Adventures in The Lost World 2 - Concrete jungle to elephant greeting.

The flight from Guwaharti was easy enough and we had sensibly had a overnight stay in the Holiday Inn near Delhi airport. At least we were adjusting to the time difference quickly. 

The Holiday Inn had internationally priced beer, but the food was very good indeed. I limited myself to only two rounds of the buffet main course, but could hardly move afterwards.

Breakfast was the same with fresh papaya and curious spicy dishes that had to be tried.

There was even spicy food for breakfast on the Guwaharti flight, with a couple of hand wrapped tiny tangy balls, that were probably breath fresheners rather than sweets.

And our luggage arrived and we started looking for Lovely. Wil and Michael stopped me heading the wrong way out of the airport and we came across a stand with a big sign for mobile phones. The guys behind the desk were probably maintenance staff taking a break because they met our enquiries for SIM cards with bemused amusement. We started looking for Lovely, who organises the logistics for the adventures and we thought he would drive us to the Brahmaputra Jungle Resort for our first night. No Lovely so we stood bemused ourselves outside the airport until Michael spotted a tiny guy, hemmed in by a collage of signs and greeters. Just visible were our names in tiny letters. 

He got an old jeep like cruiser and we loaded our luggage. As we loaded ourselves he started talking about a different taxi for three. We thought he was going to get three other people, since we had no idea how many others would be on this adventure.

But no, we were driven 20 metres to a smaller white car with air conditioning. One car for the luggage and one for the passengers. Our new driver spoke no English and us no Hindi, so I took a photo of the luggage vehicle to get the licence plate, just in case we all got separated for one reason or another. We didn't we leapfrogged for the hour long journey out of the rapidly growing city of Guwaharti. Noticing the expansion Will thought a good business idea would plant hire and with five minutes we passed three companies doing that good business.

It was interesting being back in the bustle of Indian traffic. The driver was intent on showing how fast he could go in the few stretches not jammed packed, but he stopped too close to the vehicle in front in time to give himself any room for manoeuvre, so we watched the other lanes and the luggage vehicle glide past us each time. He did give us a refresher lesson on using the horn in India. In traffic it should be constant. Just to make sure other people know you exist. 

It seemed a quick journey as we turned of the main road and into the jungle. Well it was more scrub and farmland than jungle, but it was green and the people normally smiling. The drive to the Brahmaputra Jungle Resort had a sign 'Turn off A/C. Drive in first gear'. It was a steep climb. We could only hope it wouldn't rain for our first experience with the new Royal Enfield Himalayan bikes that Alex had just got. We were going to be the first to ride them.

First gear got us to the parking area where the team were preparing the brand new Royal Engield Himalaya bikes. They looked really good, but first there was meeting friends of leg standing. Alex and Vidhya seemed very happy to see us. Abhi, Ashraf and Lovely were working on the bikes. Doc was doc-ing. Lots of smiles all round and we got to admire the bikes.

Single cylinder (apparently) and should not be compared to the Bullet as they are completely different. But everyone will compare them to the Bullet anyway. 

Our taxi was summoned to take us the further 50 metres to the reception where he managed to stop in the small parking area without hitting the elephant. That was a bit surprising. Well being greeted by the elephant more than the stopping.

We also met Lewis, from Oz, who is also on the Adventure. He has done lots of trips with different tour companies, but this is his first time with Nomadic Knights, poor guy.

As soon as the bags were taken to the rooms we headed for a late lunch and some beer, well beer and some late lunch. Which was delicious.

Back to the rooms to unpack some more and hand out presents. Whisky for Alex, chocolate for Vidhya, since we'd failed to find jelly beans at any of the airports.

Will had been handed a hospital pass as Alex organised various stuff to be delivered to him in the UK, in the hope he would bring it on the trip. The keys rings were OK, but 13kg of ratchet straps were too much and Will had left them in the UK. 

Exhausted we grabbed a siesta in preparation for the usual evening of a beer, or two, too much food and whisky. Alex was so happy to open the whiskey he was only mildly rude about the name of Will's offering, a single malt blend called Monkey Shoulder.

The bottle did not survive the night. Lots of jokes and stories, old and new. A new topic was the ratchet straps, that would be brought up steadily over the next few days. Trust, friendship and ratchet straps. Getting ready for a gentle first day. After lots of travelling and failing to stream the England Ireland rugby match we went to bed. Even then I tried to follow the score from the BBC website, but the Internet was too weak so I went to sleep.

I was not looking forward to taking a new bike down the First Gear Only drive, but we would have to see.

Adventure in The Lost World 3 - Bikes away

Our first day of biking.

This was to be a gentle ride up country to get us used to the bikes. So we were told to meet for breakfast at 7 for a briefing. I was fully kitted out, ready to ride and banged on Michael and Will's door to find them in a similar state, but we were all confused as we thought we maybe heard something about leaving at 10-ish.... Anyway showing willing wouldn't matter.

Of course it did. Alex thought we were silly, but those were not his exact words.

Nevertheless we got a rundown of the North East of India, with tales of state partitions, the birth of Bangladesh from a natural disaster in the early 70's, of animism, and multiple more formal religions, of tribes and insurgency, newly discovered species and roads on the map that don't exist on the ground. The tension is being built. "On this stretch of road we'll have to do 50km without stopping, for any reason." "Here they ambushed a police convoy last year and killed 17 policemen." But we have an advantage, we're white. Which means we are not seen as threatening. The local people are proud of their area and want people to appreciate it. We look forward to the chance.

Then the rules of the road briefing. There are none. So be aware.

