalisation, efforts towards world peace are generally undertaken by opening our frontiers – like with the formation of the European Union – not by creating new ones. Yet, the comparison is not quite valid: the Berlin Wall was built by East Germany to keep people in, the US Wall to keep people out. Though, what defines “in” and “out” is a matter of perspective, isn’t it? Then there is the little known fact that “just” 136 people perished crossing from East to West Berlin in the 28 years the wall existed; more than 300 people died crossing the Mexico-US border in 2004 alone. Sitting at a beach bar in Baja California, we indulge in tacos, enchiladas and burritos, national dishes famous well outside Mexican borders. It’s only the flickering television set, above the bottles of tequila, I find a bit disturbing. I ask if I may switch channels from Mexico’s version of Big Brother to a programme slightly more informative, yet find only Mexican Idol, Saturday Night Live and Who Wants to be a Peso Millionaire. It’s hopeless. And the off button on the TV seems to have been intentionally removed. Outside the camping compound we stroll through the rubbish-strewn streets. Timid dogs sift through refuse, tails unwagging. The visible poverty is accentuated having arrived dir­ectly from Mexico’s affluent northern neighbour. And yet … there is more “life” and more “authenticity” in a single Bajan village than in all of California.

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Gone are the fake imitation rocks and “natural” scrambled eggs I so deplored. It’s a breath of fresh air, even if the smells aren’t always nice. If I had to name the single most disturbing phenomenon, it would be the shouts of, “Eh, Gringo!” we encounter wherever we go. The calls are not unfriendly as such, but an attempt to attract our attention to whatever wares are on offer. We are walking greenbacks, dollar bills with legs. “No, no! No somos Americanos! No somos Gringos! Somos Europaeos!” I correct the Mexicans in appalling Spanish. I’m just beginning to learn the language. All efforts are futile. We are white, so in their eyes we are wealthy Americans. Perhaps these attitudes will change further south. We decide to leave Baja California for the mainland. Rattlesnakes, tarantulas, heat and cacti become our companions as we skirt the US-Mexican border through the Sonoran Desert. Atop a hill we view the zone where so many illegal migrants attempt to cross. It’s a Wild-West setting, and even the banditos are present, though no longer wearing sombreros and ponchos. Today they are called “military police”, have uniforms and carry AK47s. They stalk this remote area, and spot us within minutes of halting for the night. To us it’s a mystery where they’ve been hiding. Or perhaps the police just sprout from the desert soil? “Eh, Gringos, what are you doing here?” is usually the first question. (Helping some poor sod cross into America?) “Do you have marijuana?” always the second. (Yeah, we are drug lords. Want some ganja?) “What about weapons?” is the follow-up. (Oh, sorry, forgot about those. The Landy’s full of anti-aircraft missiles) But after a half-hearted rummage through Matilda, a disappointed sniff on my tobacco-pipe and a bribe-demand we resist, they merge with the darkness ... only to reappear again and waken us at the impossible hour of three in the morning. We try to ignore the police by playing dead, not an unlikely scenario in the Sonoran, but to no avail. The rattling and fist-on-door-banging continues until we give in, open the rear door, and repeat the whole annoying “game” again. San Felipe, La Roca, Puerto Libertad, Bahia Kino and Copper Canyon. Switchback roads on washed-out tracks curve serpentine-like from Hermosillas towards Alamos and Creel. Our pesos go a long way: outside the tourist beach

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haunts life is ridiculously cheap. Along the way we feast at local eateries and continue to camp in the wild. It’s at one such bush camp that the unexpected happens. “Rob, wake up. There are people outside.” The time is about right, 3 a.m., but on this occasion something is different. A machine gun is sticking through my bedroom window, poking at my buttocks. “Get down! Come out!” someone screams. Another muzzle appears, tearing the mosquito-net. Matilda is being illuminated by a pick-up truck’s powerful searchlights. “Who are you?” Rob asks. I’ll leave the talking up to him – he’s fluent in Spanish. I might pronounce a word wrong and insult somebody with a twitchy finger. The voice becomes more insistent: “Municipal police! Get out now!” Rob opens the rear door, and finds himself standing barefoot, with a T-shirt and Scooby-doo-shorts, in front of a dozen armed men. I follow suit, but a tad more appropriately clothed. “What are you doing here?” the group leader barks. “Camping,” Rob replies. Though his voice remains admirably calm, I know he must be sweating waterfalls. “Where are you going?” “Alamos. We’re tourists!” They visibly relax. “Turistas?!?! Vamos!” All guns are shouldered, the squad jumps into the pick-up and within seconds the vehicle is out of sight. A dust cloud settles upon our heads. “What was that all about?” I ask Rob, hoping he might be able to make sense of the experience. He shrugs. “They weren’t municipal police, that’s for sure …” In Alamos we are enlightened by a friendly restaurant manager. “Those remote hills you passed through last night? That’s cartel land. Not even the military dare go there. Somebody must have seen your green Land Rover and tipped off security. Probably thought you were narcotics police. They sometimes use green vehicles too. Lucky you two – occasionally they just open fire with no questions asked.” We stay at Potrero Chico near Monterey, another world-famous rock-climbing

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destination, for a few months, hoping to find Axel, our climbing buddy from Squamish. But, no, that was too much to wish for. It’s a sad fact that most people you meet on the road are once-in-a-lifetime encounters. Farewells are often permanent; you might write each other emails, but it’s probable you won’t see them again. For this reason, some travellers remain emotionally detached from locals and fellow overlanders. They are of the opinion “holiday friendships” are simply not worth the effort. If you are only going to be with someone for a week, “why bother?” And should a friendship develop nonetheless, won’t the inevitable separation be too painful to bear? I believe a lack of time can be compensated by allowing all emotional barriers to fall, realising all encounters are finite and by putting relationship building on a fast-track. The resulting sadness felt upon departure is proof the friendships were genuine. Crossing the Tropic of Cancer, we venture through a landscape of orange groves, dense forests and towering volcanoes. The highest, Pico de Orizaba, around 5,600 metres above sea level, I ascend, while Rob remains with a girlfriend in Puebla near Mexico City to watch the US Presidential Elections live on TV, amongst other things, I’m sure. Back in Pueblo Rob’s gloomy expression tells me Bush has been “re-elected” for another four years, or more accurately, “appointed despite losing the majority vote”. No trip to Latin America is complete without the pyramids. Chichén Itzá is Mexico’s most famous and a site many people would like to see included amongst the “New Seven Wonders of the World”.7 Archaeologists believe ­humans have been living in the area for at least 21,000 years with complex civilisations developing nine millennia ago, a time when Europeans were still gnawing away on hunted boar bones. Amongst these civilisations were the Aztecs and the Mayans, constructors of monumental architecture and mastering the arts of mathematics and astronomy. This period came to an end in the early 16th century, after Spain’s conquest of Mesoamerica, leaving behind the pyramids as one of the region’s most impressive legacies.

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Chichén Itzá was subsequently included as one of the New Seven Wonders of the World in 2007.

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Though justifiably deemed an architectural wonder, I fail to see the spiritual significance many travellers associate with these ancient sites. “The energy! Can you feel the ENERGY of this place!?” I’m asked by an Austrian girl in her mid-20s with multiple piercings in unlikely locations. “This place has an AURA!” she continues, clutching her chakra. I bet the young lady will now say the pyramids were built by extraterrestrials. “It was built by ALIENS!” Oh dear. I often wonder whether I’m blind to some vital events on my travels. In all my years on the road, I’ve never witnessed a so-called miracle. Many other travellers apparently have. Within days of arriving, they see levitating Buddha’s in Tibet, flying sadhu mystics in India, UFOs … and everywhere is this allencompass­ing, ill-defined, “energy”. I have, on occasion, searched out these mystics hoping to blast my apparently far-too-logical mind to smithereens with the inexplicable. But always when I arrive, the Buddha is sitting comfortably on a carpet eating tsampa. Could it be because I have no piercings? I’m not suggesting everything has been explained by science; there is still enough deeply shrouded in mystery. For some questions we might find the answer tomorrow, others only after thousands of years of research, and some phenomena we may never fully comprehend. Believers in religions and esotericism make the mistake to say they know the definite answer “now” – yes, yes, God or gods created the universe in so and so many days or years; aliens arrived in flying saucers and built stone structures for fun, and so on. I prefer to weigh all options against each other, including those proposed by religion, in order to find the most likely explanation. Take the pyramids: I’ve been told they were built with great precision, accurate to the Nth decimal point, and the irrational number Pi (π) is incorporated into the design. My hippie girl believes aliens MUST have built them since the Aztecs had no computers to calculate the numbers. Yet, you need no Cray-II supercomputer for this task. A wheel of a certain diameter with a side marking, an understanding of angle ratios and the measurement system used in the ancient world could explain the pyramid’s construction just as well without “magic”. Which theory sounds more likely? We leave the Austrian girl and her aura field, and with a deep tan and blistered feet from climbing coconut trees, head towards the Belizean border and new horizons.

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Jealousy (Belize – 13 April 2004)

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elize is an oddity in Central America: it is, for example, the only country where English is an official language. How did the British Empire establish a foothold on a coastline dominated by the Spanish Crown? Merely 280 kilometres long and 100 kilometres wide, Belize is not a large ledge, more like a toe rest, and it plays such a small role in global affairs that most people have never heard of the nation. Centuries ago, gold-hungry conquistadores found little more than a swampy marshland, ship-devouring coral reefs and an impenetrable jungle in this region: nothing they could easily exploit. The industrious Brits, however, not deceived by first impressions, occupied this empty niche and began cutting logwood, producing fixing agents for clothing dyes and later exported lucrative mahogany. Though not nearly as precious as gold, it did justify maintaining a colony, something Spain vowed to respect in return for British aid to end regional piracy. Belize, formerly known as “British Honduras”, only became independent in 1981.

A quarter of a century later and the visitor might be fooled into believing Belize had again lost its sovereignty. The British military parades along the few roads, demonstrating its presence. Yet, this is at the behest of the Belizean government. Neighbouring Guatemala refuses to fully recognise Belizean independence and views the country as their 23rd department. History repeats itself. Clashes with pirates are replaced by border disputes; a protecting naval fleet swapped for green Land Rovers. I’m reminded that Matilda is in desperate need of TLC. I’ve been neglecting her for half a year and she’s hinting at her dissatisfaction. Luckily, wherever the Brits go they leave three things behind: fish and chips, Barclay Banks and Landy spares. We seek out Yoda, Jedi-Master of Land Rovers, living in the district of Orange Walk. Of course, Yoda is not his real name – but it should be. One cannot tell the two apart. A retired schoolteacher, the locals even call him “Master”. Master Yoda’s workshop looks like a Death Star crash site. Stripped engines are haphazardly thrown atop rear differentials, and boxes and crates in complete disarray contain temperature sensors, gaskets and universal joints.

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While I sift through the piles for parts, I expect Darth Vader to jump at me any second, swinging his lightsaber. “Hmmm. Interesting this is,” Yoda begins in a squeaky voice. “Its purpose I know not.” Stunning! The guy even speaks like Yoda. He’s pointing at a removed rear door. The thin wiring running through the window has him confused. Yoda, an Indio, has lived in Belize his whole life. In this tropical paradise he’s never had to scratch ice from windscreens. I explain the heater’s function to him. He’s amazed. We purchase a second fuel tank to fit under the passenger seat for USD 10, thus, doubling Matilda’s driving range, and we continue towards the British military base a few kilometres down the road. Rob wishes to ask if can use the army workshop. “But it’s a tight security compound!” I have my doubts we’ll be allowed to visit. Rob remains adamant. “You’ll see,” he smiles. “I’m British!” The patrolman on guard duty spots our UK number plate, and after ensuring we are not the Guatemalan invasion, phones the commanding officer and escorts us to the officer’s lounge. The Army Captain looks us over and smiles. We apparently came to the right camp; the commander has CLD – the incur­ able Chronic Landy Disorder – just like most Land Rover fans. “Yes, I would be delighted to assist you!” We receive not only lunch and a grand tour of the compound, but also free use of the army workshop for a week. With the help of two soldiers, Matilda has her tank fitted, electrical wiring renewed and a developing chassis crack welded. Boxes of spares are given to us free of charge from the military warehouse. “It’s alright, really. They are leftovers from our previous Series III stock. But now the base has gone Defender.” I hear regret in his voice. A beer at The Crown squaddie pub, a big thank you and Rule Britannia to the Captain, and we continue our journey. Orange Walk District is home to a large community of Mennonites. They are, in brief, Christians who believe baptism should be celebrated in adulthood, when people are mature enough to decide for themselves whether they wish to join a religious club. Sounds fair to me, but not to the European Catholics and Protestants a few hundred years ago. Prosecution forced them to flee to

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the remotest corners of the globe. Making their way from Germany to Russia to Canada to Mexico, some eventually arrived in Belize – just like we did, along a nearly identical route. Mennonites here do not pay certain taxes to the government or believe in armed conflict, and at least in the conservative communities, women must wear headscarves and always obey their husbands – strangely, considering these requirements, female Mennonites do exist. Conservative Mennonites have an extensive “list of sinful behaviour”. Amongst many other things, it’s a sin to have zips on clothing, drive motorized vehicles, use rubber tyres (on horse-drawn carts), watch television, drink alcohol, smoke tobacco and use the Internet. Orange Walk has a whole array of communities following some or all of the above regulations. I prefer the village where smokes are allowed, Rob the one with a pub and beer. Due to their ancestry, supermarkets are stocked with German goodies such as leberkäse, griebenschmalz, landjäger würstchen and sauerkraut. Schools teach German as a first language and a private radio station broadcasts German folk music. I could almost feel at home, if it weren’t for the palm trees lining the streets. We are invited to dinner by a local farmer. “Why do Mennonites repeatedly leave behind one home, and establish a new one somewhere else?” I ask over a glass of fresh lemonade. “Well, we would prefer to stay put and follow our way of life,” the farmer explains, “but our host nations eventually kick us out. You see, when we enter a new country, the governments initially welcome us. We’re hard workers and know our farming. They give us an inhospitable tract of land nobody else wants, and god helps us turn it into paradise. It took many decades of hardship to achieve what you see here in Belize today: the breadbasket of the country!” “And then? The respective governments should be delighted to have you.” “Sadly not. Over a few generations we become wealthier than the indigen­ ous population, and that breeds envy. Despite all our labour, our land is ­confiscated, or the government implements laws contrary to our beliefs. We then leave to start over again.” The population of Belize is quite a mix, but they appear to get along fairly well with each other – a rare find in today’s world, and perhaps the reason why Mennonites haven’t found themselves forced to relocate for such a long time. Splashing in the floods of the Belize River near Lamanai we see Mestizos

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(European-Amerindian ancestral heritage), Creoles (European-Africans), Garínagu (West African-Carib Indian ancestory), pure Amerindians, pure Africans, Asian Indians, Chinese and whites from various nations … together! At a local restaurant I witness similar camaraderie. The diners do not segregate themselves into racial groups as is custom in so many countries. Here they converse as equals. This micro-nation is indeed, in many ways, a miniature paradise. On the way south we pass a huge aeroplane sitting at the side of the road with a broken undercarriage. The Belizean military are using it as a checkpoint for passing vehicles. With nothing to hide and all papers in order, we stop voluntarily to ask the story behind this plane. Contrary to Mexico, roadblocks are very rare, and if encountered, one is usually waved through. “Drug dealers from Colombia landed here just short of the Mexican border,” the officer replies. He points to a hill in the distance. In a country as small as Belize, any given location is near one border or another. “They probably felt it was safer to land in Belizean territory than risk invading Mexican airspace. We arrived too late to apprehend them; they had fled on foot by the time we arrived. Probably in the States by now with their wares. Must have had lots of drugs with them.” “Why do you believe that?” I ask. “Well, they left this note in the cockpit. It reads, ‘Thank you for the runway. You can keep the plane.’”

Intensity (Guatemala – 9 May 2004)

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voyage through the Central American countryside is an assault on the senses. Guatemala is alive with colours and smells, sounds and tastes. Driving along the only tarmac road snaking its way between the country’s main communities, we overtake old men bent low lugging firewood up a steep hill, a peasant girl in ragged clothes eating a cob of maize snatched from a passing lorry’s load, countless children – screaming and laughing while snot runs down their noses in a perpetual flow – and the indigenous population in the highlands, clad in warm, rainbow-coloured woollens. If there is a single place where people from all walks of life gather, it will be a village’s central market. Every community has one, even the smallest, con-

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sisting of little more than a cluster of crofts. Most of the pedestrians we pass are either walking to or from this hub of activity to purchase or sell various wares. In the poorer regions, one might find only a handful of stalls with overripe tomatoes. In more affluent cities the markets accommodate hundreds of tables with hawkers competing wildly amongst each other. Overweight farmer’s wives proclaim their crops’ merits in a volume, though not quality, ­worthy of an opera-singer’s. The visitor entering unprepared will become quickly disoriented, turning to and fro whilst attempting to ward off the fat ladies’ outstretched soiled hands as they try to stuff fruit to within an inch of your nose. All attempts to escape are in vain; the web closes tightly around those who struggle. It’s better to let go and free-fall into the buzz, and participate by chit-chatting, flirting, praising and scrutinizing the wares, to emerge hours later into the streets having purchased no more than a single onion. For the second time on my trip, I’ve acquired a nickname. In Russia, I often heard shouts of “Rasputin!” when people tried to attract my attention. I do bear a certain resemblance to the Tsarist psychic with his flowing beard and possessed stare, the latter especially when I’m holding a few spanners between my teeth repairing a Land Rover. I gladly answered to this name, knowing Rasputin’s famed impact upon the opposite sex. It didn’t make any difference, I regret, because I’ve now been without a steady girlfriend for almost seven years. But that’s a different story ... Here at the Sunday market, I’m followed by calls of “Osama! Osama bin Laden!” One street hawker walks up to me with a smile to shake my hand. “Bin Laden, you are a great man! Welcome to Guatemala!” I play along, becoming this morning’s distraction. A vendor jokingly asks for my autograph. I comply. “But don’t reveal my hiding place to the Americans!” “Never!” The vendor promises. “You are safe here!” He gives me a good price on a kilo of spuds. Rob looks at me quizzically. I ask what’s on his mind. “I could receive a multi-million-dollar reward if I hand you over to the police is what I’m thinking.” Here, Osama is not seen as the terrorist he is in the West. Though condemning Al-Qaida’s violent actions, many regard Bin Laden simply as yet another obsessed freedom fighter using guerrilla tactics to end Western domination and military exploits in parts of the world where they’re not welcome. Guatemala itself has had plenty of experience with foreign interventions, leading to terror

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and government overthrows. Their last civil war ended only in 1996 – just a few years ago – in which thousands died and the country became impoverished. Tourist numbers are still negligible compared to neighbouring countries and we rarely encounter other travellers. The many Mayan ruins are often overgrown and untouched by restoration projects. There are no evening lightshow spectacles, where ancient sites are bathed in blinking reds, whites and blues, along with re-enactments of Mayan-Aztec history with appalling performers, as we often witnessed in Mexico. Guatemalan pyramids are crumbling affairs, with ivy snaking its way up terraces and blocks tumbling when tree roots crack the stone structures. Most archaeological sites do not even demand an entrance fee. We can park Matilda at the base of some pyramids, and at night witness nature’s own light show. Stumbling up the steep stairways to the highest point, Rob and I wait until the sun sets and a curtain of darkness descends upon the jungle. Stars and the moon, high above our vantage point, bathe everything in an eerie glow. Without question, nature still provides the best show on earth – better than any drug can provide, or so I’d like to believe. But who am I to say? My teens I spent scrambling amongst the Alps every weekend – not precisely a region conducive to experimenting with hallucinogenic substances. The only time I ever tried drugs, if one does not include tobacco and alcohol, was a one-off bucket-bong during a beach party long ago to celebrate my master’s diploma as a shipwright. For me, it was a novel experience, and one I did not particu­larly enjoy. I reacted with sensual distortion, tunnel vision and impaired hearing. “What’s happening to my brain?” I remember thinking. Frustrated, I spent the next twelve hours silently doing mental maths equations to test the par­ ameters in which I still functioned. I prefer reality – no matter how wonderful or ugly – over any illusion. Recreational drugs like marijuana may help some people relax, have medical uses and allow transcendence to an “alternative existential plane”, so I’m told. But I have enough to think about in our cosmos without needing to explore other universes. Some towns surrounding Lake Atitlán in Guatemala have developed into ­hippie hideouts catering for young drug users. Many backpackers “get stuck” here, happy victims of an atmosphere so mellow that they forget their initial travel itinerary and stay put smoking dope for many months on end. A popu­-

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lar drug here, involving more ritual than lighting up a joint, is peyote. It’s derived from a small ball-like cactus native throughout Central America. An Indio medicine man pays regular visits to the lake-side communities offering his “services”, for a small fee, of course. He looks convincing; but whether real or fake, his peyote sessions are always completely booked out. I decide not to participate, but observe the happenings from ringside. Shortly before sunset a group of tourists assemble around a large central fire. The medicine man has prepared his peyote tea. The active ingredient is “mescaline”, a bitter tasting psychoactive alkaloid. Ingesting five grams is said to be sufficient to trigger heightened states of introspection, together with visual effects of a metaphysical or spiritual nature. The group drinks from the cup passed around in a circle, while I wait atop my observation post. And wait some more. For hours nothing happens until I begin to wonder if peyote is a scam. The medicine man might have been looking at his watch as well, for he suddenly stands up to pace around the assembled people. Stopping at every individual, he spits on their heads! All hell breaks loose; a few young Brits I know from the hostel start screaming in agony, two middle-aged women are experiencing lengthy orgasms, others are rocking to and fro in silence, and somebody laughs hysterically. The show continues until dawn. As the stars fade, the medicine man renews his pacing and head spitting, and the participants vomit into the fire’s dying flames. All, that is, apart from the two exhausted “orgasm-ladies” who merely sit with a big grin. The sun appears, bright and welcoming, and everybody goes home. “I saw blood oozing through the cobble-stones!” the Brit explains to me later. “It was amazing!” ‘Why were you then screaming as if impaled on a stake?’ I want to ask, but decide against it. “I saw insects, HUGE spiders, crawling everywhere, all over me! It was great, man!” relates the other. I don’t know. There are enough insects crawling around Latin American jungles to last a lifetime; do I need virtual ones appearing from below? Seeing blood I always considered a bad sign, but I might have misunderstood something.

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Desperation (Honduras – 24 July 2004)

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l Salvador’s Santa Ana Volcano is pluming sulphur smoke into the air as we sit at the crater’s rim. The stench is remarkable, worse than inside the Landy after a chilli-con-carne dinner with extra beans. From the top, through the vapour, we can just make out the distant crest of a hill dividing El Salvador from Honduras.

Travelling through this smallest of Central American countries was strenuous. We need to be careful selecting our campsites and keep our eyes peeled. A 12-year-long civil war ended only a decade ago and the legacy is still visible at the roadside: rusting military hardware is everywhere. Though things have quietened down considerably since then, sporadic outbreaks of violence still occur. Rob and I find the Salvadorians very accommodating and willing to discuss their woes. Fearing for our safety, we are invited to camp in the fields behind their farms and join them for dinner. We needn’t pay; they don’t want our dollars, only our open ears. El Salvador, just like Guatemala and most other countries in Latin America, suffered greatly in the era lasting from the beginning of the Cold War until the 1990s. At the time, the United States feared the spread of communism and helped to overthrow a number of democratically elected left-wing governments, either covertly through the CIA or by direct military intervention. In their place, authoritarian dictatorships supportive of US interests were installed, whose leaders violently suppressed all opposition. Hundreds of thousands of civilians were tortured, killed or made to “disappear without trace” by so-called death squads, some trained in US military schools, here col­loquially called the Escuela de Golpes or “school of coups”.8 Fortunately, since the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Cold War is over. But it seems Washington still views Central America as its back yard and vies to expand its commercial interests. Here in El Salvador, for example, elections just took place, and 8 In the 1980s, Washington backed the dictators José Efraín Ríos Montt in Guatemala and José Napoleón Duarte in El Salvador. President Reagan called Montt “a man of great integrity and commitment”. Montt’s death squads allegedly murdered thousands of opposition supporters, which was known in Washington, but kept out of the US media until recently in a grand cover-up. Bill Clinton was the first US president to speak out and apologise, in 1999. In 2013, Montt was sentenced to 80 years in prison on charges of genocide and crimes against humanity, though the conviction was quickly annulled on a “technicality”. At the time of writing, it is unclear whether efforts at securing a retrial will be successful.

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many political billboards are still hanging. The one we see most often reads: “If you vote for the leftist FMLN, America will stop investment, aid and trade, and pull the plug on your economy. Do not let El Salvador go down the drain!” An American flag and “Sponsored by the USA” is printed in the lower righthand corner. The tactics may have changed in 2004, but the goals have not. Bush’s “candidate”, Antonio Saca, won. Miguel, our host last night, explained the situation quite bluntly: “There are 290,000 Salvadorians working in America, and we live off the money they send every month. Without these dollars, we starve. America might have stopped the transfers or revoked Salvadorian work visas had we voted against the rightwing regime. We have two choices: vote for the opposition or choose to eat. We prefer to eat.” Wherever we travel, history seems to repeat itself, with only minor details changing. Rob and I hope to find calmer seas across the border in Honduras. At Lake ­Yojoa, British expat Richard owns a small marina complete with sailing yachts, Jet Skis, speedboats and surfboards – and there’s a restaurant serving authentic fish and chips, to Rob’s delight. One reason why we’ve managed to suffer each other’s idiosyncrasies throughout the past two years has to do with our willingness to compromise. Words are seldom wasted on “where to go and what to see” in a new country. We both circle our preferences individually on a map, and simply connect the dots to establish our route. Of course there are always instances when our opinions differ. It would be quite unnatural for two guys on a world trip to always agree. The biggest bone of contention is our pace of travel: Rob would like me to step more on the accelerator instead of growing roots in every country we pass through. He’d like to reach Patagonia by the end of this year. I would prefer to extend the voyage far beyond the initially planned time frame. I’m not ready to return to Europe anytime in the foreseeable future. Home, for me, is my Land Rover. For Rob, this voyage is a trip; for me, it has become a way of life. If we cannot come to an agreement, we might need to go our separate ways. The Yojoa marina is one of those places where I want to grow roots. Richard is an extremely likeable chap, and needs a hand repairing his boating equip-

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ment and upgrading his computer software. Rob takes care of the latter, while I busy myself pulling apart broken outboard engines instead of Matilda’s. In exchange we get free fish, accommodation and full use of all facilities. In our time off I learn to water-ski, towed by Rob in the speedboat at full-throttle, or sail with the catamaran to a holiday cottage Richard owns on the lake’s far side. The barter suits me well: we don’t earn money, but we can travel for longer with what we have. An even more alluring place to temporarily settle down is Roatan island. The cargo boat from La Ceiba departs every day at 2 in the morning. Seas are rough and the vessel small: there is only room for a truck, five automobiles, Matilda and 50 pigs squeezed between the gaps. Rob and I have permission to stay on board as long as we do not leave the vehicle. Not that we could: when the access ramp is pulled up, we cannot open the doors. A dozen frightened swine are leaning against them from the outside. We endure ten hours upon the rolling ship, caught in a jolting Land Rover when the blocks securing my vehicle in place come loose. The sweltering heat, non-stop squealing, the stench of 50 animals defecating around us, and we feel like joining the swine-song. When we finally arrive, Rob and I immediately escape to the island’s northern tip where most of the dive schools are located. Rock climbing, paragliding and scuba diving are three of my greatest sporting passions – they are activities adding an extra dimension to movement. On land, we are bound to a two-dimensional plane. Under water, in the air and on rock we experience the vertical. As land creatures, our senses have not evolved to cope with the sudden overwhelming input. Strolling through a city park, for example, our brains switch to autopilot. When passing a tree or stepping up a curb, we automatically walk around or lift a leg. So accustomed are the sights, sounds and smells, I doubt we consciously experience more than a small fraction of our surroundings: nobody stops, stares and sniffs at every fallen leaf and bicycle. Under water, we behave differently. Here, our dominant sense is sight. Smells and taste are completely absent, sounds limited to the eerie lulling bubble of your breathing apparatus, and touch desensitised by the surrounding water pressing upon every skin cell. With all our senses apart from sight restricted, it becomes accentuated, in the same manner the visually impaired develop keener hearing. All is new, intense and exciting – water is alive with magical creatures! A simple nudi-

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branch can hold my attention for hours, if only I had enough air to breathe. But diving also contains inherent dangers. One must never forget that a small mistake may cost you your life. Though I’ve been diving for a decade, and have my personal scuba gear stowed in Matilda, I’ll only book with the best dive school. Roatan’s selection is vast. The island’s economy relies hugely on tourism, and the coral reef is the main attraction. I enter the first of many PADI (Pro­ fessional Association of Diving Instructors) shops lining the beachfront. A whiff of ganja floats over the reception desk, and a heavily tattooed Australian instructor greets me with a “How’s it going, mate?” “Just looking,” I reply, turning on my heels. I know the world of dive junkies has its fair share of recreational drug users. What they do with their private life is not my concern, unless they happen to be my dive buddy. I don’t get it. For me, the endorphin rush my own body produces when submerged 20 metres down is drug enough. The next shop smells clean, but sitting inside, the instructors are guzzling beer together with clients. “Wanna join us later for a dive?” No, I think not. If there’s anything worse than taking cannabis before a dive, it’s alcohol. Instructors like these give PADI a bad name. At the third school, I’m welcomed by a tall, muscular American woman with a warm smile. She’s half out of her diving suit and water droplets are beading down her sun-tanned skin. “Hi, my name’s Nancy,” is her greeting. No beer bottles or drugs are in sight. I tell Nancy about the behaviour of her competition to see her reaction, and ask why I should choose her company over the others. “Shit. I know. If I had any say I’d report all these idiots and have them stripped of their licences. It’s more than irresponsible. Taking a client down even a wee bit intoxicated equates in my view to attempted murder!” I can see how upset she is, and I ask instead about the water and the marine life. Immediately her green eyes sparkle and Nancy relates her tales of the deep with glowing enthusiasm. Here is a girl in love with the ocean. “Nancy, will you dive with me?” I believe my own enthusiasm made my question sound almost like a marriage proposal.

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The days pass too quickly. Nancy is my permanent dive-buddy … and a bit more. I’ve fallen for my beautiful instructor. She’s equally interested in me, and not only because I have the same fascination for water. Together we hold hands in the ocean’s depth, explore submerged shipwrecks, or merely sit motionless in front of a nudibranch, waiting for it to emerge. A strong, sleek swimmer, Nancy uses only half the oxygen I require. In order to extend our down-time, I occasionally use her reserve breather when my bottle nears the red. For me, sharing a single tank is the pinnacle of intimacy under water, akin to the connection between lead-climber and belayer on a rock wall. I must speak with Rob about what’s happening; not that he hasn’t noticed already. I’m in a bit of a quagmire: my heart tells me to stay on Roatan, my mind to continue the trip. In the days, weeks and months to come, I may regret my decision to leave Nancy and her islands. I know it’s pointless to contemplate alternative universes one will never occupy. And still, I cannot help but ask myself: “What if I’d stayed?”

The Tail of Paddy (27 July 2004)

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ome stories fit the fairy-tale opening line of “Once upon a time”. This is one such story …

Once upon a time, on a far-away tropical island called Roatan, two travellers with a Land Rover stranded intentionally. Having found paradise, the cast­ aways spent their carefree days swimming the seas and strolling the shore’s sands, leaving two sets of footprints in their wake. The smaller pair belonged to Rob, the larger could well have been mistaken for tracks left by a diver’s flippers, and of course, were mine.

If anything marred the illusion of a perfect world, it would be the heat. A pitiless sun felt as attracted to this island as we were, its rays almost bending around palm trees seeking to obliterate any trace of cooling shade. Night-time brought little solace: the humidity failed to dissipate when the sun dipped below the horizon and a crescent moon emerged. Only atop the island’s highest hill could a rare sea breeze be found. Here we decided to erect camp and park Matilda.

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It was on one such evening, while finishing a filling dinner inside the Landy, Rob cocks his head and leans towards the door. “Psst. Chris, listen. There’s something outside.” When camping in the wild, unusual sounds are regular occurrences. With time and experience some become more familiar than others. The loud scratching of a tree branch on the roof will not wake us when sleeping, but the slightest tinkering with a door padlock and we will bolt upright, ready to engage in battle with a potential intruder. I bend forward. Yes, Rob’s right. I can hear soft footsteps on gravel and a munching noise. “A dog eating our leftovers perhaps?” We swing the rear hatch open. There, only a few metres away, the moonlight traces the outlines of a puppy scavenging through the fish bones we’d tossed outside. Both Rob and I are dog crazy. We speak Woof in various dialects and can imitate their language perfectly. In our view, there must be a heaven reserved for pets, otherwise why would god spelled backward read “dog”? The Land Rover comes equipped with a 5-kilogram bag of dog food, a large, green plastic bowl and a bottle of pet shampoo should a four-footed friend wish to sleep inside. These pet necessities take away much needed space in our living quarters, but one has priorities. In turn, dogs have paid us regular visits throughout the journey; a sixth sense seems to tell them that a large meal and plenty of back rubs are always on offer. Well fed and cuddled, many show their gratitude by keeping guard over us and Matilda throughout the night, barking at any sign of danger. I step outside and crouch low to welcome our guest. In a cautious zigzag the puppy approaches, his curiosity overcoming his fear. When I stroke his head and back I notice something is amiss. Instead of soft fur I feel leathery skin and crusty welts with patches of wet between. “Shit. This is not a happy pup.” In apparent disagreement, our new friend wags his tail. “If he’s still here in the morning we’ll have a closer look,” Rob suggests. “It’s too dark to do anything tonight.” We sleep restlessly, and are awake at the first sign of light. I needn’t call for our guest, for he is laying underneath the chassis, rolled up into a tight ball. Rob, who is better versed in veterinarian lore than I am, takes a glance.

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“Demodectic mange. But I’ve never seen anything this bad before.” Demodectic mange is caused by a parasitical mite living near the hair follicles, and in a healthy state, most dogs can easily cope with it. Only an immune deficiency, hereditary or through illness, can lead to hair loss and severe itching resulting in secondary infection. The poor affected animal is literally scratching himself to death. As if to confirm Rob’s diagnosis, our puppy ­begins scratching his bloodied ear. In fact, the whole dog is a bloody mess. “What shall we do? He’ll die of infection without help.” “Take him to the vet?” I suggest. “Roatan must surely have one.” The puppy does not resist when I pick him up and place him onto the passenger seat. During the short ride I have a better opportunity to inspect him. There is truly almost no trace of hair left, and without it, I find it difficult to determine the breed. Half beagle, perhaps? But most definitely cute. At least the bit that’s left of him. The vet readily admits us. “This is bad, very bad,” he says, stating the obvious. “He’s not yours, I’m sure. Where did you find him?” We explain our affection for animals and last night’s encounter. “He’s ours now,” we confirm. “In that case, I have bad news. First, he has not much chance of sur­viving, even with medication. I’d say one-in-ten. He’s two months old at most. ­Second, the antibiotics treatment will cost USD 280, if you give the injections yourself. Third, you’re going to have your hands full over the next few months with daily baths, etcetera, should he manage to last that long. Fourth, you’re travellers, right? Are you going to take care of him when you leave Roatan? What do you want me to do? I’ll put him down if you choose, free of charge. No need to feel guilty, I hate doing it myself, but to be honest …” There I stand, about to make a life or death decision over a sentient being looking at me through deep brown eyes. The pup is shivering; does he understand what I’m being asked to do? I look at Rob for help, only to see him looking sadly at the little heap of life sitting on the vet’s table. “Rob, do we have 280 dollars?” He smiles – I know he’s never considered euthanasia either. We don’t have that much money to spare. The nearest functioning cash machine was on the mainland, and we’d withdrawn only enough to cover our personal costs on Roatan and for the ferry. But the vet is prepared to sell us

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antibiotics in instalments. Somehow, we’ll manage to raise the rest. On the way back to our breezy hilltop, the question arises as to our new dog’s name. Just then, we pass a road sign with big lettering asking us to “Save the Reef!” It’s donated by PADI, the international scuba diving school. Rob stirs: “I think Paddy would be good. Yes, how about ‘Save Paddy’”? Paddy soon finds his corner within the Landy. When Rob injects the antibiotics he becomes sleepy, and spends most of the day resting between old blankets, dreaming doggy dreams. In the moments awake he’s as lively as any young pup, chewing at everything, tail wagging like a helicopter ready for take-off. We tie an orange bandana round his neck so he doesn’t look quite so naked. Meanwhile, we’re scheming plans on how to raise funds for the medication. Roatan’s most touristy region has seaside accommodation ranging from simple backpackers to a five-star Club Med Hotel. The central hub of activity lies on the single dirt road connecting the many dive schools. If we wish to attract attention, this is where we must position ourselves. Our plan of action will involve placards pasted to the side of Matilda. “Save Paddy,” one will say. “Become a friend of Paddy,” the other. All those willing to donate even the smallest sum will receive a daily updated “newspaper”, edited by Paddy himself, where he tells his sad story and what he needs in order to become healthy again. A list will mention the names of all sponsors, and alongside, a 280-dollar-countdown to account for the money Paddy received. Thus equipped, we make our way to the beach. Paddy acts excited in the car, perhaps understanding that his first big day on stage is about to begin. He behaves remarkably well. Paddy never wanders far from our side, even without a leash. He pretends to understand his name when he feels like it, and simple commands such as “sit” or “lay” are soon learned through persuasion with chewy rewards. We want him to make a good impression on the tourist promenade. Our worries are unfounded. As soon as we park, arrange our lazy chairs and place Paddy’s blankets out front, he collapses from exhaustion. Not stirring for the rest of the day, Paddy sleeps through his first appearance, oblivious to the events. We wait. We read. We observe people passing by. The sun moves slowly through the skies. Our posters are visible from 25 metres away. Soon we’ve

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sussed out the rich and wealthy from Club Med. They are the ones with expensive handbags and 200-dollar bikinis. Their idea of a perfect island paradise does not include a sick dog. For the briefest of moments they glance at Paddy on the blanket, only to quickly turn the other way. Club Med pretend we’re invisible. The next demographic group are the local Hondurans. Most give us vicious looks in a stare-down contest. What have we done to insult them? Finally, the Honduran lady from the mobile-phone shop opposite wanders over. “Your dog looks bad,” she remarks. Why is it that people always state the obvious? “I had a dog like that once,” she continues. “You must immerse him in engine oil. That kills the mites.” I want to reply that it kills the dog too – what a fantastic solution to the problem! Does she bathe her children in 20W50 when they have a skin rash? But I hold my tongue. She is our first customer and well meaning in a naïve way. “Just keep a good eye on him,” she warns. “The local people here do not understand why you are collecting money for a dog. They think you should be giving them money instead. If you don’t watch out, someone might kill him.” She pulls out two coins and we thank her for the advice. Paddy made his first friend. Only USD 279,80 to go. You can spot some tourists a mile away. Especially this one. An obese middleaged woman, showing far too much skin for her size. I hope we parked far enough onto the curb to let her pass. Laying her eyes upon Paddy, she screams at us. “What you done to that dog?!?! How dare you! I’m gonna report you to the police, mistreatin’ an animal like that! You …” We interrupt her Southern State drawl before she regrets her remarks and point to our signs. Some people have the tendency to speak before thinking. It’s just the way they are. “Oh! Oh, sorry! I didn’t see. Here,” and she hands us a couple of dollars. The PADI dive shops behind us have acknowledged our existence; we see cur­ious glances from behind office windows. Yet none are willing to make a dona­tion for their company’s namesake. “Rob, I just worked it out. At this rate we’ll be on Roatan for 128 days.”