In India we should drive on the left. In theory. We had already encountered lots of bikes and tuc tucs and the occasional car riding the wrong way up the side of the road. But if you see a right hand indicator going this could mean someone is turning right, or overtaking, or that you should overtake. So you overtake at your peril, because they could be turning right.

Use your horn, all the time. Don't have your headlights on, it confuses people. It normally means you have no brakes but are riding or driving anyway. Interesting.

So after the briefing we had a relatively quick breakfast, which meant just three omlettes for me, along with toast and chai. Always chai.

Then we gear up and conscientiously check our bags are loaded on the truck. Too many stories of missing bags, then you are in trouble because getting it back is a lot of extra work.
Gearing up means different things to different people...

And the new bikes.

A quick talk through the technical stuff like cylinders and torque and horsepower and stuff. I understand a couple of things like the bikes seeming more powerful than the specs and they have cc, I think.

They feel really good and we check that the main things work, like the horn and the throttle. The indicators as well, just to show willing.

I take the bike for a test spin round the car park, at 3 miles an hour. But manage to park in the shade as the day was heating up. Or was it nerves.

Then Alex led us off. Luckily Will went ahead so I could watch his speed and line. I made it to the bottom of Turn Off A/C Drive and onto the flat road. It stayed flat for a while, running alongside a tea plantation. As we came out of the side road there were lots of very different looking people at the roadside huts. This area is a mix of faces and races, with a lot of 'almond eyes' as the Italians like to think romantically of Asians. Most people were smiling and some waved.

The road east ran parallel to the mighty Brahmaputra river, but we couldn't see it. Close to town there were a couple of cars, a lorry and some tuc tucs that chose random lanes to drive on. So on the dual carriageway they would be coming at you head on, on the side of the road, or even in the fast lane. Just stay alert and give them a wide berth.

Up through the hills, past the rusty remains of former factories, girder skeletons and flaps of corrugated rust. Then a small quarry, or a huge brick factory and more ruins. Gradually the countryside opened up, tall straggly trees in small groups, and open fields, and lots of ponds at the edges of settlements. We knew from the briefing not to go in the ponds. All sorts is in there, none of it good.

After an hour or so we stopped for chai. With a local style fan oven.

We saw guys up to their waist in water, harvesting or trying to catch something. We saw vultures and storks soaring, cattle and goats on the road.

On through the more open countryside, with fewer motorised contrarians coming straight at us. And a stop for lunch where we had some of the best Dahl ever made. Under a tin roof, with tables and plastic chairs that Lewis tried to break. But the food and the chai very good.

We were not sure if the chef was Nigel Farage in disguise, or a close relation.

Hanging around for a smoke afterwards a kid of about 6 or 7 shyly clung to his mother before she let him come and introduce himself, proud of his English. He asked about us and talked about school, very politely shaking hands. He came back a few minutes later and introduced his older brother and the rest of the family. As Will said, the wonderful difference is that in the UK strangers would be avoided. Here we are welcomed.

And back on the bikes to cross the Brahmaputra. It's really big. I got told off for measuring it at this narrow point, 4 1/2 km. Vidhya and I stopped to take photos on the middle of the bridge and the panorama stretched all the way around,180 degrees. Luckily this is the dry season. Monsoons start in a couple of months, then the river really gets going.

Iti s incredible to believe these two photos were taken from the same spot. Its a big river!
A new bridge is going up. You can see the pillars steadily rising with people clambering among the rebars, but I didn't get a picture though it looks as though the pillars are being hand built.

On the far side we roared on the open road with similar countryside, clumps of tall trees and open fields into Tezpur. Still in Assam, but a big town with the usual bustle, seeming horribly confusing as multitudes of people go about their daily lives with multiple individual solutions. 

And in among the concrete chaos was the hotel, where we crammed the seven bikes into space for two cars and unloaded, waiting for the van with the luggage.

Vidhya got everyone sorted for rooms and since Paul would not be here for another day or two I got a room to myself.

That was a mistake...

We showered and tried to get on the wifi, which worked if you sat on the end of the bed with the device pointed north north east and at chest height. But there was internet.

I tried to write some more, but failed to figure out how to save and it got lost.

So down to the bar for a beer. The bar is really quite surprising, more like an 80s nightclub, or naughties lap dancing club, said one of the guys, who'd heard about the style from a friend who overheard it in a bar, apparently...

The beers were more western prices, as was the excellent selection of whiskies. But we stuck with beer, followed by a superb dinner. But we were not allowed to drink booze there, so we had water. Which felt strange. Good, but strange. The food was delicious and it was easy to eat too much, especially the chillie chicken.

Then Alex decided we should have a party, in my room. Michael brought the whisky and we started with the usual ragging. Alex asked if he could smoke, so I said no. It sort of helped because he smoked out of the window, but I drew the line at cigars. Everyone got the wrong side of the driving limit and I started comparing the insistent demands for smoking to kids who push and push to find the boundaries. Of course explaining this out loud set off a new line of ragging. And it's been a recurrent theme. Boundaries. And ratchet straps.

When the party wound down I opened the door, turned on the fan and hoped the draught would get rid of some of the smoke. I really did not fancy sleeping in a smoky room. Another of those social changes, It's a rare thing to smoke inside nowadays.

Hopefully I'd get a reasonable night's sleep. It was into the mountains tomorrow. And we know what that's like, with the weather and the landslides...

Adventures in The Lost World 1 - Setting up and setting off

We are lucky, living in a lucky age. Especially when we feel that taking 36 hours to reach a destination is a long time. And three flights. How crazy. Most of us limit our destinations to two flights and a lot less than 24 hours. But here we are, on the third flight. This one from Delhi to Guwaharti.