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Then a young couple strolls by and stops to read our placards. They are in their early 20s, and look a bit worn on the edges with Rasta hairdos and colourful hippie T-shirts. We hear them discussing in Dutch. “What a poor puppy. And he’s sooo cute! Just look at him,” the girl remarks. “Can we stroke him?” the guy asks, switching to English. “Yes, of course. Though with all the antibiotics, I’d be surprised if Paddy can manage a wag.” Both bend down to carefully caress our pooch, not minding the infected skin. “Here,” she says, passing us a 20-dollar bill. “But that’s too much!” “No, it isn’t,” she smiles. “If we do 10 dives, or just nine, who cares? Take it. Make him a happy pup!” They leave arm in arm, with a little bounce in their step. Our hearts have skipped a beat or two as well. Perhaps the plan will work after all? A week passes. We remain at the same spot from sunrise till sunset collecting donations. Paddy is well known in town by now and greeted by many young backpackers. He’s not quite as lethargic anymore, and his tummy is becoming rounder by the day. A hint of hair is re-growing and the wounds are scabbed over. At the end of each day we take Paddy with us into the sea for a swim. Unafraid, he chases the rolling waves and tries to catch hermit crabs as they disappear into their holes. The sea salt aids the healing process. Even the vet is surprised when we pay a second visit to restock our medication. “Amazing. I didn’t think he’d make it. Looking better, whadaya say, ­Paddy?” A second week, then a third, and Paddy could almost pass as a dog recovering from an unlucky encounter with a lawnmower. Finally, the sign outside the Landy reaches the zero-dollar mark, alongside a four-page “friends” list. Yet Western backpackers are still giving us money. “Buy him squeaky toys!” they suggest. “A flea collar!” and “More food!” But enough is enough. It was not our intention to make a fortune with our mascot, just enough to cover our bills. We pack up our signs and retreat to our hill. Paddy is saved. …

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“He can’t come with us,” I say into the gloomy silence descending upon the Landy. We’ve postponed our departure from Roatan for as long as possible and pretended time is of no importance. But soon the immigration officers will be on our heels; our Honduran visa is coming to an end. “Life on the road is not for a dog – at least not for Paddy, the way we travel. We should find a family here.” “A European family,” Rob replies. The expat community runs all the dive schools, and asking them seems our best bet. Be it due to Paddy’s acquired fame, or simply because he’s adorable, we are immediately helped. “Ask Gaynor and PJ,” one instructor suggests. “Coconut Tree dive shop, right-hand side. She has two dogs, two children and a cat. Lives a few miles up the road.” Sounds perfect. And she’s British. Sitting on Gaynor’s porch over coffee and biscuits, we watch Paddy playing with the older dogs, his first four-footed friends. A cat is new to him, and we laugh when wagging tail meets retractable claw. Before any harm is done, Paddy wisely returns to his brethren. “Yes. I’d love to adopt Paddy,” Gaynor smiles. “But as a foster mother. In truth, I think he always ought to be known as your dog. You rescued him.” Tears well up in our eyes as we place Paddy’s favourite toys aside his new basket, laid out with old towels from the Landy. The moment of farewell is here. Reasoning is difficult when emotions flow … yet we realise a better life awaits him here. I promise to write to Gaynor as often as possible. We give Paddy a last peck on the nose, a final cuddle, then escape down the driveway. I cannot bring myself to glance backward as we drive away. I’ll tell myself in ages hence, that on some tropical island far, far away, there lives a small dog with an orange bandana … happily ever after. The end.9

9 An email from Roatan reaches me two years later. Paddy had just become the proud father of four new-born pups.

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Irritation (Costa Rica – 2 September 2004)

A

s I sit outside in my deckchair early one morning, a macaw floats by like a crimson kite between the forest’s looming tangled walls. Decked in finery, birds are jostling noisily, while butterflies swirl around my head. An animal I particularly admire here is the three-toed sloth, a mediumsized mammal and local resident of Costa Rica. Admiration and respect for others develops when certain traits are recognised as analogous to one’s own, or when an individual shows qualities one aspires to possess. As for the sloth and myself, I admit both are the case. There are days when I long to move only when necessary, passing the hours eating and sleeping with not a worry in the world. A sloth’s specialised hands with their long, curved claws make them great climbers – females even give birth in a dangling position – and sometimes sloths still remain hanging ­after death. The only time sloths descend their trees is to urinate, which they do about once a week. The journey may take a while; the top speed is slower than two kilometres per hour. All of life is a playback in slow motion. I can also recognise myself in a sloth’s eating habits. They are omnivores with twothirds of their body weight consisting of stomach. Their smelly fur, as perhaps my beard, hosts two species of cyanobacteria, which provide nutrients when licked during grooming. The sloths, along with many hundred species of mammals, birds and reptiles, are all protected within an extensive national park system. Costa Rica has reserved a high percentage of its territory for wildlife compared to most countries: a full quarter. It seems to pay off, and not just for the animals. Almost two million tourists will likely visit this year with an estimated USD two billion of spending money in their back pockets. The main attractions are various ecotourism projects. Almost every lodge, jungle safari, volunteer organisation and tour operator advertises their products under the banner of eco-friendliness. They market towards environmentally conscious travellers intent on enhancing their appreciation of earth’s biodiversity, who wish to reduce their impact upon nature, show responsibility towards local populations and make a stand for conservation. They will be sensitised to the fragility of nature, take pictures and leave only footprints, and

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return home with a positive experience of our habitat. All this in an unspoiled landscape, far away at some exotic location. What a load of rubbish. I ask you: where do two million people crap?! How do they get to this “formerly exotic location” in the first place? To reach a destin­ ation 10,000 kilometres away, the eco-tourist will consume approximately 700 litres of fuel: not just aviation fuel, but also for buses and taxis. The previously impenetrable jungle will need to be accessed via an intricate road and trail network that poachers also love to take advantage of. Plots will be deforested to house both guests and local employees, not forgetting water-treatment plants and sanitation facilities. When two million people invade the woods, they leave twice as many footprints behind. If you’ve trekked the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal, you’ll have noticed existing trails transformed into deep ruts with numerous “shortcuts” contributing to massive erosion and damage to vegetation. Build your eco-lodge as green as you like – guests will eat, defecate, produce rubbish and exploit local resources, all so that one can swing between tree tops on steel cables like Tarzan. This phenomenon is called “greenwashing”. Branding a resort as eco-friendly denies the fact that every type of tourism is centred on consumerism and profiteering, not on wildlife and nature. A successful eco-business will be imitated, thereby, increasing competition. If a resort does not find a way to attract more guests, they will eventually go bust. So, additional trails are cut, more luxury provided and further steel cables strung. “Eco”-“Tourism” is a contradiction in terms. Nature is perfectly capable of protecting itself without any help, as long as you just leave it ALONE! Despite mass tourism, Costa Rica is an amazingly lush and relaxing country. Rob and I enjoy the nation’s quarter reserved for wildlife. Whether up in the Talamanca Highlands, on the slopes of Irazú and Poás volcanoes, or swimming in Rio Pucare, we find idyllic roadside jungle campsites without the police banging down our door every night like in so many other Central American countries. The local population has grown so accustomed to paleskinned foreigners snooping around remote villages with cameras dangling from sun-burnt necks that not once have we heard the word “gringo”. They seem content with the trade-off: dealing with tourist hordes and losing a bit of your cultural identity is a relatively small price to pay for the luxury of having

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McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken and 7-Eleven stores in your towns, isn’t it? Or perhaps not – opinions differ. At least, at the end of every fiscal year, enough cash is left over for the government to pour into social services. Costa Rica’s welfare and health spending is amongst the highest in Latin Amer­ ica and according to the World Health Organization life expectancy currently ranks higher than in the US, Germany and Finland. The locals are well aware of their surrounding neighbours’ plights and consider themselves fortunate. Contributing to Costa Rica’s relative prosperity is another factor, and one reason why we can enjoy our waterfall picnics without gun-toting soldiers spoiling our day. There is no military. I mean, they’re not just absent at the cascade, but everywhere. Costa Rica … listen to this, world … has constitutionally abolished its military! Aha! So THAT is how a country can transform itself from “the poorest and most miserable Spanish colony”, as a governor once described it in the 17th century, to the jewel we see today. Spend the nation’s budget on education, welfare, health and infrastructure, not on expensive WMDs! But, honestly, by far the easiest way to avoid war is not to pick a fight in the first place. Why is it that I’ve never found it necessary to throw a punch in my life? Why have I never been attacked or mugged? There is not much difference between the global stage and a school yard or city street. My rules of engagement stay the same. Remain sober, do not bully anybody, avoid certain parts of the neighbourhood known to have a bad reputation, help out with work when asked, don’t talk too much, respect everybody’s opinion, return home before dark and carry a smile instead of weapons when going out. These are the best military strategies for a country and for travellers. … It’s all very well to seek the “road less travelled” and “stay off the beaten track”, but even a Stanley sometimes needs a beer, Edmund Hillary desperately requires a shower and Captain Kirk wants to indulge in some R&R at Starbase. We head to the capital. “I’m volunteering in Tortuguero National Park to save the Greenback Turtle,” explains the young Austrian woman we meet in a San Jose restaurant. She ­orders the cheapest fare on the menu, beans with rice, and throws craving

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glances at my 500-gram sirloin steak with broccoli, potatoes and a scrumptious desert. “You’re not getting paid for working in Costa Rica?” I ask, cutting my chocolate cake in two and offering her a slice. Her eyes light up. “Paid? You mean like get money, that sort of thing? Hell, no! I have to pay to be allowed the privilege of working eight hours a day! Four hundred and fifty dollars a month!” she mumbles between bites. “I’m an idiot!” Some scrupulous mastermind in the tourism industry must have once noticed how easy it was to make a profit out of a young Westerner’s willingness to lend a hand. The whole “Volunteer Programme Scheme” has changed consider­ ably in recent years. A decade ago, students working abroad to help rescue endangered species, teach at local schools, clean up the environment or ­protect greenback turtle eggs from poachers were still paid a local’s salary for their noble efforts. A pittance by Western standards – but at least it was a gesture of appreciation, a small “thank you” on behalf of the host government, espe­cially since local workers with an interest or expertise in ecology were so ­difficult to find. Foreign demand for these jobs was high; often a traveller had to book months or years in advance to secure employment with one of the many volunteer organisations. Faced with such overwhelming offers of help, government and privately run aid companies could afford to reduce willing-workers’ compensation to nil, without breaking the flow of volunteer application forms. Even in exchange for accommodation only, Westerners are still queuing to “Save the Planet”. My mind conjures a fantasy of what may have happened next. I imagine it was a rainy day, when the directors of Costa Rica’s tourism board met for a conference on the future of volunteerism. “Gentlemen!” the President might have said, “The turtles are recovering, poaching is down and our children are better educated. We can continue to throw beer cans into the gutter and break glass bottles on the beach when our fiestas get out of hand – some young Westerner will clean up after us. But is there anything else we can do to make more money? Suggestions please! We can’t cut the willing-worker’s salary, because they don’t get any as it stands.” There’s a cough from the back row, an assistant manager timidly raises his hand, and suggests in a quiet voice: “We, um … we could re-introduce salaries, um, in order to attract more qualified workers instead of, um, mere students?”

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“You are fired. Anybody with a PROPER idea?” Another leans forward: “Yes, Mr President. How about we have the gringos PAY dearly for their willingness to help!” “Haw, haw, haw! Pure genius! You’ll make it far in this world, dear amigo!” he says with a smile, rubbing his hands together.

Anticipation (Panama – 1 October 2004)

P

anama is the only place in the world where you can watch the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean to the east, and set over the Atlantic to the west. Impossible, you say? Look at a map: Panama forms an S-shaped curve, as if it were trying to force Central America into making a U-turn before Colombia. While the map is out, you may also notice a second oddity. This road Rob and I have been following for more than a year, the Pan-American Highway, suddenly stops. It doesn’t merely peter out into a dirt track, revealed only at a more accurate scale: there’s NOTHING beyond the Panamanian town of Yaviza. We’ll just have to wait until we get there to see how we can reach the South American continent. Like Costa Rica, Panama is largely “Westernised” and has plenty of modern amenities. But whereas Costa Rica thrives on tourism, Panama has something even more profitable: the Panama Canal. Like a mirage in the distance, Rob and I see a massive container ship passing between the wooded hills. The ­effect is such that the vessel appears to be moving high on dry land; the canal itself only comes into view when we are directly above it. We park for the night at one of the lock gates – after all, perfectly positioned from Matilda’s rooftop terrace, I have a special interest in observing this man-made wonder: back in Scotland, I worked as a lockkeeper on the Caledonian Canal with British Waterways for a few months, and later as maintenance manager. Of course, the scale is something altogether different, and I’m mesmerised as the ships are manoeuvred into a lock, the gate behind it sealed, and water sluices opened or closed to raise or drop the vessel to the next level. The Panama Canal’s construction was one of the most difficult engineering projects ever undertaken. Prior to 1914, ships wishing to cross between the

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Atlantic and Pacific had to follow a route round Cape Horn’s Drake Passage, a detour of almost 13,000 kilometres. France began the canal, and the US completed it. It came at a huge cost, both in lives and money: more than 27,000 workers died constructing the approximately 80-kilometre-long artificial water­way between the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans. We continue towards Yaviza, where we are informed that a road link to Colom­ bia has been planned for decades, but it will not become reality in the near future. Panama is too afraid of international drug smugglers crossing the border. We just want to see how far we can drive before getting stuck. The narrow isthmus between Central and South America is called the “Darien Gap”. Between Yaviza and the village of Lomas Aisladas in Colombia, in a straight line, is 100 kilometres of impenetrable jungle, mountainous rainforests, marshlands and swamps. We don’t get far. Words like “impenetrable”, “unclimbable” and “uncrossable” have always had a magical allure for adventurers wishing to prove the descriptions wrong. A stubborn few have actually attempted a Darien traverse with a vehicle. To Matilda’s honour, the first two successful crossings were in an amphibious Land Rover and an early model Range Rover. They bypassed the swamp section by travelling up the Ataro river. Their journeys took 136 and 100 days respectively. The first TRUE all-land expedition between the Americas was only completed as recently as 1987. A team drove a 1966 CJ-5 Jeep 201 kilometres in 741 days! The average speed of 22 metres per hour (based upon 12-hour-drive days) gives an idea of how strenuous the two-year journey must have been. Rob and I look at each other, thinking the same thoughts. “Container ship?” he asks. I nod in agreement. Not only do we have no ambition to experience years of rainforest, but the Darien Gap is also known as a rebel hideout. Foreign tourists walk across now and then on a ten-day trek, but a few have been kidnapped by the FARC in years gone by. Matilda is tied down upon a flat-rack, lifted on board and carried out to sea. It’s not a long passage – we’ll be collecting her in Cartagena tomorrow, flying the short distance ourselves high above the Darien’s treetops to wave at the rebels below.