For the first flight, Michael drove us across Italian peninsular and through the mountains that run down the centre of Italy and we got the flight from Rome. We met Will in Dubai, where his flight from Birmingham landed an hour late and got the same flight to Delhi.

Michael and I live very close to each other in central Italy. I am 5 miles from the coast and he is a further 5 miles inland, in a small town called Petritoli. This is his fourth bike trip to India, my third, all with him. Will and Michael have been friends for almost five decades,  since getting each other into trouble at school and through scrapes together in various cities and bars across the world. Will is a proper bike rider, he flies planes and was a rally driver, so he understands motorised transport.

We are off to the north east of this massive country, seven states in 14 days. The part of India between Bangladesh, Bhutan and Burma. Separated from the rest of India by a strip that narrows to 23km wide. The chicken's neck.

And these states have only been open to visitors in the last few years. We need special permits for Restricted Areas, as do our Indian guides. Well, when we say Indian we include Alex of Nomadic Knights who arranges these adventures. We have only been biking in India with him. South India, the Himalayas, 3 Miles High, and now here, The Lost World. Alex is strange. I know this because his gorgeous wife Vidyha said so!

He is also someone I have complete faith in to go on an adventure with. No promises, just an ability to dig most of us out of troube, most of the time. 

Getting here was not simple. Not just the travel, but the preparation.

For me it was navigating the treacherous waters of Italian and Indian bureaucracy. The Lost World also borders China, a chunk was taken by China in a short war in 1962 and parts are still disputed territory. So one of the new e-tourist visas is not enough, we need a full visa and everyone needs special passes. But few Indians and fewer foreigners come to this part of the country, it is still Lost.

To get the full tourist visa I filled in the application online, took a couple of days to assemble the accompanying. documentation and got the bus across Italy, through the mountains, to Rome. The mountains are big and not well known. They divide east and west Italy, going down the centre like a spine. I can see three peaks of 10,000 feet from my house, often with snow on in May. So they are tall, formed by Africa crashing into Europe. 

The bus journey to the Eternal City of Rome which takes about four hours, but the Eternal City is more like an eternal nightmare when you need something done.

And this Brit living in Italy needed a full tourist visa. Nervously handing over the full documentation, treble checked with the website, it was rejected. I needed lots more documentation that was not on the website. Proof of travel and accomodation, bank statements and a letter of introduction. Dejectedly I went up the road to Namaskar, an agency specialising in helping visa victims. They had helped Michael and I back in 2014 when we had a nightmare with our applications for the Great Big South Indian Adventure that Will was also on. That trip is part of a separate blog.

Back in Rome, we could not assemble everything within the one hour before the visa section closed for the day, but I went back with what I had and at least the lady on the desk took pity and I was allowed to talk to the consular head. He highly recommended the e-visa, but since that type of visa is only confirmed when you enter the country it is not enough to get the special permits. A week later I managed to get another spare day and returned to Rome with all the new bits of paper. The visa came through only three weeks after that, which made me only a week late for the visa deadline. Luckily that was an Indian deadline, so like an Italian one, flexible. At least this time the consulate had given permission for Namaskar to pick up the visa and they couriers do it to me. Total cost, including the buses and the courier service, €320 plus two full days travel. You have to be dedicated.

With the visa out of the way the excitement could slowly build, and it was a good excuse for Michael and I to ride out occasionally. He was either on his Triumph Thunderbird, a big beautiful machine, or his Royal Enfield Bullet, the type of bike we had ridden on the last two trips with Alex and Nomadic Knights in India. He gets lots of admiration for the Thunderbird and lots of questions about the 1950s designed Bullet. I was on my Triumph Tiger, which so many Italians know about because it has three cylinders. I have no idea what difference that makes, but the Italians do. So many learnt to drive on mopeds and many graduated to bikes before cars. Mopeds and motorbikes are integral to Italian culture, Vespa and Lambretta, Ducatti and Moto Guzzi, lots of names ending in vowels.

But our excitement about the trip only really took off in the week before we travelled. We talked about what to bring and since we have too much 'stuff' it was more about what not to bring. It became a competition about how little to take. Checking the weather it would be from 13 to 30 centigrade, so we would need a variety of clothing, plus hydration packs and body armour. From the foothills of the Himalayas to the jungles near Burma. 16 days travelling.

We will only know if we made the right choices at the end, but I ended up with two bags totalling 28kgs, including 3 litres of duty free whisky and one of the bags was carry on with the bike helmet.

Michael drove us across and through the mountains to Fiumicino airport. We were still buzzed with the inevitable adrenaline rush from getting through as much of the mountain that always arrives before a big trip. There is always the expectation, normally from other people, that you can do just one more job before you go.

So the few unfinished jobs were left unfinished and we left.

Tim's Balkan Bike Blast 8 - Hard riding

Late afternoon and tired is not the best time to appreciate the finer points of a city's cultural history. Luckily the cars had been few and the kilometres many, so I made it to Kragujevac before the sun set. This is one of the largest towns in Serbia, but I failed to look up any details and did not really want to tour around. Far more by luck than judgement I ended up in a street with a few hotels, prepared to pay up for a good night's rest. Even better, the first hotel I looked at was more than adequate. Hotel Zeneva had a couple of mothers hanging out 'al fresco' but in the shade, while kids played in a special play area, pleasantly fenced in with soft netting, so they looked more like zoo animals. As long as the noise wasn't terrible this looked fine. All white and open, with modern styling the image was only brought down by a dirty bedraggled biker, but I didn't have to look at me.
Straight to my room for a shower and a change and back down for a beer and a well earned steak, with some local red wine. It was a quiet evening, with a couple of conversations in German and English as people got curious and wanted to know where I was from and what I was doing. Just curious.
Sleep was good and I was waiting as they prepared the breakfast tables. I fuelled up with a big breakfast for a long day's riding and set off with a general idea of some towns on the way to the ferry. Knic, Cacak and Pozega. But of course the map is never the same as the road. The big yellow lines on the map do not translate into big yellow roads, so we had a couple of diversions and a slough of uncertainty when signposts were sparse. But we steadily found the towns and headed for Bosnia.
Approaching the border the wide open countryside steadily evolved into hills and mountains and infertile gorges with occasional bushes and excellent sniper positions. Somehow the war, even though it was 20 years ago and I didn't follow very closely, was still at the forefront of my musings.
The riding was good, only in the towns was there significant traffic, people were well-mannered on the road and fairly forgiving of my faffing as I tried to figure the multiple roads with signposts to places not on my list.
But the border felt very different. A huge observation platform dominated one hilltop, an old narrow gauge railway would along near the road, superb for transport heavy artillery, or lots of troops, those images of war kept repeating.
And the border was fairly simple to cross. We are so lucky living in a Schengen area. borders are a pain. The wait, the anxiety in case you're asked anything, or framed, or hassled. But there was none of that, a couple of minutes wait, a cursory glance at the UK passport and a wave through.
The bike was very low on fuel, as I knew that petrol in Bosnia was very cheap. By this time I was edgy about running out and being very careful with the riding style as there was no sign of a town, or a petrol station near the border. It was close to 15km before getting to Visegrad. After the relief of petrol and a coffee the town was surprising. Suddenly there was a big river and a castle and all sorts of stuff with people and shops and things.

So I rushed past all of those and was soon out in open countryside again. It seems unreal, looking back, just how little traffic there was and how much open road.

Small villages, occasional churches, big views and mountains in the distance. In addition it was warm,so the biker breeze was welcome.

And seemingly in this part of the world all roads lead to Sarajevo. The signposts on the outskirts of the capital were a little confusing for this amateur so I went through the centre, which I probably didn't need to, but I was rushing so I ended up taking the slower route!
Sarajevo is definitely a place of misplaced memories. You have preconceptions about this place, which are probably unjustified and are definitely out of date. But they are deeply embedded in the subconscious so have to be accounted for.
The whole idea of religions mixing seems anomalous, provocative and possibly dangerous. But it is obviously not so, at least to a biker in a hurry.
The minarets still seem a little surprising.

Eventually there were signs for points south, but I ended up on a motorway, which I'd been trying to avoid. Nevertheless it seemed the easiest way to get towards the coast. The motorway ended at Tarcin, so from there it was merely the main road to Konjic and then back across the hill country.
The roads were very good and the bike is perfect for eating up the kilometres. What also made the day easier was that the countryside was interesting. Always different panoramas, with surprises like the beautiful lake high up in the hills. It is easy to imagine this as ripe for a property boom. Some day soon will be discovered and developed.

But the ferry called. It was time to get home. Dropping out of the hills I managed to refuel a little way out of a town called Tomislavgrad, which sounded so Soviet I was anticipating huge state grown industry polluting the landscape. But on a small scale, more like a dormitory town attached to an industrial park. Not to hold my attention for long. There were signposts for Split and it was early afternoon so there was every chance of getting a ferry.

It felt carefree and slightly liberating, the idea of turning up at a port with no pre-booked ticket. No internet searches for special deals, or preferred times. Just turn up and see what's there.

There were a lot of people there. 

The port is not large but the parking lot and ticket area were jammed. Parking up the bike I dragged the tank bag and helmet through the throng. Only one ferry was running, this was August 15th, a major holiday in this part of the world. So the nerves set in as the queue for tickets was very long and moved very slowly. Would there be a space left. Reckless, the idea of turning up without a pre-booked ticket. What sort of idiot does that? Me.

Smiling at the counter I got me and the bike booked, opting to share a cabin, but no idea who with, still you have to live a little. As I got back to the bike a 911 with German plates pulled up alongside. Of course the owner was English and an avid Economist reader, so conversation was easy. We shared a couple of beers I'd stocked up with at the refuelling in Tomislavgrad. At least they were still cool. It was very refreshing, both the beer and the very wide ranging conversation. After an hour or so boarding started and I pushed through with the bike. Up front was a group of new Triumph Tigers, looking very smart, with English plates. So another conversation, but about bikes and trips. There were a lot more bikes on this return journey, and a lot more proper tourers. Bikes with stickers and waterproof bags and pillion passengers and things. Luckily I didn't drop the bike while parking, so they probably didn't twig I was a complete amateur at this game.

A selfie as we left port, followed by a shower and a change of clothing helped restore some semblance of civility. I only had sweaty biker boots and did not want to traipse around in those so just wore socks. Of course that meant I couldn't get into the on-board restaurant and ended up in the bar with a self-service supper. Just what you need on a ship, ballast. It worked well, as did the beers. The Triumph team were having a fun time and after supper I found a way to join them. As a Brit abroad, the subject of Brexit came up and it as interesting to see some of them almost apologetic that they had voted Leave in the expectation that Remain would win and they would have moaning rights till the end of time. It didn't work out that way. The good part was that we all had a lot to talk about! No one was sharing the cabin so it was the usual fitful strange place/ship motion sleep, waking up and reading a few times during the night.

The morning brought a lovely sunrise and a finality to the bike blast. We approached Ancona port seemingly quickly and slowly at the same time. The water under the boat was rushing by, but the port seemed to sidle up to us. Watching the approach was the 911 driver and we continued a lengthy and deep conversation about the challenges of teenage kids, work, life and happiness! We were angrily summoned by a loudspeaker as the boat was mooring, swapped business cards and went our separate ways.