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South America Exploring the Second Dimension Unless your vehicle has wings, your journey will never follow a perfectly straight line. Your route will depend upon earth’s natural topography and man-made infrastructure. Sometimes conquering the short distance between two cities will involve a detour of many hundreds of kilometres. Bridges collapse, country borders close, political upheavals occur and vehicles break down, all of which can result in delays, diversions and backtracking. In the end, you will have covered an extensive area with your tyre tracks. … If you drag a one-dimensional line segment in a perpendicular direction, you will obtain a two-dimensional quadrilateral plane. Mathematicians classify such surfaces as hypercubes of dimension two within Euclidean space. Squares have width, length, four vertices, four edges and one face, yet no height. If you expand the square infinitely, it would cover the entirety of two-dimensional space. ABCD: P = 4t, whereby P forms the perimeter and sides have a length t; A = t², whereby A is the area. Below is a picture of a square, representing dimension two:

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Nicaragua Costa Rica Managua

Panama

San José Panamá

Venezuela Bogotá

Columbia Quito

EQUATOR

Ecuador

Brasil

Peru

Lima

Bolivia La Paz

Paraguay TROPIC OF CAPRIC ORN

Asunción

Uruguay Santiago

Chile

Argentina

Buenos Aires

Montevideo

Tierra del Fuego

Matilda Sea/Air

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Prejudice (Colombia – 5 November 2004)

C

olombia does not have it easy. The country has been battered and bashed by the Western media for decades in connection with drugrelated crime and kidnappings, and as a consequence, tourists have stayed away. Yet those brave enough to take no heed of “Government Issued Travel Warnings” have always returned from Colombia full of praise. Whom do I listen to? Is Colombia a cocaine-crazed FARC rebel hideout where European adrenalin junkies go to get kidnapped? Or is Colombia the friendliest country imaginable, full of natural wonders and safer than London? Or somewhere in between? The first Colombian we meet is Cartagena’s airport immigration officer. “Bienvenidos, Señor! Welcome to Colombia! Ah, you’d like to stay two months? Yes, good choice, there is much to see,” he says smiling. Our passports are stamped, and we’re in. Next stop is the port authority, where my Land Rover is due to arrive later in the day. “Buenos dias, Señor! Si, your car is already here. There are no additional port charges.” I had been expecting demands for bribes, a week-long delay or the infor­ mation that Matilda had been shipped to Shanghai by accident. We drive through the port gate only two hours later into the streets of Cartagena. The heat is suffocating. Not for the first time do I wish Series III Land ­Rovers had air-conditioning. So close to the equator, seasonal differences in temperature are minimal. I try to work out why the movements of pedestrians wandering the cobblestoned streets seem so awkward, until I realise they are “shade-hopping”. Hugging the walls of colonial buildings, the people of Cartagena wisely avoid the sunlit side of the road, giving the city a slightly lop-sided appearance. Rob and I follow suit, and tour the fortified walls complete with strategically placed canon, rest on equally strategically placed park benches under shady trees and refresh ourselves at cafes serving delicious Colom­bian coffee. Somehow, the relaxed ambience does not fit the branding of Colombia as one of the “world’s most dangerous countries”. Masquerading in the past as a political party, the FARC today is trying to run a business: to satisfy the demand for cocaine, primarily from the United States.

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Initially they claimed to be Marxist guerrillas, with the objective to liberate poor farmers from oppression by wealthy landowners and introduce more equitable land reform. In the 1980s, the FARC gained support from the coca farmers (even back then, Colombia was one of the world’s largest producers of cocaine), and they were soon able to afford better weaponry and training than the under-funded government’s military were. President Andrés ­Pastrana Arango (1998–2002),10 and his successor, Álvaro Uribe Vélez (since 2002), feared for their positions, asked the US for help, and Washington agreed. Perhaps the States wanted to curb drug trafficking or thought Colombian oil imports would cease should the leftist FARC rise to power – inevitably, it’s disputed. What’s certain is that the US aided the Colombian government and provided training for their militia, in accordance with the initiative known as Plan Colombia. Thousands of FARC paramilitaries and sympathisers were killed by right-wing government troops and most FARC strongholds blasted to smithereens. Around eight per cent of Colombia’s arable lands were fumigated with toxic chemicals in order to destroy the coca fields, a campaign that devastated the farming economy – almost one million people in rural areas lost their homes and tens of thousands became severely ill. If the whole war was really about drugs, some cynics might suggest Americans should have solved the issue by curbing the drug demand within their own borders first – perhaps by bombing and fumigating California instead. If you disrupt the supply chain by dealing only with the producing country, the market value of cocaine will rise drastically and make the druglords even wealthier than before. For the traveller, Washington’s actions proved positive. The FARC’s para­ military was crippled, and Uribe was able to oust the rebels from urban areas and push them into the mountainous border zone with Venezuela. Today, it’s relatively safe to wander the streets of Colombian cities. Estimates suggest fewer than 9,000 FARC rebels remain in hiding, and the kidnappings are no longer a tourist’s greatest concern. Of the 791,000 foreigners who visited Colombia in 2004, “only” two were taken hostage. The probability of being kidnapped as a visitor is thus 1:395,500. In the same year, the probability of being murdered in the States was 1:18,578! Or, to put it another way, you are statistically more likely to be struck by lightning at least once in your lifetime (the chance is 1:12,000 10 Álvaro Uribe Vélez was president until 2010.

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a­ ccording to the US National Weather Service) than ending up in a FARC cellar. Despite all statistical evidence, I remain cautious driving inland towards the capi­­tal, Bogotá. Just as a parachutist may have second thoughts before jumping out of a plane – although he is more likely to die falling off a household ladder – I cannot quite put my concerns aside, even if the “dangers” of Colombia have been wildly exaggerated by our media: Rob and I sleep at petrol stations instead of wild in the bush. It sounds worse than it really is; Colombian service stations are impromptu campsites, frequented by weary truck drivers and travellers alike. They come complete with billiard tables, bars, restaurants, showers and con­ versations with locals over endless mugs of Colombian coffee. “Are you tourists?” a pump attendant asks. “Muy bien! Thank you for coming to Colombia!” I narrowly escape being hugged. He seems genuinely grateful to meet us. “You’re very brave to be travelling here,” he warns us. “This village is safe, but be careful in the next!” Wait a second. I’ve heard this before. It was in Russia, wasn’t it? About how people consider their own village a secure haven but are surrounded by bloodthirsty barbarians. However, when you ask whether they have ever ventured beyond their city limits, the answer is usually “no”. We thank the attendant for the information and continue towards the “forbidden lands”, where we receive the same warnings from equally friendly locals. “You were lucky in that last village,” we hear. “Many thieves live there. But here you need not worry ...” Rob and I settle in Suesca, a town a couple of hours north of Bogotá, to enjoy a week of homeliness before continuing towards Ecuador. A woman had passed us yesterday on the Bogota road, beckoning us from her car window to follow her, and she invited us for dinner. Slowly we snaked our way past farmers’ fields to a large country house surrounded by low-lying hills. Outside is a dog, a massive Akita, tied to a chain one might expect to see on a ship’s anchor. Inside are cosy rooms with antique collectables and sufficient saddles to equip Custer’s 7th Cavalry. Our hostess, Sylvia, works for an airline company, has seen a bit of the world and loves horses. Why had she decided to invite us, two strangers with a Landy, we asked. Busily stirring a pot full of pasta, Sylvia looked up and replied: “Well, I saw your foreign number plate and thought you might be hungry,” as if it were the most natural thing to do.

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My mind strained to envision a similar scenario occurring in Europe. Perhaps of how a German behind the wheel of a Mercedes, when passing a Polish-plated Tata on the autobahn, waves, smiles and takes them home for supper? No. I think not. Bellies full, we stretched out between horse gear to sip our after-dinner ­coffee. “Tomorrow, I’m back in the air for a few days,” she explained. “I’ll give you the house keys so just feel at home. Food’s in the fridge.” I needed to re-calibrate my brain to work this one out. Forget searching for a European equivalent. You’d more likely find Bavarians drinking milk at the Oktoberfest. ... The greatest threat on this planet is the human being. Landy-swallowing potholes on South American roads are a close second. Occasionally, nature also plays its part to ensure earth’s inhabitants do not become too complacent. In 1985 the snow-capped volcano Nevado del Ruiz erupted, sending a wall of ­water and mud travelling at 400 kilometres per hour towards the village of Armero. Of the 29,000 inhabitants, two-thirds perished instantly. In ­Europe, this horrific event might have passed by unnoticed, or at most provided a brief distraction until the next footy game, had 13-year-old Omayra Sánchez not been trapped under the rubble of her demolished home. For three days and nights she struggled to survive and the news pictures went around the globe. Film crews followed the fruitless efforts of rescue teams to free her lower body, while poor Omayra’s greatest worry was that she would be late for school. In the end her little body gave up, and she died of exposure. Armero, as a village, no longer exists. We wander in silence through dense vegetation to find a few houses still standing, yet our eyes are at roof level. Beneath our feet are the graves of thousands. Is it not sad that for some, disaster is defined by a losing football team? Can it be morally justified when news channels report a humanitarian disaster – let’s say an earthquake in China – in three sentences, then follow-up with 30-minutes of sport? Naturally, it’s about finding a balance, but if one argues that the media focuses primarily on what the majority wishes to view and read in order to boost ratings and sell more newspapers, what does it say about us? In Popayán we check into a city-centre hostel. We are the only guests. Hundreds of faded party pictures decorate the walls, evidence of a bygone era when tourists still roamed the country.

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“Yes, they were all taken here 10 years ago.” The manager attempts a halfsmile. I can see how he is lost in memories. “We were always fully booked.” He points out his friends: Japanese cyclists, a Swiss girl on a Yamaha, Australians dancing on the hostel’s tables; some photos are so yellowed only he can recognise the faces. “Nowadays, I’m lucky to have a visitor a month. Thank you so much for coming!” We try to reassure him that times are changing, Europe no longer views Colombia as the dangerous country it once might have been. “Guests will return soon, you’ll see!” I say. I dearly hope I’m not unintentionally lying. We visit the Sierra Nevada and a few national parks east of Pasto, and the elusive FARC are nowhere to be seen. They don’t want visitors, it appears, so we leave them in peace. I’m well aware of the problems Colombia faces – yet the people, the quaint whitewashed colonial villages, the art-like pastel landscape … all is so overwhelmingly beautiful, I feel deep regret we’re moving on. Our two-month visa was not long enough. ... It is said that travelling with a friend or partner will “make or break” any relationship. The inherent challenges of a world trip reveal the best and worst in all of us. Within the confined space of a Land Rover, there is little room for evasive manoeuvres should characters clash. It’s a bit like a sailing boat on the high seas: if problems arise, and all compromises seem unacceptable, you can only throw everybody else overboard or jump yourself. Of course, a joint venture has many advantages. A companion is cherished company on those long rainy nights, security on rebel-infested highways, sanity when dealing with corrupt officials – and he will also help dry the dishes. But most of all, a friend is there to share your memories and experiences. Rob and my paths have diverged: he’s returning to England, and for the immediate future, I’ll be travelling on my own – at a snail’s pace. Having spent three years on a solo motorcycle trip between 1997 till 2000, solitude is not new for me. I’ll be ­alright, I think.

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Confidence (Ecuador – 8 January 2005)

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orders are gates between worlds, often leading to what feels like a different planet. They function occasionally as time machines transporting you back hundreds of years, as any border into Mongolia does, or far into the future, as a visitor to Japan might claim. I approach them with both trepidation and anticipation; fear of the unknown is common to all beings. But the distinguishing mark of a traveller is that his curiosity always trumps any concerns.

Entering the “twilight zone” between Colombia and Ecuador, I feel a change is pending. A llama is waiting on the far side, and the computerised Colombian customs house is replaced by a derelict shack. A vast number of colourfully clad Ecuadorians are queuing outside clutching declaration forms. A single lone pen passes between them. Void of ink, they try to etch signatures onto the documents. It will be a step back in time, I presume. Otavallo is the first village I reach. It comes complete with alpacas, colourful ponchos and woollen hats with ear flaps: one feels almost part of a Discovery Channel “Introduction to South America” documentary. I begin with a search for the “perfect hammock” this region is famous for making, and soon a fine example is found. I also celebrate my arrival with a plate of “cuy” and a horse ride. Cuy is guinea pig, a speciality in these parts. Mine is laying on its back with its little legs stretched skywards as if begging for a tummy-tickle. It tastes good – a bit like rabbit. With my belly full, I search for and find a local stable together with a horsecrazy Dutch girl I met at a restaurant. The stable owner gladly rents out two of his mounts for a US dollar each. One cannot expect much from a dollar-horse, just as you would have severe doubts should AVIS or HERTZ offer you a rental car for a buck. But our valiant steeds have four legs, two heads and two tails. Together, that is – for a dollar each you never know. When you consider that 42 per cent of the population survive on less money a day than what we’ve just paid together, it puts the low price into perspective. Our ride takes us through a green hilly landscape to a mirador on one of the summits. The views are magnificent: a rolling panorama dotted with patches of woodland and plantations. We dismount to enjoy a cup of coffee while the horses graze and gorge themselves on fresh grass. Ecuador, as the name suggests, straddles the equator. A museum, called Mitad

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del Mundo, has been built directly on the zero-latitude line, where visitors can apparently witness many odd phenomena, such as how the toilet will flush in different directions depending upon the hemisphere. Museum staff position sinks on both sides of the equator and pull the drain plugs. Spectators cheer in amazement, as one whirlpool twirls clockwise, the other counter clockwise. Few of the visitors realise it’s a trick. In reality – sorry to destroy the myth if you believed it – the Coriolis effect is of magnitudes too weak to influence the direction of flow in a sink or toilet.11 I’m also persuaded to balance an egg on a nail head. With patience I succeed, earning myself a certificate confirming my feat, and an egg for breakfast. Supposedly this balancing act is also only possible here, where earth’s gravitational and centrifugal forces oppose each other. But this is equally untrue: it works in London just as well. But since most visitors have never attempted the stunt at home, they fall prey to the tourist scam. The road takes me past Tungurahua volcano. Far from extinct, the summit’s eerie red glow is visible after dark. Between eruptions – a handful have occurred since 1999 – hot sulphur-spring resorts are built and rebuilt on the slopes, and farmers plant crops on fresh volcanic soil. Occasionally maps have to be redrawn, as I find out when discussing my planned route with fellow bathers in the hot-pools of Baños. “The western road? No, I don’t know anybody who’s attempted it since the bridges were washed away last year.” Refreshed and smelling of rotten eggs, I decide, nonetheless, to give it a try. Volcanic gravel crunches beneath my tyres as I roll to a halt at the first precipice. The chasm where a bridge once stood is 40 metres wide and equally deep. Some local optimist has laid four massive pine logs across the gap, being very generous with the spacing in between. “Why am I doing this?” is my first thought, testing the construction on foot. But if I align the wheels just right, if the logs don’t roll to the side, and if they hold two-and-a-half tons of vehicle, it might be possible not to plunge into the canyon. I bounce a few times on the temporary bridge using my body weight. The logs bounce with me. Hanging half out of the window, I focus on keeping the tyres straight and 11 The above will only work under ideal conditions, say in an Olympic-sized swimming pool with perfectly smooth walls, and only if the water inside was left undisturbed for a few months. The slightest current can upset the experiment. What the museum staff at Mitad del Mundo do is precisely that: they give the sink basins a miniscule “twist” left or right, before they place them north or south of the equator.

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avoid glancing downward. Inches seem like miles. Is the far side coming any nearer? Too late to turn around now. Not that I could anyway – if going forward is spine chilling, imagine attempting to reverse. Finally, I reach safe ground again ... now only five more “bridges” to go! Protesting students dissatisfied with the government have started burning tyres throughout the country – surely, there must be more constructive and environmentally friendly ways to vent your frustration? – and I intend to leave Ecuador quickly before a match was set to mine. But every so often, a traveller finds a “home away from home”. Mine becomes the hotel Izhcayluma in the hills near scenic Vilcabamba. I arrive for a night and stay a month. Dieter and Peter own one of the most amazing backpacking lodges worldwide. It’s more than a place to rest your head – it’s a community of like-minded vagabonds, thrown together by pure coincidence, who believe that travel is not about ticking off a “been there, done that” check list, but a lifestyle and philosophy. More than 30 travellers are present as long-term guests when I checked in, and in all the time that I stayed, not once was the question raised: “Well, what are we going to do today?” The answer is all too obvious: How about we all just enjoy LIFE? Watching the sunrise from the hostel terrace, I realise how fortunate I am. It’s not that I’m “overlanding” around the world; that’s merely incidental. I’m lucky because I’ve discovered my personal passion and I’m fulfilling my dreams. Back in Europe, I know of those without any dreams at all, or keep them secret, afraid to verbalise them. When you bestow a desire with a name, it becomes “real”, and failure to pursue it requires a damn good excuse. Others reveal their goals, yet, preserve them in the realm of fantasy. They insist how “one day they will prove themselves” by fulfilling their dreams, but only when the “time is right”. Years, and then decades, pass, and tomorrow never comes.

Grievance (Peru – 15 April 2005)

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he cooling rains of the wet season form millions of parallel running rivulets on the unpaved track. I flop a Fleetwood Mac cassette into my tape recorder and ooze my way through deep puddles of mud. The windscreen wipers beat the rhythm.

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Immigration officers at the Ecuadorian-Peruvian border are surprised to see a foreign-registered vehicle at such a remote outpost. “Only two European automobiles have crossed in the past year,” one official claims. It seems probable: when passing through villages scattered throughout the hills, the local men stare as though a UFO has landed. Indio women with tots tied to their backs display the opposite behaviour: they jump headlong into the bushes when I approach. A myth circulates here that white people are all kidnappers, alien abductors from a distant country, in search of child donors for organ transplants! How this rumour started I haven’t a clue, but it remains a firm belief in many indigenous communities. On second thoughts, maybe there is an iota of truth behind the myth: organ trafficking is a serious issue in Peru and other parts of Latin America. The global demand for organs far exceeds the available supply, and in many Western countries the waiting list for a transplant is ser­ ious since so few donors can be found. Here in Peru, however, you can apparently purchase a kidney for around USD 10,000. Whether the donor will ever receive this amount in full is a different question, and some reports suggest that not every donation is on a voluntary basis. On the town’s outskirts, older children are hanging like monkeys from trees. Some throw rocks at Matilda; extraterrestrials are not welcome here. When a stone hits and cracks my windscreen I skid to a halt and jump out to confront the kids. Faster than turbo-charged cats with their tails on fire, they are out of the branches and running through the fields. The rock-pelting continues as I descend to the coast at Trujillo, and inland again towards the high Andean peaks. I’m beginning to believe this “game” has different origins than I previously assumed. It’s not about organ theft, or an absence of snowballs to playfully chuck at passing vehicles, but rather because of an absence of dogs to stone. Animal-protection groups have their work cut out here. There’s not an uninjured goat, horse or mule to be seen anywhere; all show signs of severe mistreatment. Leads are not just tied tightly around donkeys’ necks or legs; the ropes were placed there when they were mere foals and haven’t been removed since. Like tree cambium covering old fencing wire, the ropes are ingrown and surrounded by weeping scars full of maggots and flies. Therefore, I’m startled when one of my four-footed friends visits me in a desolate canyon I selected as a campsite: dogs are amongst the most endangered species in Peru. At first I believe I have a second Paddy on my hands: a sick

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pooch with a severe case of mange. The mid-sized mutt hasn’t a strand of hair on its body. But stroking its back, the touch is remarkably pleasant. There are no scabs from infections, and though underfed, he seems otherwise healthy. I remember reading once about a special breed in this region: the so-called “Peruvian Hairless Dog”. Could it be? It’s said the Hairless Dog has a higher body temperature than its brethren and was once widely used by the local population as a “bed-warmer” on cold nights. I have to try him out – tonight, at this altitude, it promises to be chilly. A full bowl of food, leftovers from my own dinner of steak and beans, multiple cuddles for dessert, and I hoist him into my upstairs bedroom. Lying together under covers, I immediately feel his body’s warmth. Fantastic! The dog works. I just wish I hadn’t fed him beans for supper. La Florida is a hacienda offering bed and breakfast accommodation near the town of Tarma. I pull in through the whitewashed stone archway and park in the courtyard. The owner, who bears a certain resemblance to Salvador Dali, comes out of the residential building to greet me. “Hola! Welcome to La Florida! Would you like a cup of coffee?” That does it; he’s won me over. Greet me with a cup of coffee and I’m bound to stay a few days. La Florida, a farmstead complete with llamas, sheep and horses, is the kind of domicile I could imagine retiring to when my travelling years are over and I switch off Matilda’s engine for good – let’s say in another 30 or 40 years. I’m soon accepted as “family”, an honour I do not take for granted. In return for their hospitality, I share the workload associated with Peruvian farm life. Always most useful in a garage workshop, I volunteer to repair the agricultural machinery. Suppers revolve around home-grown produce, with plenty of potato casseroles, avocados and spicy “cabrito” goat stews, and are absolutely de­ licious. The owner is half Italian and married to a German, an ideal combination to ensure both a full and culinary enchanted belly. With Marcos, their son, I strike up a special friendship: he has the same lust for adventure as I have. “Farm life here is not as idyllic as you might believe,” Marcos explains a few days later, as we sit together atop a crag. “Do you see those highways crisscrossing our maize fields? Do you see the shacks near the river?” I’d assumed the huts were where the farm workers lived.

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“According to local custom, landless Indios are allowed access to your property and may seize up to one donkey-load of your crop per person per season. And the indigenous people in Peru have big donkeys.” “But that’s theft!” I exclaim. “True, only they don’t see it that way. In addition, they have squatter’s rights – hence, all those shacks. All non-cultivated private land can be settled upon without the owner’s consent. Leaving a field bare for a season in order to enrich the soil is simply not possible. Before you know it, the land is occupied. There’s nothing we can do about them.” “Scare them off!” I suggest, angry about the injustice. “Give me a pitchfork and I’ll have the Indios running into the woods faster than they can say ­gringo!” Marcos smiles. “Thanks. I actually believe you would do that. But we’d land in prison. Courts always decide in favour of the landless Indios.” Legislation and its enforcement influences social behaviour. The world over, citizens often follow the motto of “Let’s see what we can get away with and not get caught”. Tax evasion would be a widespread European example: it’s so common, many regard it as a simple transgression, not a true crime. Peru’s economy must deal with an even bigger problem: only an estimated 20 per cent of the population pay any income tax at all, since nearly four-fifths work in the informal sector. These 20 per cent are the only ones keeping the nation’s economy running – people like Marcos’ family. As in other countries in the region, such as Panama and Colombia, Peru’s constitution includes special privileges that aim to protect the rights and ways of life of the indigenous population. As well as looking after languages, it can also exempt such ­people from serving in the military and paying taxes. Unfortunately, as happens throughout the world (including in some Western countries), many individuals who are granted special privileges take advantage and “abuse the system” for personal benefit, without considering the implications of their actions on society as a whole or the nation’s economy. A few days later I leave La Florida and drive past a road sign pointing towards “Cusco”, my next destination. This beautiful, historical city comes initially as a shock. I haven’t met other travellers in weeks, and now I suddenly find myself surrounded by Irish pubs, Internet cafes and thousands of tourists. The local population plays the game well: one cannot walk across the plaza with-

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out hoards of Peruvians trying to shine your shoes, sell you floppy ear hats or have themselves photographed for a fee. It takes me a full two weeks to convince the hawkers that I’m not out for souvenirs, but merely want peace and quiet so I can admire their wonderful city. I’ve been here before, in 1986, and can clearly state that Cusco is barely recognisable. Nineteen years ago I could still wander the streets during midday or sit in the cathedral’s shade reading a good book. Today, the only hours when I have the city to myself are before sunrise, when the city is still sleeping off the effects of last night’s rave party. It’s said one should never revisit a place one has fond memories of, because disappointment is certain. I disagree. Cusco Version-1986 is outdated and gone. The challenge is to accept a changing world and find new, previ­ously non-existent aspects to enjoy. If I can only find satisfaction in the static, then could I re-visit friends upon returning to Germany? They too will have changed, as have I. In my “new Cusco”, I focus upon socialising and drink pints with the Irish or play pool with the Germans. I don’t, however, go to any of the Israeli backpacker rave parties this city is so infamous for. Nearby is Machu Picchu, the famous city of the Incas, which was unknown to the outside world until the early 20th century. It will also be a second visit; but I trust the Peruvian Tourist Board left the ruins intact without installing nightclubs. I wish to hike there, but the classic three-day Inca trail is no longer free of charge. “Three hundred US dollars and you must take a guide. Porters are ­optional,” the lady at the information desk informs me. “But I know the way; I’ve trekked it before. And, anyway, how can you charge money for walking?” I enquire. “The government justifies the cost due to refuse left on the trail. Somebody has to clean up after the trekkers. And by hiring guides and porters we help fight local unemployment.” It’s no use arguing. I could mention how the clean-up operations are organised by Western volunteer workers and that the Union for Porter’s Rights in Cusco is a European initiative. Or that the average Western trekker may lose a cigarette butt by mistake on the trail, whereas many Peruvians – who may hike for free – often treat it like a rubbish tip. I’d like to stress the idiocy of charging Western tourists so that Western students can remove beer cans left mainly by Peruvians.

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“If that’s too expensive, you can take the train: 80 dollars for you and two dollars for locals.” I’ve heard enough. In 1986 this type of discrimination did not exist; the price was the same for everybody. Instead, I’ll trudge along one of the lesser-known but longer trails to Machu Picchu – for the time being, they are still free.

The Tale of Conduct (1 May 2005)

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hen observing human conduct at home and abroad, I often ask myself which elements of behaviour are cultural and which are not. Surely one cannot justify ALL social (mis)conduct with a ­flowery excuse based upon a region’s history and silently accept the way you are treated as a guest with a shoulder shrug. Perhaps, just as the world is not always a happy, smiley, peaceful place to live (however much the tourist wishes it to be, at least for the duration of the holiday), the people you meet are not always wonderful examples of the human race. Some can be downright bastards. The bricking to death of puppies, as I witnessed in all of Latin America, or the alternative pastime of throwing animals in front of moving trucks just to watch them suffer and die, can – in my opinion – NEVER be excused with, “Oh, well, you must understand; it’s just part of our culture.” Hunting game and religious altar sacrifices, yes. But cruelty for the sake of causing pain, no. In India in 1997, a mother attempted to throw her infant between my motor­ bike wheels. Only pure luck, quick reactions and a swerve saved the child’s life. Had I struck the child, local legislation would have demanded I pay one lakh rupee (USD 2,750) compensation to the parents or face a lengthy prison sentence. Can I walk up to the family and say: “Oh, I understand your poverty and the need to kill your children to earn money … it’s part of your culture, isn’t it? Better luck next time”? India is one of my favourite destinations, and occurrences such as these are rare; but do not be fooled into believing it was a one-off. Anywhere on the planet, people who deny you a minimum amount of respect are not behaving according to their “culture” – they are plain rude. The most

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common form of greeting you will hear in Peru, for example, may be a sharp whistle followed by “Gringo!” Few actually have the intention to speak with you; it’s more of an automated reaction whenever they spot a foreigner. Should you address the whistle-blower, the likely outcome is silence and a prolonged stare. This is not to be mistaken for curiosity; you are mostly valued as pure entertainment. You might find yourself being observed, unblinkingly, for hours without the individual(s) ever approaching for a friendly chat. An attempt to engage in discussion usually only leads to being stared at from closer quarters. They are less likely to converse about life with you than they would with a widescreen TV. Remember: you’ll never find Peruvians ogling their kin or fiddling with their private possessions in their rucksacks. Then why should they do it to you? As a foreigner, you needn’t hunt for excuses to defend a local’s behaviour if you are treated unkindly – provided you have behaved in a well-mannered way. To be reserved towards outsiders might be pardoned on grounds of a ­country’s violent history or current oppressive regime. This is sometimes justified – a necessary precaution for survival. For the most part, however, impoliteness and misconduct can be regarded as individual, subjective behaviour. If you are polite and considerate as a guest abroad, you can expect to be treated in kind.

Integrity (Bolivia – 24 May 2005)

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launch a vessel into the Amazon River. It’s a 15-centimetre-long raft with a sail. On board ­I place a kauri shell given to me for this purpose by ­Talitha, a girl I met on Vashon Island near Seattle. This close to the Amazon’s source, the river bears no resemblance to the torrent it will become further downstream. With a run and a hop, I could easily reach the opposite bank. The Amazon’s longest tributary, the Apurímac River12, springs from the mountains near Arequipa in Peru, and then flows east towards the Atlantic on a journey of more than 6,400 kilometres, instead of simply dropping off into the Pacific just around the corner. Perhaps the Amazon has a travelling spirit like me and wanted to see a bit of the world. 12 The Apurímac River was thought to be the longest Amazon tributary, but recent research now suggests it’s the Mantaro River, in southwest Peru.

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My boat drifts around a bend and disappears from view. I imagine how the shell will be carried the breadth of Brazil and one day reach the open sea. It’s complete and utter nonsense, of course. Though I took great care as a shipwright to build a scale-model raft, it will sink at the first rapid or become entangled in the reeds. But who says all human action must make sense? Sometimes imagination contains as much beauty as reality. I wish upon a shooting star, for example, knowing well it’s really just a lump of rock a few centimetres in diameter burning up in the earth’s upper atmosphere, or some man-made space hardware. To wish upon an International Space Station or a meteor is, logically speaking, a complete waste of time. But “who cares?” I enjoy this brief moment of nonsense more than the objective truth. The use of science and logic is always accurate and interesting but rarely beautiful. Dreams are beautiful but never truly interesting. I can give you the distance to our sun in light-seconds, blabber about its magnitude, diameter and luminosity, tell you the sun’s age and composition, drone on about its energy output and explain why it appears reddish towards evening. But occasionally I would much rather sit silently, holding hands with my beloved, to dreamily watch the sunset together. For me to enjoy a fulfilled life, I need both fact and fiction … so today, only in this second, I switch off thought and opt to believe I have met Talitha’s wish to send her shell on an Amazon journey. It will arrive. Lake Titicaca sits 3,810 metres above sea level and is the highest navigable lake in the world. I pull over into a lay-by to celebrate my arrival. Overlanders often mark special waypoints on maps to provide a sense of direction. By doing this I break my trip into manageable segments. Planning a complete route around the globe in one go is too unwieldy; I’d lose myself on the planet. I open a bottle of beer saved for this purpose and propose a toast to Matilda by sprinkling a few drops over the bonnet as a gesture of gratitude. Again, my behaviour is nonsensical. Matilda will drive well by proper maintenance, not due to beer stains on her green paintwork. Yet, I enjoy my little traditions. They give the illusion of meaning to events where in reality there are none. Apart from passenger ferries and Bolivia’s lonesome naval ship, there is very little traffic on the lake. Merely a few reed-sailboats can be seen bobbing in close proximity to the shore. Fishing proves futile. I try three consecutive

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days without a single bite. Talking to a local afterwards, I’m told that there used to be loads of fish in the lake; now he only knows of one trout a friend of his claimed to have almost caught a few months ago. Believe it or not, a few ­locals have decided to become fisherman. How about a career change? Bolivia boasts the second largest natural gas reserves on the continent, vast mineral deposits waiting to be mined and tourist numbers most nations can only dream of. Neighbouring countries deem Bolivia “a donkey sitting on a gold mine”, appar­ently doing its utmost to remain destitute. Somehow, against all the odds, the population has succeeded: theirs is the least developed and poorest nation in South America. The next circle on my map is drawn around a 70-kilometre-long road between La Paz and Coroico that drops 3,300 metres from the highland Altiplano into the lowland Amazon rainforest. The route has various names, but most refer to it as El Camino de la Muerte, or “Death Road”. Through the cracked windows of over-laden buses I see Bolivians making repeated signs of the cross and mumbling silent prayers to the Virgin Mary. Chickens and goats tied to the roof have no such solace and are plain terrified. Tourists, in contrast, view it as an adrenalin buzz akin to a bungee jump. As I halt at the pass before the descent to check my brakes, a pack of mountain-bikers arrives to do the same. Several tour companies in La Paz cater for 25,000 thrill-seeking foreigners ­annually. Those who survive get to wear a T-shirt with “I cycled the World’s most Dangerous Road” printed front and back. What a strange species we are. An estimated 200-300 people plunge to their deaths here every year. Life is a continuous risk assessment and everybody must decide for themselves how high they wish to gamble. Judging by last year’s figures, one in a thousand road users will reach the Amazon basin in free fall. An Australian friend of mine has a passion for base-jumping, an activity that reduces his life expectancy considerably. Another acquaintance will never board an aeroplane, though the chances of crashing may be one in a million. But the higher the risk, the greater the rewards – or so some say. The rewards of the Coroico Road are breathtaking views of an ever-changing landscape. As the altitude drops, the vegetation gradually transforms from bare rock to dense jungle. Too bad one must concentrate so much on driving instead of the surrounding beauty.

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Rolling downhill towards a hairpin bend, my foot hits the floor when I step on the brake pedal: a mechanical failure catapults me well into the red-zone of my personal risk assessment. I pull the handbrake, manage to crunch the gearbox into low-range and Matilda gradually comes to a stop. Luckily there was no uphill traffic. To my left is a sheer drop of 600 metres, littered below with bus leftovers and possibly a twisted bicycle or two. For whatever reason, a guardrail is absent. It could be that the original road builders, Paraguayan prisoners from the Chaco War between 1932 and 1935, saw no incentive to protect their captors. The “Death Road” itself is a muddy, single-lane track barely three ­metres wide with an occasional lay-by. The road rules specify that the downhill driver never has the right of way. Heavy lorries can often only scale the pass using their momentum; stop once, and the truck may need to offload all cargo in order to commence driving. Also, vehicles drive on the left, as opposed to the right like in the rest of Bolivia. This gives the driver in a left-hand-drive vehicle a better view over their outside wheel, making passing safer. My Landy is right-hand-drive, so I can only guess how close I am to the edge. I bleed the brake-line system and allow the pads to cool off. However, my abrupt gear change damaged the transfer-box – my reverse gear is mysteriously absent. I can continue, but if I encounter oncoming traffic, I’ll have to insist on the right of way. At long last, the road levels out and I putter into Coroico safe and sound. I try not to think about the return trip next week. There’s no alternative route leading up to the Altiplano. Back in La Paz at a Swiss-run campsite, I pull apart the whole transmission. Assisting me is an over-curious llama intent on poking his head under Matilda to see what I’m up to. The llama is nonplussed with my antics and spits into my tool box when I shoo him away. It takes me a week to reassemble the gears. Llamas are not much help when it comes to mechanics. Satisfied with Matilda’s performance, I feel ready to venture further afield into Bolivia’s outback. Roughly a quarter of the country is a single, high-altitude des­ ert playground for the off-road enthusiast. Here, tarmac is a distant memory, distances between hamlets are measured in days and guidance is only pro­vided by mountains on the horizon. My nightly companions are a myriad of stars viewed from crests of sand dunes resembling a stormy sea. Scattered throughout the landscape are signs of past human presence: indigenous graves contain-

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ing the sandblasted bones of forgotten ancestors. They are welcome to join my campfire, never disturbing the peaceful silence with unnecessary chitchat. My first encounter with the living occurs between Salar Coipasa and Salar de Uyuni (Uyuni Salt Flat) near the Chilean frontier. Just when I believe myself lost, a cluster of mud huts appear out of nowhere. People are huddled outside over a dung fire boiling tea. Three generations of Quechua-speaking Indios look up as my dust-cloud settles. They invite me closer, a spare cup is soon found and the diluted brew poured. It tastes bitter, but warms my hands and belly. At 4,000 metres, days can become exceedingly cold. Only the family ­elder speaks broken Spanish. “Germany?” He pronounces the word carefully, rolling the letters indi­ vidually. “No. Where is this Germany? Is it far?” I ask if he’s heard of Europe but achieve the same result. So, I try a country closer to home. “How about Chile? Have you heard of Chile?” He contemplates the question then suddenly smiles a toothless grin. “Yes! I’ve heard of Chile! And La Paz! My father once went to La Paz!” He seems satisfied to have understood whence I derive. “A place beyond La Paz.” Since his father’s journey, nobody has ever left the hamlet. That was five decades ago. I never manage to find out why they settled here, or how they survived in the middle of a wasteland. Or have they just always been here? I decide not to ask them for directions to the Uyuni Salt Flat. … I eventually manage to find Salar de Uyuni – a geological formation a quarter the size of Switzerland would be rather embarrassing to miss. A rock pier leads onto the expanse of white that reaches as far as the eye can see. The jetty is to prevent vehicles sinking into the slushy muck. Usually only the coastal strip is soft; the rest of the flat is tens of metres thick and safe for the heaviest truck to drive upon. Some 40,000 years ago, the area was part of Lake Minchin. It eventually dried up, leaving behind two major deserts, Salar de Coipasa and the larger Uyuni, containing together some 10 billion tones of salt. Soon, I’m speeding like a rocket across the vast plain. The flatness blurs seamlessly into the pale-blue heavens. I’m blinded by the glare of reflected light and

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don my glacier sunglasses. Half an hour of trance-like driving carries me to a point where the views in all directions become indistinguishable: the jetty and hills in my wake have disappeared. I stop, turn off the engine, and resolve to spend the night here. After dark I’m carried into a realm of fantasy no mere mortal could conjure. But it’s more: an image that fairy-tale creatures create when dreaming themselves. The white turns to sparkling silver under the moon, and I feel sus­­pended on light. I climb onto Matilda’s roof with a thick blanket and fall asleep in the silence of a sterile crystal environment. Only sometimes I believe I can hear a cracking of the thick salt crust, similar to ice breaking on a frozen lake. In the morning twilight I continue towards the empty horizon – there is no ­other point of reference. Suddenly, a distant purple speck appears. It grows into a castle, then an island; one of 20 rising from the salt-flat. My favourite becomes “Land Rover-Isle”, as I call it: a minuscule plot of terra firma 10 ­metres square. Parked on top, Matilda almost completely covers it. A 30-minute walk beyond are two larger islands supporting a variety of cacti, some said to be more than 1,000 years old. Surprisingly, there’s also abundant ­animal life. Vis­cachas, rodents not unlike large squirrels, clamber amongst the rocks. As with the Indios near the Chilean frontier, I don’t know how they became ­marooned here or how they survive in this isolated ecosystem. My dreamlike world implodes when I reach the improbably named Isla de los Pescadores, the Island of Fishermen, Salar de Uyuni’s only regularly visited island. A dozen Israeli backpackers, and a very frightened, tiny Japanese girl, arrive simultaneously as part of a tour group. The island’s guide, an indigenous woman responsible for maintaining her small isle reserve, walks over with her children to greet them. The Japanese girl swiftly joins the guide, but the Israelis have other plans in mind. Screaming and shouting, they run onto the salt to strip down completely naked, and begin taking pictures of each other in various obscene poses. The Japanese girl turns the other way, the children run for their mother, and the guide walks towards the backpackers, begging them to cover themselves. It’s to no avail. They surround and abuse her verbally, with their private parts dangling in front of her face ... and then continue the photo-op.