I was really looking forward to some proper Italian coffee. The trouble was that the port in Ancona is more industrial that touristy, so no portside bars to catch your breath at. Just a queue to get through customs. This is an Adriatic port and most of Europe's dope is grown in Albania so make sure you don't look like a dope smuggler. On a bike that is slightly easier. 

And so on the well ridden road home, but along the coast, still avoiding motorways where possible. I got the coffee just outside Ancona and stopped again as the road ran alongside the coast. After a dozen years outside England, this feels like home now. And the Tiger looks serene.

.

Tim's Balkan Bike Blast 7 - The Danube and Serbia

Coming down from the Carpathians the heat seemed to increase with every hairpin bend. From a positively fresh 5C at the top it was around 30C by the time I stopped for a well earned coffee in Targu Jiu, just after midday.
I was down to just a t shirt and the summer riding jacket, shedding three other layers, which had not been enough at the top.
Still the coffee was good, there was a chance to catch a breather, have a smoke and check the net.
The bike was behaving impeccably.
So after 20 minutes it was onwards again.
There is a very different mentality on a journey when you turn for home. Somehow it becomes more urgent to complete the task, rather than enjoy the sights.
Still the sights made the task very enjoyable later in the day.

The next hour or so was putting kilometres under the belt.

Lunch was in a small town with a big church. I settled in to a good break with an enormous pizza and a few bottles of water, both to cool down and to refill the hydration pack.




Then onwards. The countryside was interesting and the occasional strange sight put a jolt in the smooth rhythm of biking bendy roads with little traffic.

Deep in the rural countryside, with cows and ancient Ladas grazing by the roadside suddenly there is the thump of a massive industrial complex. Chimneys as high as the surrounding hills. Dominant and deliberate, a callous communistic statement of intent.

It didn't seem to be working.
But on we wove and threaded, enjoying the bikers' breeze and the state of alertness. Onwards to Drobeta. Or

Drobeta Turnu Severin to give the town its full name. there were a few stops to confirm whether we were still on a reasonably quick route, especially on the outskirts of the town. There are few signs to other countries in lots of the Balkans. Few signs to indicate that other cities and cultures may lie beyond the next hill. And there are no major towns in Serbia on this part of the border.
But you are only going in wrong way if you need to take a particular route. If you need to be somewhere in particular.
On a bike, the bike is the somewhere in particular. Towns and roads are relatively incidental, you are where you want to be. Biking.

But there were signs indicating a border was close. here the border is the Danube. But its big. So crossings are few and far between.

The Iron Gates Dam generates some 20% of Romania's electricity. It is massive.
The photo is a cheat from Google Earth, but its about 1 km across.

Interesting no mans land for a border crossing. But there was little hassle on either side.

And once in Serbia the sign posts ran out so I had to check the map before even reaching the main road. Turn right and head upriver.

Then followed an extraordinary experience.

The road hugged the river. The road surface was good, so it was easy to keep up a good pace.
The views were wonderful, if sometimes eclectic.

 And there was very little traffic. In about 100 km I probably saw 100 cars and half a dozen bikes. It is extraordinary that such wonderful biking country has not been discovered by hordes more people. It was an excellent way to spend the afternoon, even though I was tired.

There were no bars, few houses, few signs, almost no tourist development at all. Quite extraordinary.

So mid afternoon I'd reached Veliko Gradiste, a small town, at least it seemed that way with buildings of more than two storeys and several petrol stations. It was time for a refill, for the bike and for me. So petrol, coffee and a snack was another chance to check in to the world and discover nothing important was going on.
The net is an addiction, so only checking a few times a day and putting it down to get on with riding is empowering.
There is still a need for self-validation, yes there are a few Likes so I must mean something to someone. But there is a life to live beyond posts and likes (though presumably this blog is an affirmation of both!).

from Veliko Gradiste it was time to head to Petrovac and Kragujevac. Not such friendly sounding places, but they were places marked on the map and occasionally on roadsigns as well.

Tim's Blakan Bike Blast 6 - Transalpina

Trying to find somewhere to stay in Alba Iulia was as good idea as any. It was just the idea was bad overall. There was nowhere.

I stopped at four hotels on the way, all full, all had cars rolling up asking for rooms. It was evening, the sun was setting, I was really tired, it was not looking good.

I stopped at a petrol station (with free wifi) on the outskirts of Alba Iulia. I fuelled the bike, added a bunch of snack food and a couple of beers to the bill which I paid by credit card, being very low on cash and started a web search. The usual sites had everything booked out, even round here. Then on booking.com I typed in Alba Iulia and saw a good hotel for a mere Eur 62, so I booked it, then tried to match the town map with Maps.Me. Nothing lined up. I asked the guys in the petrol station. No Via Roma in Alba Iulia. They pointed me west, towards Italy, that wasn't any help at all. Slowly it dawned on my befuddled brain, booking.com had brought up Alba, Italy. I'd booked and paid for a hotel room I was never going to use. Desperation makes you dumber.

So into town I went, moving on. Somewhere near the centre were two young German bikers who were just setting off to ride at night, which seemed very strange, but hey. They pointed to where I should be able to sleep 'undisturbed'. It was some medieval and Roman fortifications.

There were a few cars parked in this precious monument, I put the bike in a quiet spot, half hidden by a long-parked camper. As it was now dark I could scramble up the grass covered battlement and find a small dip in which to settle down.