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Travelling the world, one becomes accustomed to seeing young naked Israelis. For many, collecting pictures of themselves nude in front of the world’s wonders appears to be a ritual. The fact that this behaviour goes against every local cultural norm does not seem to concern them. Why? Well, most mature Israeli nationals I’ve asked explained that the backpacker’s mannerisms are related to Israel’s military conscription. It’s sometimes considered a “rite of passage” to take a gap year immediately after one has been discharged. Abruptly freed from years of severe discipline and active combat, some simply go “wild”. Onlookers may be reminded of William Shakespeare’s phrase from Julius Caesar: “Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war.” Eventually the group returns to the waiting jeep and dress. “Hey, driver! Now take us back to town!” one orders. The island guide turns towards me and seethes through clenched teeth. “I hate Israelis. You don’t know how I hate them. It’s always the same, every time.” I nod. On a few occasions in the past decade I’ve met “nice” backpackers from Israel. Alone, older or as a honeymoon couple, some are pleasant company. In groups, as most tend to travel, one finds them usually rude, loud, belligerent, intolerant and arrogant – even guidebooks, such as the famous Lonely Planet, often list them on their “Travel Warnings” page, alongside volcano eruptions, crime and sandflies. As a result, many towns in Latin America now have “Israeli Haunts”: restaurants and hostels catering solely for Israeli clientele in order to avoid conflict with guests from other nations and damage to their businesses. Owners of establishments who’ve had bad experiences will often hang a sign outside their entrances written in Hebrew stating: “If you can read this, you are not welcome here!” Some towns in South America, India and Southeast Asia have gone one step further and banned Israelis al­ together from their city’s limits. I putter into Uyuni, the main lakeside settlement. It’s a bustling, dusty village; prime industries are salt-extraction from the Salar and tourism. And the best pizzas in the world are served at “Minuteman”, an Uyuni restaurant run by an American expat with two unusual talents. Not only can he bake pizzas fit to please the gods, but he also has a photographic pizza-memory! “Yeah, I don’t know how it came about. I’m crap at numbers, and useless at remembering names. But somehow I associate faces of guests with pizzas.

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When a guest returns, even years later, I can always remember his last order.” It’s astonishing what talents some people have. I wonder how many lie dormant, and how much of ourselves we never discover. The champion sailor and potential America’s Cup winner may be a gifted Saharan Tuareg nomad capable of smelling nearing storms and changes in the wind. The reincar­ nation of Mozart may be a Congolese pygmy a million kilometres from the nearest piano. So much we unearth is purely circumstantial; my pizza-man was fortunate. Had life led him to become a lawyer, or had he been born in cheese-less Borneo, he’d have probably pursued a mediocre existence, never standing out from the crowd. Only his chance encounter with oven and dough allowed him to find his inherent genius. On the road leading out of Uyuni, one passes the “Train Cemetery”, containing the remains of 19th- and early 20th-century steam locomotives. Never passing up an opportunity to sift through a wrecker’s yard, I wander between the engines rusting in the sun. Nothing of any practical use can be salvaged, though I do find some interesting graffiti: somebody has chalked “Se necesita un mechanico con experiencia urgente” (We urgently need an experienced mechanic) on one train, and further afield is a locomotive declaring in huge lettering: “R(ru) – 1/2g(ru)R = ((8 pi G)/c4) T(ru) A. Einstein”. What does the formula mean? Is it the lost answer to “Life, the Universe and Everything” the German-born physicist discovered on an unpublicised holiday to Bolivia? Or is it the formula for making the world’s best pizza? Or perhaps it’s the answer to both: a pizza able to unify all theories of physics? I decide to believe the latter. There’s one last hurdle for Matilda to overcome. Throughout the past few months in Bolivia, I’ve had to deal with extreme changes in altitude. From humid jungles to towering summits, the geographical contours literally take your breath away. Many tourists complain of headaches when stepping off the plane in La Paz, and on the Altiplano, the overlander suddenly finds himself unable to do the simplest vehicle maintenance tasks: patching a tyre can be more laborious at 5,000 metres than running a marathon at sea level. There is simply not enough oxygen in the air for the human body to function properly without prior acclimatisation and many people experience signs of altitude sickness. On commercial airliners preparing to land in La Paz, the pilots are required to wear oxygen masks as a precautionary measure. When I surmount the higher passes of the Altiplano, I wish my Land Rover had masks too. I

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wonder: could it be this area is so under populated because sex at this altitude is just too strenuous? Or is all romance suddenly stifled when Romeo, having manoeuvred Juliet into bed, straps on his breathing apparatus? Humans and automobiles behave alike: a conventional combustion engine will only work up to a certain altitude. Fitted with a turbo-charger, one may be able to delay the effects of oxygen starvation, but ultimately every motor will stutter, sputter and stall. Matilda has none; the only way for her to climb above 5,000 metres is to advance the “timing” and insert smaller carburettor jets; adjustments I sadly cannot perform on my own body. I want to see how high Matilda can go. There are heated debates over which is the highest road in the world. India claims it’s Khardung La in the province of Ladakh, a pass I once rode on my motorbike. The sign at the top said 5,602 metres, though my altimeter showed a considerably lower readout: “merely” 5,315 metres. Tanglang La, Lachulung La and Marsimik Pass in the same area are worthy contenders, as is the Semo Pass in Tibet. Yet none of the above comes close to the Uturuncu Mine Road. The abandoned sulphur mine lies between the double summit of Uturuncu volcano, towering above the small Bolivian village of Quetena Chico. The track would have led me to the mine entrance at 5,900 metres had a landslide not blocked my way. Nonetheless, I’m proud of old Matilda when I turn her around at the blockage. My altimeter shows 5,550 metres. I traverse the uninhabited highlands stretching from Uyuni to the Chilean border in a snowstorm. Bolivia’s wonders do not abate; if anything, I feel a crescendo, a climax of impressions. Here is Laguna Colorada; the red lake’s rich colouration derives from algae and plankton thriving in its minerals and the pink patches are flamingos feeding in the shallow brine. Next in line are Laguna Verde, or the Green Lagoon, lying in the shadow of Licancabur volcano and Laguna Celeste, the Blue Lagoon, completing my rainbow-lake collection. Last on the list is Rocas de Dali. Isolated orangey and brownish boulders are dotted about at random in a bed of sand and gravel. These wind-carved rock features loom like petrified giants in a sweep of nothing. The scenery appears very much like the backgrounds to many of Dali’s dreamlike stick-leg elephant paintings.

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Between these natural marvels are numerous hot springs, geyser basins and bubbling mud pots. Inspired by the moment, I hard-boil an egg in one for lunch. But you have to set the egg timer differently on the Altiplano. Due to the altitude, water boils at a lower temperature (at 5,200 metres at 82 degrees) and it takes 20 minutes. Some springs are also cool enough to bathe in. With a bottle of wine and not a soul within a 100-kilometre radius, I soak for half the night. What a luxury overlanding life can be! Home-owning friends back in Europe have repeatedly asked how I could possibly live in such confined quarters. I agree: Matilda’s interior has neither bathtub nor television lounge. But just look at my GARDEN! No Duke of York, Queen of England, Bill Gates or Sultan of Brunei can open their patio doors to THIS! And the best thing about my garden is how it’s magically redecorated every day. I reach the immigration post. There is tarmac on the other side with emer­ gency road assistance satellite telephones. And I see WOMEN driving cars again, for the first time in the past year! It appears Chile will be different.

Desire (Chile – 8 August 2005)

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hile is an oddity. Wedged between the Andes Mountains and the Pacific Ocean, the nation occupies a 4,300-kilometre-long coastal strip often less than 100 kilometres wide. Thirty-nine degrees of latitude separate the northern Atacama from the Drake Passage at the country’s southernmost tip. Between, the climate is as varied as if you were to drive from Norway’s tundra to a Mediterranean beach. San Pedro de Atacama is small oasis town inhabited mostly by tourists in the treeless desert of the same name. Two million travellers invade Chile annually and many pass by here. Unaccustomed to crowds after my long stint of solitude, I seek out a quiet campsite to reacclimatise. Altitude is not the only thing that can be life threaten­ing – so can a reintroduction into society. My ears have become sensi­ tive to noise, my eyes unused to hasty movements of people. It’s maddening, and for the first few days I feel as if trapped on a merry-go-round spinning at 50 rounds per second. Luckily, Fran and Sole are the proprietors of ­Thakka-Thakka Lodge, a lovely couple who understand my needs. I can share

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their company around the evening campfire, learn to “speak” again, practice sandboarding and go for strolls through picturesque San Pedro with their dog, Mimi, who has attached herself permanently to my side. Nearby is a lake so salty it makes the Dead Sea potable by comparison. Indeed, its extreme salinity makes swimming virtually impossible. Your body’s increased buoyancy will only allow you to bob around like a cork, with a book, a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of red balanced on your belly. Chile is addictive – but there are surely worse bad habits than to be drunk on grapes and glee. Somebody must have seen me repairing my brakes a few days after I drove into town, for I have a message from a local on the windshield: “Can you fix the indicators on my car?” I do, the word spreads, and within a week I become the local mechanic. I never accept money as payment for my repairs; instead I’m given bottles of wine, free dinners, free horses should I feel like riding out into the sand dunes, and free sausages after I find the electrical fault in a supermarket’s salami-cutting machine. Fran, Sole and Mimi – as well as a few car owners – are delighted when I ask if I may stay a few months. The Mercurio Calama newspaper wishes to write a full-page article about my voyages. Or so I believed; the reporter is shocked to hear I’m travelling alone. For most Latin Americans, men and women alike, it’s unthinkable to go abroad without one’s friends. The interview concentrates on my private life and swiftly turns into a quest for “my perfect female travelling partner”. Perhaps I had better leave town before a million Chilean girls respond to the article despite my list of severe conditions. Besides, I might soon have a companion to enjoy life with: Lucia, a Swiss girl I met in Ecuador, just sent me an email. She’s coming to Iquique next month! Flirting in virtual reality, as we’ve been doing since Vilcabamba, is a new phenomenon. I’m unaccustomed to it, still bound by images of classical romanti­ cism. For me, Internet dating is as if a first kiss is interrupted by a mobile phone ringing to the tune of a dentist’s drill. Technological gadgetry may be practical, but emails and SMSs are prosaic, the coldest form of intimacy imagin­able. Prior to the Internet, love letters were written by hand. Any man who dared use a TYPEWRITER writing to his sweetheart would have been dumped immediately. Nowadays, many girls hardly know the splendour of hand­ written poetry, having never received even a simple postcard. How is it pos­-

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s­ible that cultural practices adding no value to the quality of life – such as the Dutch habit of pouring mayonnaise on chips – are impossible to eradicate, yet the beautiful custom of letter writing has almost disappeared within a single decade? There are days when I would like to bury Bill Gates up to his neck in a nest of termites. But it’s not his fault that romance is dying – it’s ours. I too capitulated a few years ago when I set up my first email address. I realise, however, Lucia and I would not be in contact today were it not for Bill. Relationship building may be one of the most challenging yet rewarding tasks in life. There is no clear solution on how to find the perfect partner, or an answer to whether perfection exists. But the truth behind our emotions is sobering: what we generally interpret as love for another is only love for the IMAGE we have constructed of that individual in our heads. Each and every one of us is encased within a personal bubble and no observation is possible independent of “self ”: no matter how one meets and how long a relationship lasts, one can never be certain of our interpretation’s accuracy. Adding to the difficulties is the fact that people, unlike the universe, contain no cosmological constant: everybody changes with time. A pedantically logical husband should never say: “I love you” to his wife; for it would be a false statement. Correct would be: “I love the current flawed perception I have of you.” But when I meet Lucia on our first real date, I had better keep my thoughts to myself. For the sake of romance, it’s often wiser to use imprecise wordage. I believe three conditions must be met for a relationship to work. One must feel intellectual, emotional and physical attraction. If only the first two are present, then you have a friend; if only the last, a lover. Both women and men also consciously or subconsciously tick off lists when evaluating a potential partner. At the very top is “I love her/him.” Second in line is “She/he loves me.” Then follows a long series of items such as appearance, age, hobbies and so on. So, what did I tell the reporter of the Mercurio Calama? My perfect woman should have lots of scars; a peg leg, pirate hook hand or an eye patch will do fine. This would be an indication she leads an unusual life, perhaps wrestling crocodiles rather than being a party-girl with Dolce&Gabbana shoes. She should be a pipe-smoker. I can guarantee that any girl puffing away on a Stanwell pipe in a café, oblivious to the stares she receives, is a character of note. She knows how to enjoy life, realises what she wants, and couldn’t care less about what others think of her. She should be an Amazon, willing to challenge me to an

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arm wrestle. It’s less an issue of beating me, but her enjoyment of attempting the impossible. On the road I have enough worries as it is without the burden of being a baby sitter. An added bonus would be if she’s between 25 and 35, and drop-dead gorgeous. I wonder why I’m still solo? … When I first arrived in San Pedro I was fascinated by the desert and its vast horizons. But now I’m desperate for a tree. Cacti grow up here, and true, cacti are green, but it is not the same thing. One does not hug a cactus. Since forests first appear 2,000 kilometres further south along the coast, it may be a while until I sight proper flora. For the moment I’ll have to do with a single forlorn half-dead shrub between San Pedro and Iquique some well-meaning individual planted a sign next to. “Please give me water,” I decipher, standing in the shrub’s sparse shade. Another driver pulls up, gets out, and takes a leak. I wonder if the tree feels this is a blessing or condemnation to life in hell: survival by being urinated upon for centuries. Left and right of the road multiple signs warn me: “Peligro. Zona de riesgos explosives!” The whole area is awash with landmines, leftovers from Chile’s past border disputes with Bolivia and Argentina. The military once had stra­tegic maps depicting where the mines were hidden, but after once-in-a-century rain showers flooded the desert, the explosives were scattered. The government has all but given up trying to locate them again. Politically, Chile has largely escaped the coups that have blighted the rest of the continent and is regarded as the wealthiest Latin American nation. Yet, no country is without historical problems; Chile’s was General Augusto Pinochet Ugarte. In the course of his 17-year dictatorship, from 1973 to 1990, more than 3,000 people were killed by his regime. Amongst those who suffered is the soon-to-be Chilean pre­si­ dent, Michelle Bachelet: she endured months of torture in prison, as had her father, Alberto, who didn’t survive the brutal interrogations. Iquique is the northernmost regional capital13 and has the best paragliding school in South America. I sign up for a three-week course while I wait for ­Lucia to arrive. If you can get your head around the idea that suspending yourself from a piece of plastic 1,000 metres in the air is a worthwhile venture, then 13 In 2007, a new region on the border with Peru was created – its capital is Arica.

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it’s immensely fun. Paragliding is similar to scuba diving, with the difference that you follow birds instead of fish. I circle higher, rising with the warm thermals blowing landward from the ocean until the clouds are near enough to touch. Of all the remedies against anxiety, paragliding must be the best cure. Before I know it, Lucia arrives and I drive to the airport to pick her up, my sweating hands clutching the steering wheel. Lucia has all legs, arms and eyes accounted for and the little I know of her suggests she is not the crocodile-wrestling type. Which just goes to show what a load of rubbish my “criteria” are. I fell in love with her back in Ecuador, and that’s all that counts. Of course, there are many uncertainties: is ours a travelling partnership or perhaps something more? Only time will tell how well we suit each other. Lucia’s return ticket to Switzerland is months away. We have suf­ ficient time to solve all relationship riddles and in the meantime simply have fun together on the road. I drive with her to the top of a mountain where my flight instructor is waiting with a tandem paraglider – and I throw Lucia off the cliff. Is there a better way to begin a relationship? I follow solo with my own chute, and as we circle high above Iquique, I witness Lucia’s joy on her first flight.

Relaxation (Argentina – 6 October 2005)

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n Argentina, all of life is a siesta. A siesta is more than a lazy midday in the shade – it’s an attitude. Sometime around noon, though it could be an hour or two earlier, the kettles are switched on and “mate”, a local tea, brewed. Once an Argentinian has settled himself down to enjoy it, the siesta officially begins … and it matters little whether there is a customer in his shop, the stock market crashes or aliens invade from outer space. He will lower his eyelids, lean back, let out a long sigh of bliss and slurp slowly through the metal straw inserted into his tea gourd. The siesta may last until 4 or 5 in the afternoon. In the days before air conditioning, holding an afternoon nap was the only sens­ ible option in hot countries, such as Spain or Portugal. Midday temperatures soared into the 40s and made work impossible. One laboured in the early hours of morning or towards evening when it was cooler outside. This tradition was introduced to South America during the days of colonisation and kept alive, even

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though the climatic conditions were far less severe. Argentina is predominantly temperate, and the far southern regions are classified as sub polar: a record low of minus 39 degrees was measured in 1972. And still the siesta lives on. A visitor unaccustomed to this way of life may become infuriated. The closest approximation I can think of is the Australian attitude of “No worries, mate!” (“mate” meaning “friend”, not yerba “mate” tea), a laid-back philosophy allow­ ing no room for stress. But whereas the Aussie remains industrious des­pite not taking anything really seriously, the Argentinian switches into stand-by mode. Do not conclude that Argentina is a backward nation of teetotallers. Argentinians CAN work hard if you catch them at the right time. Say between 8 and 9 in the morning and 6 and 7 at night. They merely know how to avoid stressful situations and enjoy life. Every so often, an Argentinian lays his mategourd aside and reveals a burst of genius, perhaps inspired by his daydreams during the long afternoon rest. For example, in 1969, Domingo Liotta developed the first artificial heart that was successfully implanted into a human being; and Luis Agote was one of the first doctors to carry out a safe ­method of blood transfusion. Other Argentinians pioneered laser-eye procedures, contributed to the Human Genome Project and demonstrated the world’s first helicopter flight. László Bíró, an Argentinian-Hungarian, manufactured the first modern ballpoint pen – hence the pen-synonym “biro” still used today. I must purchase a mate cup. By assimilating local behaviour, one sometimes stumbles upon a chunk of wisdom. Like a smoker’s pipe, a mate-set is a very personal affair reflecting characteristics of its user. A Canadian lumberjack would look downright ridiculous smoking a ladies pipe with a long slender stem. I need something strong and indestructible; not necessarily because I believe I possess these qualities myself – though I do sometimes like to project it – but for the simple reason that a flimsy thin-walled gourd wouldn’t last long on my trip. Finally Lucia and I find the right shop. Lined along the walls on multiple shelves are thousands of different models in all styles and price ranges. Some are just hollowed pieces of wood selling for a dollar; others cost hundreds and are intricately carved and studded with silver adornments. The most popular ones, the sales lady assures me, are traditional gourds covered in bulls’-testicle leather, which might say a lot about the Latin-American mindset, but not about mine. I hold one up to Lucia to ask for her opinion. She smiles.

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During our well-earned siesta from shopping, we ponder over our map of Argentina and realise how large this country is. The border with Chile is defined by the Andes mountains to the west, and to the north by the Altiplano in Bolivia. San Juan and Mendoza are more or less in the middle, where melting glaciers irrigate a fertile agricultural zone. The Atlantic is to the east, as is the capital, Buenos Aires, and in the south is frozen Patagonia. With so much to see, we’d better start moving. “How about lunch first?” I suggest to Lucia. If anything can surpass the sacrament of holding siestas, it’s the ritual of eating. And when it comes to food, Argentina offers some of the best on the planet. Many restaurants offer allyou-can-eat barbeques for less than five dollars. This is the famous “asado”, and the steaks we are served are flopping over the sides of our hub-cappedsized plates. There is never any need to ask for an “upgrade” or “supersize me!” After devouring an adolescent cow we can barely wobble back to the Land Rover. So we lie down and have another siesta.

Bistro Matilda

PASTA

(Smoking tables only, pets allowed)

SOUPS (SERVED WITH GARLIC BREAD) Chinese noodle soup topped with fried egg Hungarian hot-pot stew with ­sausages Granny’s old-fashioned chicken soup

Spaghetti bolognaise Seafood pasta Spicy Asian fried noodles with ­vegetables Pasta with creamy zucchini sauce

SPECIALITIES OF THE CAR

Asado Argentina BBQ Grilled trout in butter sauce* Salmon in lemon sauce* Sashlik with baked potato Potato soufflé with mushrooms, egg, bacon Vegetarian grill platter Stuffed peppers with beef mince and onion

SNACKS Cheeseburger Tuna sandwich BBQ sausages with mashed potato Cucumber salad

MAIN COURSES Cordon bleu Chicken breast with creamy ­ mushroom sauce Vegetable risotto Chinese sweet and sour pork Pork medallions with apple sauce Strips of beef in wine-cream sauce Indian curry with rice

(*depending on the catch of the day)

DESSERTS

Chocolate pudding delight Flan with syrup Pancakes with maple syrup Strawberries with whipped cream Battered and fried apple slices with cinnamon

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Our vehicle has no fridge, so meat only keeps a day or two and veg perhaps a week. This does not imply we eat poorly when we cook for ourselves. We even have a proper menu for 5-star “Bistro Matilda”. Every evening we select our supper, as if we were ordering in a genuine restaur­ ant. Most ingredients are always in stock, and when they run out, immediately replenished. Catching enough fish for our menu “specialities” is never a problem. Every river and lake in Argentina is teeming with marine life all too keen to commit suicide at the end of my hook. We wash down our meals with Cola de Mono, a Chilean alcoholic pisco-coffee cocktail similar to Baileys – or alternatively a bottle of Argentinian red wine from Mendoza. Whoever said “life on the road” is tough? Beyond the limits of every town begins the “Pampa”, or colloquially “El Campo”. Argentina is highly urbanised; almost a third of the population live in Buenos Aires alone. This leaves a lot of room for the nature-loving traveller to explore. Between Salta and Paso San Francisco one can drive hundreds of kilometres without encountering a single oncoming vehicle. In the remote villages we spot gauchos resting in the shade of their verandas, awakened briefly by ­Matilda’s trailing dust cloud, and donkey carts clattering to and fro between fields of maize ploughed by horses. The gauchos take pride in their tradition of self-reliance; it’s not poverty we see, but a lifestyle of simplicity requiring only bare necessities, such as food and shelter. Many towns have names such as Alemania (currently 10 inhabitants), Londres or Paris, tributes to the national­ ities of the first settlers who arrived with dreams of a better life, yet harboured nostalgic memories of a home far away. Scientific research est­imates somewhere between 85 and 97 per cent of Argentinians are of European descent; I differ little in appearance from those living here. Were it not for my accent when speaking Spanish, I could wander the country incognito north to south without anybody considering me a “tourist”. Selecting a campsite for the night is simple: track or no track, we steer in any desired direction until we find a suitable boulder to shelter behind. Nobody disturbs us wherever we park. In the shade of the Andes, northern Argentina is a single vast tract of emptiness, perfectly suited for romantic evenings. One noticeable oddity on locally printed maps is the little “point of interest”

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symbol marking the geographic centre of the country. It’s not in the focal point of Argentina where it should be, but in southern Patagonia. This is due to Argentina’s claim to a million square kilometres of the Antarctic continent; an entitlement they take very seriously. It’s irrelevant that all such claims have been suspended by the Antarctic Treaty of 1961. This slice of Antarctica is for the government as Argentinian as mate, tango or Buenos Aires. Another bone of contention are the names and “ownership” references applied to a group of remote and quite insignificant isles situated in the South Atlantic. If there is any subject that might cause an Argentinian to raise his head from a siesta and stir into life, just address the topic and say: “Your map is wrong. Those islands are called the Falklands and they are British!” Then make a run for it. Who would make such a fuss over a few specks of rock inhabited by around 2,900 (predominantly) loyal Brits and half a million sheep? You would think Argentina had enough sheep already. Instead, Argentina started a war over the Falklands against Britain in 1982. The Malvinas, as the locals refer to them, are visible everywhere: cities have central plazas, streets, businesses and bars named after the islands, and grand monuments are dedicated to those who died in the conflict. There’s even a mock Malvinas embassy in Buenos Aires! Argentina neither discovered them (that honour probably goes to Dutch sailor Sebald van de Weert), nor made the first landing (that was Englishman John Strong), nor built the first settlement (the French did, in 1764). Argentina only began to show serious interest in the islands when the military dictator General Galtieri sought to maintain power by diverting public attention from an economic crisis and start a war. As everybody knows, it didn’t quite work out. Galtieri was removed from the presidential office soon after the Brits recaptured the Falklands and emerged as victors. High on the snowy slopes of the Andes Mountains is the remote Argentinian border post “San Francisco”, where immigration officials have a pet llama. A car or two passes every day when snow conditions allow. They drink lots of mate and talk with their woolly mascot. They are very nice people. But it’s the other side I dread: Chilean restrictions on the import of animal/vegetable products are almost as severe as Australia’s. “Do you have eggs with you? Or cheese, meat products, tea, potatoes?” the customs officer shouts. “Give me the eggs. You may not take Argentinian eggs into Chile. Argentinian soil could be on them.”

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I glance over to my Landy; unwashed since the salt flats of Bolivia, the mudcake on the chassis is many inches thick. I have an urge to point this out to him, but then have a better idea. I submit our food box and kindly ask him to sift through the contents. I must say, the officer seems overly selective. Spying the chocolate bar, he appears to be wondering whether it’s milk content might justify confiscation. He stuffs all “illegal substances” into a plastic bag, and begins to walk towards his office, where a few of his colleges are peering from the window expectantly. Could it be that these confiscations are the border’s food supply? We are going to disappoint them dearly. “Wait, Señor. You can leave the bag. We’ll have lunch before we cross.” And while we dine outside the immigration office on ham and egg sandwiches, tomato salad and chocolate, we see the same faces looking at us again. Only this time they are wearing an expression of yearning. We should really invite them over to join us. Maybe next time.

Exhilaration (Argentina / Chile – 8 January 2006)

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or two months there hasn’t been a drop of rain. The 2,000-kilometre beach along Chile’s northern pacific coastline is a barren wasteland with water almost too cold for a swim. Lost-looking fishermen collect mussels from the rocks and dry seaweed between graves of former Asian labour camps. Cities are few and far between, and nondescript. Finally, in the forested Parque Nacional la Campana, just north of the capital, Santiago de Chile, the skies open and it starts to pour. We let the cool wet soak our shirts and hair, delighted to have escaped the dryness of the desert, and watch the droplets pearl off the trees’ leaves. That same evening I hear the news via shortwave radio of the terrible flooding in central Europe, wiping out whole villages in Bavaria. How strange this planet is; what is bliss for me, means suffering elsewhere. During a two-week meditation retreat in northern India, a Buddhist lama (not llama) told me that Siddhartha realised that: “All of life is suffering from birth

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to death. Moments of bliss are temporary; they do not last. As nothing is permanent, it is unwise to attach yourself to anything, including happiness. Free yourself of expectation and attachment to the impermanent, and you are liber­ ated from suffering.” I thought about these words, and decided they were those of a pessimist. I returned the next morning to the lama and said I disagree: “All of life is happiness from birth to death. Moments of suffering are temporary; they do not last. As nothing is permanent, it is unwise to linger long on negative thoughts. You may have expectations, and you can attach yourself to the impermanent, if it makes you happy; as long as you remember that when all is taken from you, bliss will soon be found again.” With a smile, he called me an “anti-Buddhist”. I was unable to meditate during the retreat, although I tried very hard – perhaps too hard. Together in the temple with a group of 21 novices, the lama instructed us to sit comfortably and concentrate on our breathing. “Empty your mind. Close your senses. Do not be distracted by your surroundings. Narrow your eyes and look down. Breathe slowly; inhaling compassion, and exhaling darkness,” he said. By nature, I’m very reluctant to empty all the rubbish collected throughout the years from my brain. I love this mostly useless agglomeration of information and it was hard work packing it into such a confined space. I gave it my best shot, but when I heard a dog whimpering outside the meditation room I became instantly distracted. I lifted my head to see 21 students and a lama looking at their bellybuttons, whereas outside was a suffering dog. What use is compassion if you don’t practice it? Instead of meditating, everybody should be feeding the poor pooch. So, I stood up and went outside. A sandwich and a few cuddles later, the problem was solved. I questioned my lama when all his disciples had finished emptying themselves. “Yes, Chris. You gave the dog bliss for a few moments. But when you leave, the dog will be hungry again and suffer.” “Not if you interrupt looking at your bellybuttons and feed it, it won’t,” I countered. I was probably a poor and annoying scholar, yet I feel my lama was sad to see me go. The laws of karma are not that simple. “Good” deeds are often repaid with unkindness, and “bad” actions can bring about positive results … just like rain in Chile and rain in Europe does not have an identical effect.

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… I’m still overjoyed to have Lucia, with whom I can share all my experiences – there are too many things one cannot do when travelling solo: the ability to laugh out loud, for example, or clinking wine glasses to propose a toast. It’s difficult, a bit like one-handed clapping. And Mendoza, over the border again in Argentina, is THE wine capital of Latin America. The city is full of tiled ­plazas, has a wonderful cathedral and hundreds of old colonial buildings. But the real Mendoza is outside city gates in the vineyards. Some of the world’s best Malbec grapes grow here, a variety I particularly enjoy. We purchase a dozen bottles, enough to last … well, 12 bottles means 12 days. Nearby Junin de los Andes lies in the northernmost region of the “Argentinian Lake District”. It’s springtime, and green pine trees are peeking out of the melting snows on the Andean slopes. I could almost become homesick; the scenery reminds me so much of the European Alps. Forty serpentine passes connect Chile and Argentina north to south; border hopping to and fro, we’ll be working our way slowly towards the feted Patagonia. Fortunately, I have two German passports to accommodate nearly 80 immigration stamps. Many other travellers are following the same route. On a daily basis, Western cyclists pass us doing the Pan American Highway from Fairbanks, Alaska, to Ushuaia. I say “pass us” because I fail to find a single cyclist pedalling the distance at leisurely pace. On average they need a year, though some, like one fit fellow who made an exception to stop for a chat, claims he’s only been on the road for five months and has covered 200 kilometres every single day since he began! As he races off again, Lucia and I shake our heads in bewilderment – but also feel a great deal of respect. I gaze over the lake we are camping next to, then take out a book, sip my mate and have a siesta. I’m content with our speed. Matilda and I have averaged 43 kilometres a day over the past four years. Each to their own! The second largest overlander demographic groups are the motorcyclists and 4x4 travellers, like us. A few deem their trip an “expedition” and are sponsored by famous firms. We see Toyotas plastered with so many logo stickers the drivers can barely peer through their windscreens and Unimogs adver­tising their owners’ websites on all sides in lettering visible from the Inter-

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national Space Station … usually something along the lines of: www.lookat-how-amazing-I-am.com. Are companies actually paying thousands of tra­v­ellers to go on holiday? Then you have the eccentrics. I’m sure something is odd when we overtake a wheeled cart towed by a woman by means of a harness strapped around her waist. In South America, many people travel on foot, and I initially thought she was a local visiting friends in a neighbouring village. But her pace was too quick, the cart’s load too large, her calves too muscled, and her counten­ ance too white. More than anything else, ROCKS are in the cart alongside her camping gear. We stop to say hello. The woman is from Belgium, 52 years old, and 14 months into a walk from Patagonia to Alaska. Today she’s crossed the 6,000-kilometre mark with her 60-kilogram sled. I apologise before I ask her a question she must hear every day: “Why are you walking the Americas?” “I want to have contact with the earth.” Yes, ask a silly question and what do you expect? She’s friendly and chatty, so I pose the second most obvious query. “And the rocks? They must be heavy to lug behind you?” “Yes, true. But I love pretty stones, and pass so many while walking. The special ones I take with me, discarding others I picked up months ago.” I’ve encountered numerous travellers on my journey, but this fit Belgian beats them all. Yet, I know of many similarly bizarre individuals: 61-year-old Rosie Swale Pope of Scotland hiked 32,000 kilometres around the world. She wore out 45 pairs of shoes and had to decline 29 marriage proposals along the way. Eduardo Discoli from Argentina has been in the saddle for the past four years. A former lawyer from Buenos Aires, he left his home in 2001 with three mustangs and a Spanish purebred to fulfil a childhood dream of riding around the globe on horseback. Plennie Wingo from Texas set the Reverse Pedestrianism Record. He walked backwards for a mind-boggling 12,875 kilometres. I don’t know why. As you see, I’m completely normal. All I’m doing is going for a little drive around the block. ... Dusty from the road, and now within the “Chilean Lake District” – they have one too – we search our map for the nearest hot spring. Due to this area’s volcanic nature, it’s riddled with thermals.

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“Lucia, what temperature bathwater would you prefer today? Shall we turn the tap to 48 degrees at Coñaripe, 57 degrees at Les thermes de Panqui or opt for a scorching 87 at Liquiñe’? One can almost become a snobbish high-society toffee-nose in Chile; leading the “good life” is so easy. We settle for Panqui; and indeed, outside a remote Canadian-style log cabin are not only three steaming pools, but also a proper old-fashioned bathtub fed by the hot river running down the mountain. Entrance is free – as I believe should be the case with all natural wonders. We also visit the culprit responsible for spoiling us. The most active volcano in the area is Volcán Villarrica, which we decide to ascend. We have crampons and keep a short rope handy in case we need to tie up, but the gradient never becomes steep enough to warrant its use. Shortly after sunrise we reach the crater’s rim. Small rocks and ash bombard us as we draw nearer, and the air smells intensely of sulphur. We settle behind a protective boulder to watch the firework display: magma flares are thrust a dozen metres into the air every few seconds from the caldera’s lava lake. Due to the seismic activity, taking a guide is recommended, but in my world, it’s a boyfriend’s duty to guard the fair maiden from fire-spewing dragons. I’ve never read a book where St George passes the slaying spear to his stable boy in times of danger. Lago Hermoso, Lago Espeijo, Lago Mascardi, Lago Rivadiva are all pristine Andean lakes one passes travelling the famous Ruta de los Siete Lagos, or The Seven Lakes Route, between San Martin and Bariloche in Argentina. My fishing escapades are always crowned with success. If I catch nothing from shore, I inflate one of Matilda’s spare-tyre inner tubes, strap on a diving mask, grab my reel, paddle into deeper waters, and go “visual” fish hunting. Using this method, I’m able to hook the fattest trout for our dinner table, instead of ­leaving my catch completely up to chance. For more than a century, this region has welcomed waves of immigrants who wanted to escape the stress of European society, the high cost of living and wars. More than a few were also fleeing prosecution for war crimes, and it’s possible some inhabitants today are the sons, daughters and grandchildren of Nazi-era criminals. And while there are no former SS brigades hiding in the woods, some may be living out their last days polishing tarnished swastika medals … and their false teeth. Every few years, an old Nazi is found rolling his

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wheelchair over the promenades of Bariloche, such as former SS Hauptsturmführer Erich Priebke, who in 1995 was extradited to Italy and sentenced to life imprisonment for his role in the 1944 execution of 335 Italians. I understand those who have immigrated here primarily for the region’s scenic beauty and affordability – if I ever felt a desire to settle, Argentina’s Seven Lakes region would be near the top of my location list. Currently, you can buy a three-bedroom stone cottage close to the ski centre and within walking distance of a lake on a wooded 10,000-square-metre plot with mountain views for USD 30,000. Prices in Germany for a similar piece of real estate are at least ten-times this amount! And Bariloche even has a world-renowned chocolate factory – and in my view, that’s priceless.