It was dry  the raingear and padded bikers jacket worked as a base. I put the sleeping bag on top, took off the bike boots and used them covered by the tank bag, as a pillow.

Top tip, to reduce boot pong, liberally put talcum powder in the boots. 

Time for the beers and barbeque crisps (a little luxury, as crisps are little used in Italy so the flavours are limited).

It was blackout, no phone or iPad as I didn't want to be spotted by anyone who would object to a vagrant biker. But I was dog tired so drifted off quickly.

Sleep was fitful as people left the area steadily over the next couple of hours, but I kept my head down, out of the headlight beams.

Sometime in what seemed like the middle of the night a couple of cars arrived and there was music and load chatter. I was keeping my head down, imagining all sorts of book or film plots and really hoping this was not a drug meet where they started killing each other then eliminating witnesses.

It was not to be. A couple of hours later they were doing doughnuts in the car park park and roared off. I snuck a look at the time (well covered by the sleeping bag). It was 2 a.m. Dew was starting so I dug into the tank bag for an emergency blanket, which was really a glorified large sheet of tin foil, carefully folded. This keeps the heat in and the dew out and is an excellent piece of survival kit.

By 06:30 a cockerel had started up, dawn was breaking and I was cold. Time to benefit from the hydration pack, with its mineral salts, pack up and selfie. 

And off to the same petrol station on the edge of town for two bigs cups of hot tea and a wifi fix. Once warmed it was on to the Transalpina. Another famous road.

It started simply, as had the Transfagarasan. And wound steadily up a gorge into the mountains. As we climbed higher it got colder. I'd started cold and already had five layers on. None of them fully insulated but nevertheless a fair amount.

It wasn't enough. 

The scenery was gorgeous, Alpine (probably hence the name) with lots of plants and birds and rocks and things, but this was not a song by America. Just the road was deserted.

The river rushed and bounded, the road wound and climbed. It was glorious biking. Then boom, there was this...

 

and the Tiger deserved a rest.

 

... which it got, while I walked about to stretch the legs.

Then onwards and upwards and it got colder. Down to 5C. I was eager to find somewhere to stop, which took about another 20 minutes.

It looked friendly and set up for tourists. I needed a couple of minutes to get the helmet off and stumble over to a shack for some powdered herbal tea. Which didn't feel bikery, but it was the largest amount of hot liquid I could get quickly.
I was still shivering when I finished it.

I spread some of the wet gear on the bike and warmed up in the sunshine, enjoying a cheroot and watching people arriving, almost all from the south. Presumably that's where the tourists came from and the northern section was almost deserted that early in the morning.

Just behind this stop was a large gypsy camp. Romanys in Romania.

And the road kept climbing. After the camp the trees stealthily disappeared, to be replaced by traffic, mainly coming from the other direction.

And the stopping points got filled with photo snappers and picnicers, strollers and families enjoying the sunshine and open space. And the views.

It was warmer, even up here more than 2 kilometres high. 

So I enjoyed it, pottering along and admiring the view, and the people.

And steadily winding downwards to find a town with somewhere for a very well deserved lunch. I was hungry.

Tim's Balkan Bike Blast 5 - Transfagarasan highway

This was the day set to ride one of the most famous highways in the world. Made for petrol heads.

But of course I started by being confused about the time. Normally I wake up around 06:30. Its just something I do, semiautomatically adjusting for summer and wintertime, but the first day in a new timezone can be confusing. Especially if you don't realise your modern technology automatically resets itself.
Whatever the iPad and the smartphone said it was definitely an hour ahead in Romania. I knew this. Since September last year I've been to 18 member states of the EU, unfortunately not on the bike, but on a plane/taxi/hotel/taxi/plane conveyor belt.
This was visiting EU Member States, to help them spend our European taxpayers money more efficiently. It's interesting and rewarding and tiring. But you get used to new places and different timezones. But I did not realise my technology had reset itself over the wifi and I was on actual time, not Central European Summer Time. So of course I could have napped for an extra hour.
But I got up because it was going to be a big day.
With a slightly thick head I did some stretching/yoga, which for me really helps my balance on the bike. It is a lot easier with a YouTube video of some overly fit and supple female asking you to 'breathe into the intensity' (pain) and 'just put your foot behind your head', or some other completely silly concept. To get through tis takes a particular kind of stubborn. The ladies don't seem to mind the feedback, which is normally a rich mix of Anglo-Saxon and other west European.

So I stretched and showered and packed and dressed and slobbed around till 9, because I knew the hotel did not serve breakfast till 9.
It was 8.

So I want back up to bed and lay down for half an hour, but hunger won. So I got up, loaded the bike and set off to find somewhere else for breakfast.


The main square was slowly waking up, with backpackers imitating zombies as they faced a complete lack of anything to do but amble around, staring at uncomprehending buildings that stared back silently.

Maybe because it is in Transylvania, but in Sibiu nowhere serves breakfast before 9 am.

No early riser cafés, no dingy bars, no cheery greetings.



Having discovered the backwaters, byways and even the main roads around town, after half an hour cruising around on the trusty Tiger I ended up back at the hotel and enjoyed a big breakfast.

The bike was parked in one of those semi-legal, but not in anyone's way, places on the edge of the main square. If an overly keen official had spotted it while I broke the fast, they had not bothered with a ticket. Presumably the only way of extracting money from an Italian registered bike is to tow it, but that would not help tourism.

The road out of town was easy and I followed the signs for Fagaras. Presumably the Transfagarasan highway ended near there, though Google and MapMe said it was before the town.
There were no signs so I stopped in Fagaras, realised where the highway had actually started and rode back the 20 km to the petrol station (with free wifi) where I'd seen a large group of bikers, some 30 minutes before.

There were still no signs for one of the best known biking roads in Europe, (which was not registered as such on Google Maps) but the petrol station guys knew.
I still asked a couple of people over the next few kilometres, as it seemed quiet. Then the signs started, Biker Friendly Rooms they said, in English. That helped the confidence.

And the road steadily went countrywards. Winding towards the looming Carpathian mountains. Steadily leaving behind places that are on Google maps.
No settlements, just a road winding into the misty mountains. It reminded me very much of the Rohtang Pass, deep in the Himalayas, which was towards the end of a huge adventure with Alex Pirie and Nomadic Knights and in a blog last year.


The road was a lot more Eurotourist than the Rohtang. The trees disappeared, the mist got heavier, the curves curvier and you were almost expecting bagpipes hidden in the mist to start calling for your surrender.

Top Gear really liked it. Although it was more for racers than Adventurers, it was fun and interesting.


And cold, and as we got to the top, busier, much busier.

The fun of a bike is that you can skip up queues. Abbishek Bellie, Nomadic Knights outrider and sweeper upper showed us how to just keep going. India was good training for Romanian tourism. 

There were a large number of English registered cars. A mystery explained a couple of days later. And as soon as there was a photo opportunity, or a place with parking, then the newly enabled, car owning, citizens of Romania were taking full advantage of a summer weekend to explore.

Soon after starting the climb with the famous curves there was no high rev roaring, just bobbing and weaving through the traffic. But the views when the mist cleared were stunning, however I was more intent on living the experience than recording it.

Close to the top the traffic was completely jammed. I edged through a flat part where lots of stands selling sausages and souvenirs lined the road. It was an absolute clusterfuck. Soon after was a tunnel, which marked the top, and once through the logjam the road was pretty open, going my way. The other way was solid traffic for several kilometres. It is easy to imagine the thoughts of the drivers and passengers imprisoned in their steel boxes, in a tunnel, without lights, or phone signal, at altitude.
The other side of the tunnel was a fire station, dynamited into the hillside. Presumably with medical experience as well. The emergency service for this highly remote spot. It seemed like very sensible planning.

My brother called while I was heading downhill. A late birthday chat. The reception was intermittent but tolerable. It was good to talk and highly amusing to think I was chatting through a motorbike helmet some 2,000 metres up the Carpathian mountains in Romania. Cool.

The way down was slower. It is harder going down than up on a bike. It takes longer to slow down and brake. Like skiing, the skill is being able to slow down and stop. Speed is easy, staying safe is more challenging. I far more enjoy riding uphill than the downhill. But you do get the views going downhill.

Similar to coming down the strange pass in Bosnia, the trees steadily appeared, it got warmer, there was more of a green colour and life became more gentle. At every wider space or clearing in the woods, cars were parked and families were picnicing. The growth of tourism in Romania must be staggering.

Not so many touring bikes were out but whenever I saw them there was a friendly biker wave, or a toot of the horn. It is friendlier in Europe. Driving on the right means the throttle hand is on the far side of the traffic. So you can wave, or raise an index finger, or come out with a biker/rapper hand gesture friendly greeting. In the UK you gesture to the pedestrians, or cars you pass, in Europe it is fellow bikers. 
And  they were a friendly bunch. 

I found somewhere to stop for lunch, deep in a valley.

Weirdly for somewhere on a famous trail, but not so weird because we were deep in the countryside, there was no wifi, but the food was good and most welcome.

Burning through my precious cash reserves the salad and barbequed chicken seemed the closest I was going to get to biker ballast.

And it was onwards and downwards. 

The signs for Dracula Camping seemed a little ambitious, this may be Transylvania, but it is the edge of it. Then the source of the publicity became obvious with another logjam of cars and coaches.

High on the hill above (only just visible in the selfie) and only reachable by some 1,460 steps, was the run down castle of Vlad The Impaler. But it seems anywhere with a castle is claiming to be connected with Dracula. 

Still it seemed fun and could not be missed, though the selfie took only a moment, as you can see the helmet and Harley shades stayed on.

At least it was getting warmer, so eventually the bike gear came off, right when I took the first right, after 20 km, ready for the journey back to Sibiu. I got the right right, but took the next right too early.

I had hoped to ride the other massively famous road, the Tranalpino, but ended up on a road preferred by tourist coaches. The countryside was often lovely, but it was a constant stream of traffic, which requires a different riding style (filtering - or overtaking when possible) if you are ever going to get anywhere.

The great part of a friendly and respectful relationship with a Tiger is that, when asked, this beast just goes. The acceleration is glorious. I was a lot heavier than normal on the throttle and the brakes, but we had a job to do. get back to somewhere where we could bed down for the night.

It was late afternoon when we wearily sidled in to Hotel Weidner again, only to be told they were fully booked . As was every other hotel in Sibiu they knew. No worries, TripAdvisor and Airbnb and Booking.com were ready and willing, and told me everywhere else for at least 50 km around was booked.

But there might be somewhere in Alba Iulia, near the start of the Transalpino, on the edge of that 50 km totally reserved zone.

That seemed a good idea....

Tim's Balkan Bike Blast 4 - Timmy in Timisoara

The cash machine asked for my PIN number. Normally this is simple. Even though my bank card doubles as a credit card, in a cash machine you put in the bank number. 

Up came my name - Welcome Timothy Wills, push, push, select, select. 

Sorry try again.

Welcome Timothy Wills, push, push, select, select. Munch, munch. Bye bye card. 

Inside the bank and after a 5 minute queue I managed to summon up enough sign language that the cashier understood. I volunteered my passport, she retrieved the card. Then handed back my passport and kept the card.