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The Tale of God’s Evolution (20 March 2006)

n On The Road, Jack Kerouac wrote:

I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight and everybody goes “Aww!” Travelling around the world you encounter some truly mad individuals. They pop up now and then, rave about their passions and consume evenings with your undivided attention. Meeting people of different backgrounds bursting with unique stories and ideas is one of the greatest rewards of being on the road. No two individuals are ever the same; and although I often find certain similarities, never have I encountered clones with identical beliefs, thoughts and dreams. Every human being is one of a kind. Realising this has consequences: travellers lose all faith in anthropological constants. Nothing is universally believed, there is no unanimous agreement upon “right and wrong”, no collective moral or ethical standard and no reli-

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gion common to all. Visitors to any corner of the globe must free themselves of exclusive rights to an absolute “truth”, and accept that every thought is purely subjective and as valid as your own. You need not incorporate other people’s beliefs into your life, but the least you can do is listen and respect their right to differ in opinion. One of the most heatedly debated topics worldwide is religion. There is no avoiding it. Everybody has a unique history and upbringing, and developed a personal moral code. God becomes the projection of our own fears and desires; we create the one that works best for us and are open to personal religious interpretation. But whereas a fireside chat about, say, gay marriage or the performance of Land Rovers versus Toyota may swing either way depending upon convincing arguments … as soon as our gods are mentioned, most are reluctant to forfeit a universal claim. When departing Europe on a trip around the globe, we soon leave the world of Christendom behind us. Before one engages in religious debate abroad, it’s important to remember how Christianity, on a global scale, may become a minor­ity religion in the near future. Although there are, for example, an esti­ mated one billion Catholics on this planet, there are already at least as many Sunni Muslims. Then you have an estimated 2.5 billion people claiming to be either atheist, agnostic or adhere to a “philosophical religion” without deities. If the existence of god could be established or otherwise by means of a democratic majority vote, he’d be removed from office. Travellers will meet as many gods on the road as people. Following is a greatly abridged list of immortals one can visit abroad. They do not represent aspects or synonyms for the same god, and some are creators, some claim universal rights to sole existence and some feel comfortable surrounded by fellow ­deities to share divine responsibilities: Allah, Bacabs, Coyolxauhqui, Djangga­wul, Eos, Fukurokuju, Ganesh, Huitzilopochtli, Itztlacoliuhqui-Ixquimilli, ­Jesus, Kunapipi, Lugh, Ma’at, Nanook, O-Wata-Tsu-Mi, Pundjel, Quetzalcoatl, Ravi, Shamash, Torngasoak, Ushas, Vali, Wepwawet, Xevioso and Zinsu. In fact, there are many, many dozens of gods for every letter of the alphabet. I sincerely apologise to the thousands of deities I’ve failed to mention, and hope Allah and the Jesus-Ghost-God Trinity do not feel too crowded finding themselves in this list. I’m aware of your jealous claim to sovereignty – but

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others make this same claim, too. A comprehensive inventory of deities would be mind-bogglingly long: some sources suggest there are more than 4,000 sizeable religions in existence today, and some have thousands of gods in their pantheons. Religions and their dogmas evolve like every cultural aspect, and deities, along with the interpretations of their scriptures, mutate like living organisms. Gods must either adapt to a changing world or become extinct in the battle between the survival of the fittest. Some die out, others are repeatedly updated and new ones are born regularly. What should we believe, knowing that we worship the regional deity simply because we happened to be born in a certain country? What creeds should we follow, understanding that our moral and ethical codes are determined by WHEN we were born? What god should we pick, or build ourselves, with so many to choose from? The answer is simple: we may believe whatever we like. Me? I choose not to believe at all – or, to phrase it differently, I believe in one god fewer than Christians do. Since a deity’s existence cannot be tested empirically through logical contemplation or direct observation, he is irrelevant for my subjective world. The absence of gods can be a positive relief, liberation from the threat of eternal damnation and his/her/their vengeance if we do not abide by our chosen gods’ rules. This gives me the freedom to determine my own destiny. I can decide for myself what my personal meaning to life is, and enjoy the search while discovering what suits me best. My personal codex is in constant flux, changing and adapting with every new experience. I search the world for ­values I find personally stimulating and reject those I feel uncomfortable with. I borrow here and there, and on occasion construct my own laws. If god were the answer to everything, this might stifle my sense of wonder, self-achievement, curiosity and creativity. I’d never need to travel and explore the truths of my brief life; for should I happen upon a new mystery, I could always respond that “god did it,” and leave it at that. I also come into fewer conflicts when abroad. I neither preach nor condemn, but allow everybody their right to self-determination. And as for my “meaning”: it’s the beauty I encounter throughout life that makes it worth living.

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Melancholy (Patagonia – 15 September 2006)

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he Southern Patagonian Ice Field is a glacier almost 400 kilometres long and up to 80 kilometres wide. After Antarctica and Greenland, it’s the third largest continental ice-shelf and one of the most inhospitable places on the planet. Storms with winds in excess of 150 kilometres per hour sweep over the field throughout most of the year. What can you do with this much ice? Well, you can make about 100 quintillion ice cubes for cocktails – or you can try to cross it. A team of adventurers, led by Pablo Besser, attempted the latter in 1998 and became the first people to walk the full length north to south. Apart from expedition teams, the only other people taking an earnest interest in an unlimited supply of ice are politicians. Somewhere down the ice-field’s middle runs the border between Chile and Argentina, but nobody knows precisely where: both governments have been arbitrarily drawing lines on maps claiming their right to cold drinks. When an international tribunal arbitrated the issue in 1977, and the verdict favoured Chilean entitlements, Argentina’s answered by sending troops to hide landmines under the vast swathes of ice. If you thought governments only battled over oil, then reconsider: it takes far less to stir up an international conflict. The closest we can get to the ice field is the commune of Caleta Tortel. From here, a seven-hour boat ride could take us through a labyrinth of fjords and canals to where glacier meets sea. Beyond the Gulf of De Penas, with its majestic cypress and cinnamon-tree forests, a new dirt road continues for 240 kilometres to Villa O’Higgins – population: 300. The famous Carretera Austral, Chile’s equivalent to the Californian Pacific Coast Highway, peters out on this dead-end track, still more than 2,000 air kilometres away from the southernmost tip of the continent. Having followed the Pacific basically all the way from Alaska, we might as well see what climax awaits us at the finishing line. A small reward would be appropriate having conquered the distance. Yet, there are no monuments dedicated to intrepid travellers, no welcoming committee cheering our arrival with firework displays. Instead we find a simple sign reading, “End of the Carretera Austral”, and another one nailed to a house front stating, “We make and sell false teeth.” Villa O’Higgins is only a boggy

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end of the world timber-community, receiving four metres of rain annually and plagued by airborne divisions of horseflies. And it’s not just them: many other biting culprits work together in shifts intent on torturing the traveller. Between 6.30 a.m. and 6 p.m. black flies take to the air, then the mosquitoes lift off and buzz until 6.15 a.m. There are only 15 minutes every day, just before sunrise, when all insects are on their coffee break. In addition, you have the ground dwellers. Poor Steve Irwin, who we hear was recently killed by a stingray, would have been amazed by the local giant ant (“Crikey! Look at those fangs!”). Up to four centimetres long, they even squeak when frightened. Vegetarians should be warned never to travel here: it’s impossible to stroll through town without accidentally swallowing a few grams of protein. We are covered in bites after only a few hours – Lucia has 44 on her left leg alone. The village shop sells a selection of food tins, hunting rifles and fishing rods. Bread? No, the bakery next door ran out; perhaps on Monday again. Choc­ olate, so we can celebrate? No, the nearest bar of Cadbury’s is 760 kilometres to the north. After four days of excitement we can take no more. We release the handbrake and retrace our tracks back towards Argentina. This handbrake may have saved our lives. On a serpentine road, Matilda’s steering wheel suddenly jams without warning: it’s locked in a left-turn pos­ ition. A sheer 500-metre drop is approaching rapidly and only a strong pull of the lever stops us from plunging over the edge. We reverse safely into a lay-by and wipe our brows. That was close. Damn close. By dismantling the steering unit we locate the problem. A single two-millimetre steel ball tumbles out of the steering column into my palm. It had dislodged from a bearing, worked its way into the transfer case, and blocked all movement. I shake my head in disbelief. This miserable ball worth less than two cents could have killed us. Sometimes the “adventure” seeks out the traveller – when it doesn’t, travellers often actively hunt for adventures themselves, just like Pablo Besser on the ice field. In doing so, many go to great lengths to break records and be the first to accomplish a feat. Patagonia’s Cerro Torre, for example, is a world famous mountain with a 5.11 crux-pitch on the “easiest” route, and was long considered insurmountable. Cesare Maestri almost reached the summit in 1970 with the aid of a hand-operated winch to hoist gear, a gas-powered air compressor and a drill he used to build a fixed rope “ladder” consisting of more than 400

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bolts up the mountain’s wall. The climb became known as “The Murder of the Impossible” or “A Mountain Desecrated”. Most consider it a sacrilege to over-bolt a mountain for the sake of personal fame, but Maestri didn’t care about climbing ethics – his priority was to reach the top by any means. Indeed, whether he actually got to within reach of the summit or made a fraudulent claim is still hotly debated. Record-breaking is actually simple: it’s all about redefining axioms. Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay may have been the first to stand on top of Mount Everest, but were they the first to actually climb our planet’s highest peak? Reinhold Messner might argue that he deserves the honour, since Hillary used oxygen bottles and Messner ascended without artificial aids. Then along comes Australian Tim Macartney-Snape, a mountaineer who was of the opinion that an Everest expedition must start from its true base, at sea level, to properly count as climbed. In 1990, he set off from the Sea of Bengal and summited a few months later. A pedantic mountaineer could make a case that starting your ascent from Kathmandu or Lukla is “cheating”, since they ­already lie at 1,400 metres and 2,860 metres respectively; might as well fly your team to within 100 metres of the summit and begin from there. Etcetera. Personally, I don’t care much about records and Guinness Book entries – my enjoyment of a journey derives from subjective pleasures, not by comparing myself to others. Lucia and I set off from El Chaltén with food for five days, and soon reach the base of Cerro Torre, where the picture-perfect mountain’s vertical spire towers above our heads. Near the bottom, it appears a bleak shard of grey granite; higher up it narrows swiftly to a slender shaft, more majestic than in my wildest dreams. Lying in our tent at base camp, we are repeatedly awakened by discharges of ice and rock plummeting to the glacier floor. I admit to having no aspirations whatsoever to ascend further – this is enough “adventure” for us! I had asked Lucia from the onset that she never tell me her return-flight departure date. I found uncertainty preferable to day counting. This way, I could pretend our journey together would last a lifetime. Now I must face reality. In a quiet moment inside Matilda, Lucia whispers “Chris, I must tell you something …” Her flight leaves next week.

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I do not beg, I do not plead; from Chile to Patagonia we had been honest towards each other regarding the mutual expectations in our relationship. We agreed not to have any; instead we waited to “see what happens”. Six months have passed without a single argument between us, exceptional when confined in Matilda’s small living area, and nearly impossible when travelling with a guy like me. The options we now have are few: I could break off my trip and return to Europe with Lucia; she could cancel her flight and continue with me; or we separate. We settle for the last option. Honesty is important even if it hurts; though we have both fallen for each other, our love does not extend to the point of sacrificing our greatest passions. Ultimately, I’m a traveller at heart – Lucia isn’t. Suddenly I realise: certain expectations might be necessary for a relationship to work. Lucia boards the bus to Punta Arenas, where her plane is waiting. As for me, I’ll continue my wanderings alone, for as Robert Frost once wrote: The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. ... It’s snowing from a sky of dreary grey – weather suiting my Lucia-less mood perfectly. A sense of loneliness engulfs my Landy. I stroll into the white cold in an attempt to clear my mind of self-pity. Wrapping my woollen blanket more tightly round my shoulders, I physically feel the proximity to Antarctica: the icy continent is only 1,000 kilometres to the south. Perhaps I should seek employ­ment at one of the territory’s scientific stations, or alternatively ship from here to the Falklands? That’s what one is supposed to do when a relationship ends, isn’t it? Distract yourself with beer, work or both? Instead, I drive towards Chile’s Torres del Paine, a mountainous region known for its violent winds. If they don’t blast negative thoughts from my brain, nothing will. It does the trick. I recline at an angle of 60 degrees against a 100-kilometre-per-hour gale as if bedded on a mattress of air, then let loose a barbarian “yawp” over the roofs of the world, as poet Walt Whitman had suggested one should do in situations like this. To my surprise, the old mad-eyed fellow was right. I feel instantly better.

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Never before have I been more conscious of physical “feeling” than here in Patagonia. The combination of rain, hail, snow and the occasional warmth of a distant sun barely a hand’s breadth above the horizon: all this gets under the traveller’s skin. The scenery is stunning when the cloud layers lift and there’s a break in the weather – but only if barren landscapes appeal to you: imagine Scotland in a hurricane without the midges and castles, and inhabited by condors, penguins and sea lions. The bleak beauty is sometimes difficult to enjoy, since outdoor life is centred so much on finding shelter from nature’s inten­ sity. But once a wind-shaded campsite is located, the coffee kettle is bubbling, the Southern Cross appears in the skies and I can huddle next to a small campfire – that’s when I experience the essence of Patagonia! I eat when hungry, sleep when tired and repair Matilda when something breaks – this basically sums up my existence. I feel nothing but wind, rain and the blood pulsating through my veins. And I like it. When the first Europeans arrived here in the early 16th century, they were amazed to find the indigenous Tierra del Fuegians completely indifferent to the bitter weather. Ferdinand Magellan, Charles Darwin, Francis Drake, James Cook and James Weddell all reported how they ran around stark naked and even swam in the freezing waters near Cape Horn. While Darwin, like me, shivered under multiple layers of blankets at night, the Yaghan, as the Tierra del Fuegians called themselves, slept unclothed and unprotected from the elements. In 1831, four Yaghan were taken aboard the famous “HMS Beagle” to be later presented before the royal court in London. Charles Darwin commented: “I could not have believed how wide was the difference between savage and civilized man: it is greater than between a wild and domesticated animal.” So they were taught to speak English, use tools, wear clothes and accept Christianity. But when the English allowed the Yaghan to return home to Patagonia, they quickly stripped off all clothing and resumed their tribal ways. Euro­ pean onlookers were dumbfounded when the Yaghan stated that they disliked ­England and were content to live in a primitive manner. I can only imagine how shocked the Beagle’s crew must have been when their so-called “Western superiority” was shoved back in their faces with a “thanks, but no thanks”. Yet the same happens today when countries try to spread an ideology of “freedom”, “democracy” and “capitalism” around the globe, and these principles are vehemently rejected. Sometimes, the only method by which the West suc-

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ceeds in imparting these values upon foreign nations is by military force. Even then, they will not have won a full victory, because instead of giving “freedom”, they will have taken it. Today, there is a full-blooded Yaghan left – I use the singular form because as of last year, only one remains alive: Cristina Calderón of Navarino Island. A few months ago, this elderly lady could still converse in her native language with Emelinda Acuna over a cup of tea. Since Emelinda passed away, she is isolated with the memories of her tribe. Nobody else speaks Yaghan on planet earth. And I thought I was lonely. Ushuaia is this region’s most prominent town, due its trademark as “The World’s Southern-most City”. This advertising slogan is used by almost every local restaurant, bakery or even hairdresser’s. It seems to sell well; if there’s one place every traveller to Patagonia will sooner or later descend upon, it’s here. Inside the Fin del Mundo Pub (“Pub at the End of the Earth”), I down a few beers. Each pint makes it seem more likely that the ships I glimpse out to sea are indeed about to fall off our planet. After my fourth, I actually spot a freighter tipping over the edge. Perhaps one could develop a similar marketing strategy in London along Greenwich? The Least-Western (and simul­taneously Least-Eastern) Fish ’n’ Chips? For a last farewell to the “Land of Fire”, I make my way to Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego, the traditional turn-around point for overland travellers and the official end of the Pan American Highway. Without warning, the track comes to a stop, and I find a large wooden signpost with engraved lettering: “Buenos Aires: 3063 km; Alaska 17848 km; Ruta Nac. No. 3”. A few other ­vagabonds are gathered, busy taking pictures of their bicycles, motorbikes and off-road trucks in front of the marker. A champagne-bottle pops behind me. From here, all roads head north. In a bout of nostalgia, I take out my logbook and look through the statistics: “Trip-costs in four and a half years, all included: EUR 24,000 (around USD 30,000); kilometres: 120,000; lowest/highest temperatures: Russia -51°C, USA +55°C; Repairs: 660.” Well done, Matilda. She hasn’t behaved poorly for a vintage vehicle, even if the repair list is a bit long. I join the other overlanders for a glass of bubbly.

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Had I a sail rigged to my Landy, I could now let the constant tailwinds blow me to Buenos Aires. Even without, Matilda seems to be driving on autopilot. The Ruta 3 follows the Atlantic coastline north, basically straight and unchanging for thousands of kilometres. If you enjoy falling asleep at the wheel, this stretch is the place to take a nap. I turn on my non-dolby, Chinese cassette player with 30-watt soft-speakers and again listen to Fleetwood Mac. The tape has been stuck inside for a year and won’t come out. But I don’t mind; since I’ve played it a thousand times, I know every tune by heart and can sing along at full volume and nobody will try to shoot me. I lock my steering into position and glide at 80 kilometres per hour, foot barely nudging the gas pedal. I’ve arranged Matilda’s shipment to Africa from the capital just after New Year, and will use my remaining months to loop through Brazil’s Santa Cartarina, Paraná, with the famous Iguaçu Falls, and Paraguay. My detour finds its conclusion in Colonia del Sacramento, on the Uruguayan side of the Rio de la Plata estuary, opposite Buenos Aires. It’s hard to go. Sitting on the beach in Colonia drinking mate, I watch the freight ships out at sea – one of which will soon be mine. I look back upon my two and a half years in South America, full of sadness about leaving so many good people behind, knowing how few I shall see again. Life’s too short. I could have easily stayed 80 years JUST in Patagonia without “seeing it all”; then another 80 in San Pedro, Bolivia, or Colombia. Regret is never wise; so, instead, I’ll feel grateful for the time I was granted on a continent full of wonders and little miracles. My memories will endure, wherever the road takes me. In mid-January Matilda is stuffed into a container bound for Cape Town, and an Air Malaysia flight ticket is in my pocket. I’m on my way to Africa.

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Africa Exploring the Third Dimension

Not only will your vehicle need to overcome lofty mountain passes and survive the crossing of deep ravines, your emotional world will become affected by all the highs and lows life can throw at you. On occasions your mood will swing near Nirvana, whereas moments later you’ll find yourself clutching the insurmountable walls of a bottomless abyss. You are no longer sure “where you are” in the world; the orderly pinprick of “home” was an illusion … …

By dragging a two-dimensional square in a perpendicular direction, a three-dimensional cube is obtained. In mathematics, cubes are hypercubes of dimension three within Euclidean space. As a three-dimensional object, they have width, length, height and a total of eight vertices, twelve edges, six faces and one cell. If you expand a cube infinitely, it would cover the entirety of three-dimensional space. For a cube centred at the origin of a Cartesian graph, its edges parallel to the axes and with an edge length of 2, the vertices are (±1, ±1, ±1) while the interior consists of all points (x0, x1, x2) with −1