I had no idea what the problem was. She found a manager who spoke English. He explained that the card company needed clearance from my bank as I had input my PIN incorrectly three times in a row. Now that was confusing. How do I get the Welcome Timothy Wills with a wrong PIN?

I managed to slip in that I had worked in Frankfurt 20 years ago with his new Chairman (well far more like for Jean Pierre Mustier who probably has a dim recollection of me as a troublesome individual who may occasionally be useful). Still it gave me enough kudos for him to be happy to chat and give me the branch fax number for my bank to send an OK to. 

He then showed me the machine that would convert cash Euros to cash Lei, so I changed 100 Euros, hoping that would suffice for 3 days in Romania.

I set off for a late lunch to refuel while digesting the wrong pin issue. Multitasking between ordering food, getting online and phoning the bank I managed to still appreciate the sunshine and the food. The bank was very good and explained that outside Italy the card only functioned as a credit card, so I had to input the credit card pin. Problem uncovered.

They would send a fax to release the card and inform the credit card company. That was a big relief. I guess I was not the first customer confused by this.

The only additional challenge for me was that I had no idea what the credit card pin was, since the secure letter with the details was completely indecipherable and I never wanted to send the card back to resolve the problem. I'll wait for the new one later this year.

So with lunch over (paid for with a different card) it was back to the bank. Along with half the town it seemed. The queues were long and slow moving. Luckily the manager saw me and about 5 minutes later called me over to then need 15 minutes of form filling before being able to give me back the card.

Greatly relieved I loaded the kit on the bike, checked the vague direction to get out of town, weaved through the traffic and only had to stop to check directions a couple of times before being on the main road east.

Well, the current main road east.

Which was through the countryside. 

That had different modes of transport.

There is an EU funded motorway under construction and sections were usable. 

I stopped early to refuel and started chatting with a proper biker who was smoking close to the pumps. As usual wifi was free, like almost everyone under 40 he spoke excellent English and he invited me to Biker Party No.9, some 100km closer to the Transfagarasan. His girlfriend came out of the shop and was very encouraging, again in excellent English. The only challenge was there was no accommodation and it was due to get down to 5C that night. He gave me the organiser's number and they set off.

However impractical, it seemed a fun idea and this was an adventure.

YOLO, you only live once.

But the number was answered by one of the few people who do not speak English, or German, or French or Italian. So I never went. It could have been fun, it could have been a disaster. But there was enough to get on with.

The main road wound across the country, with hills appearing and getting bigger. Clouds arrived and a couple of hours later, and well past wherever Biker Party No. 9 was, I pulled into a petrol station ready to put on the raingear.

Another young biker couple were there. We chatted about routes and rides. They had just come back from Italy and lived near Sibiu, which was my destination. The Dolomites was too crowded so they had tried a few other roads and were heading home. They offered to ride together but I was feeling solitary and anyway set off in the wrong direction from the petrol station. A couple of minutes later I realised the error but they were gone.

The next stretch was motorway. New and little traffic, but getting steadily wetter.

The fairly new tyres kept the Tiger stable and solid and it was easy to keep a steady 130kph, which is quite enough for me. Though I would be 'in the zone', overtaking and glance down to find I was at 150 kph. It was raining so slowing down was a simple choice. I even took it.

The worry about riding in the rain, apart from grip, and wet, is that a bike helmet does not have windscreen wipers. So your vision quickly deteriorates. I have no idea whether it is the design of the Nolan N43, or that I was going at speed, but the raindrops cleared themselves in steady horizontal streaks. That was a big moral boost.

An hour or so of motorway driving came to end and we were diverted back to the main road. The traffic was clogged up and my overtaking was prudent. So it was slow progress. By the time I got to the centre of Sibiu it was pouring.

The raingear was excellent, I was sealed like an astronaut, but you have to stop and ask people stuff, like 'Do you have a single room?' At which point you have to park the bike, lift the visor or even take off the helmet, get wet, get back on the bike.

I ended up circling the town, stealthily but not efficiently, and ended up in the restricted area in the centre. I parked next to an ancient arch with multitudes of umbrellas leading their owners into packed groups ready for a public concert, which was being set up.

Through the arch was Hotel Weigner. That looked promising. They were totally full apart form a single room way at the back. Perfect. The receptionist took pity on me and showed me how to get the bike into the main square to park in their locked up courtyard. That was another blessing. She said to sign in once that was done.

This was all going pretty well.

I unloaded and signed in, stupidly paid in cash and went up for a shower. The only part about stupidly paying in cash was that this was a chunk of what I had managed to change 

in Unicredit, Timisoara.

Still on we go. After the shower the rain had stopped, so I got dinner outside on the edge of the big piazza. The waitress tried to bring a menu, but I just asked for a beer and something local. That was the right choice. The beer disappeared quickly and the local dish was cabbage wrapped rice and stuff, which was very good washed down with a perfectly acceptable local red. All this to the sound of the public opera on a very large stage.

The opera finished at the same time as dinner, so I walked back through the arch to the dance-off on another stage there. Around the edge of that piazza were more bars, which was a perfect place for a smoke and a people watch, but I was tired.

On the way back to the hotel, a young lady asked if I had a cigarette, in German, that was just an excuse for a far more intimate conversation, which rapidly became an offer of 'zwei maedchen' (two young women). That was definitely not going to be a good way to end the evening and I managed to successfully cover the remaining 50 yards to the hotel without further ado.

The hotel seemed deserted, which was fine as I managed to remember where the room was and was asleep about 5 minutes later. 

Waking up was confusing, not least because of the time.