If, like the Beetle, you are travelling in a Muslim country, you should be aware that it is Ramadan, which started 5^th October. Ramadan is a special month of the year for over one billion Muslims throughout the world. It is a time for inner reflection, devotion to God, and self-control. Many Muslims regards Ramadan as a kind of tune-up for their spiritual lives. Fasting in Ramadan is obligatory for those who can do it, so people who are ill and pregnant women for example are exempted from the fast but must make it up as they are able.

The third “pillar” of (Sunni) Islam is fasting and is believed to have many benefits including a means of learning self-control and going without food and drink during the daylight hours is felt to improve one’s spiritual nature, which becomes a means of coming closer to God. Ramadan is also a time of intense worship, reading the Quran, giving charity, purifying one’s behaviour, and doing good deeds.

The daily period of fasting starts when the sun comes up and ends when the sun sets. In between this time, Muslims do not eat, drink, smoke or have sex. Many people to have a pre-fast meal (suhoor) before dawn and a post-fast meal (iftar) after sunset. In Brunei, where the Beetle has just finished working, working hours are cut short, with people leaving at 3pm to allow the women to prepare the evening meal. Many people have relatives and friends over during Ramadan to share their evening meal.

The last ten days of Ramadan are a time of special spiritual power as everyone tries to come closer to God through devotions and good deeds. The night on which the Quran was revealed to the Prophet, known as the Night of Power (Lailat ul-Qadr), is generally taken to be the 27th night of the month. The Quran states that this night is better than a thousand months. Many Muslims spend the entire night in prayer. During the month, Muslims try to read as much of the Quran as they can. Some spend part of their day listening to the recitation of the Quran in a mosque. Some spend the last ten days of Ramadan in a mosque devoting the whole ten days for worshipping God.

You should be respectful to those fasting during Ramadan, and this includes not eating in front of a person who is fasting or asking them to join you in food or drink during fasting hours.

Trip duration: 40 days
Trip miles to date: 5,160
Miles since last update: 2,080

It’s been an eventful few days since the last update. I’ve travelled over 2,000 miles, crossed 2 borders, crashed on the notorious Ruta 40, slept in the shadow of a glacier, been interviewed by Argentine TV and met some fascinating fellow travellers along the way.

From Puerto Natalès (last update) there is no road route north through Chile. You can either take a 4 day ferry to the Island of Chiloè, some 500 miles north or opt to do what I did and head back into Argentina. First stop was a visit to the Moreno Glacier National Park, just outside the busy tourist and backpacker town of El Calafete. This also marked the beginning of the notorious Ruta 40, a thin strip of dirt track that slithers down the western side of Argentina and the subject of numerous messages of warning and disasters from fellow travellers both prior to arrival and after.

The Glacier itself was stunning (see photo below), although the park itself was extremely busy with numerous bus trips from Calafete. Rather than find space in the town I elected to camp in the park, in the shadow of the glacier, allowing me to rise early and watch the sunrise light up the face. This experience is simply not done justice by the photo above.

Back onto the Ruta 40 north to visit El Charltèn, an Argentine equivalent to the Torres del Paine range in Chile. Early in the day I spotted the dust clouds and silhouettes of 2 bikes coming towards me. Each of us slowed down and we exchanged greetings in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere! They were Kevin and Julia Sanders, a couple I had read about and had visited their website (http://www.globebusters.com/) before coming to South America. They were on route to Ushuaia after starting in Vancouver, a trip not so different of my own. We parted promising to meet again in Alaska.

El Charletèn is a pretty, almost Alpine looking town sitting in the shadow of Mt Fitzroy, a 3,400 metre peak of granite dominating the skyline. I was only stopping for lunch but I bumped into Mad Marco from Germany, who was currently stuck in Charltèn as the forks on his Honda Africa Twin had permanently destroyed themselves.

That afternoon I headed for Tres Largos which, according to the map, would be a seemingly sensible place to stop for the night. I pulled into the gas station there at about 4.30 and met a group of Germans heading south. Now, for some reason I’m growing weary of travelling Germans. This a completely unreasonable and irrational assumption I know, but after several comments (all negative) about the preparation and condition of my bike (for example “your chain sprockets are about to expire” and “why is your seat set so low?” and “ugh, why are you using that GPS unit?”) I mentioned that I was going to look for somewhere to stay the night in Tres Largos.

I grant them that Tres Largos was little more than a gas station in the middle of a rock desert, but I wasn’t expecting the vehement “NEIN! There is NOTHING in Tres Largos! You MUST carry on and stay where we stayed last night” (an estancia some 100 miles further on). I should have taken note that by 4.30pm, they were in the same location as I was expected to be by that evening. That alone should have warned me of the condition of the upcoming stretch of road.

On top of this, Tres Largos represented the last opportunity for petrol until Bajo Caracoles, some 230 miles north. This is at the absolute maximum of the Beemer’s tank range so I filled my spare 10 litre container in preparation. Against my better judgement and contrary to how I felt physically after a full days’ riding, I set out for the Estancia Angusteria. Within 50 miles I had crashed severely.

Now on dirt tracks it’s a common technique to apply speed to even out the inconsistent surface. At slow speeds the bike becomes nervous, twitchy and more difficult to control – a condition that gets steadily worse from the feedback from an increasingly nervous rider as he / she grips the controls more tightly. This “application of speed” approach is good for 99 times out of 100, but of course, it’s the 1 time out of 100 that will bite you, and at 60 mph accidents will happen quickly and most likely hurt more.

Up to this point of the trip I had been really enjoying the dirt tracks and that afternoon I was travelling at about 50 to 60 mph. In reality this was about 10-20 mph too fast for the road conditions (coupled with my weary condition.) The track had deteriorated and I’d failed to reduce my speed. This particular stretch was comprised of fist-sized rocks that had accumulated into deep ruts by the heavy trucks that use this route.

I always find it interesting that accidents and crashes take an infinitesimally small amount of time for you to pass beyond the point of no return (otherwise you’d react and there would be no accident, right?). However, once you’re past that point everything slows down. My memory of what led up to the accident is therefore slight, I suspect that the front wheel tried to rise up out of the rut, probably following a wheel track from a previous vehicle that had changed lane. The back wheel probably declined to follow this example and stayed in the rut, the bike fish-tailed violently and I failed to correct it (even if I could). Minor fish-tailing happens all the time, and it’s part of the enjoyment of riding dirt-tracks that they usually come back, but I distinctly remember thinking “oh shit! This ones not coming back… the bike swapped sides a couple of times (known as a tank slapper as the bars are violently swapped from side to side). I was then unceremoniously spat off the top of the bike, over the bars, as the front wheel dug into the track and the bike flipped over frontward.

That’s where things really slowed down. Flying through the air I knew that at this speed, this would be a severe crash and things were about to get hurt. I also remember considering the fact that I could not afford to break anything (i.e. leg, arm or neck) as I was a long way from anywhere and this was not a busy road.

The initial impact was HARD!!! but I realized that I had survived it and I tucked everything in as best I could… far, so good. The next thing to enter my head, and I remember it vividly, was “well, the only thing that can kill me now is the bike landing on top of me!” So as I was still rolling I was looking back at the bike as it nosedived into the track, and skidded to a stop about 20 feet short of me.

There must be a common 10-second rule, as the first thing you want to do after an accident is leap straight to your feet. I’ve watched track racers try to stand up while they are still rolling at 20 mph (!) and I did the same. Patting myself down I could hardly believe that I was in one-piece. I had taken the initial impact on my shoulder and hip, both which were talking to me in protest, but everything else was fine. RELIEF!

Looking back down the road the same could not be said of the bike. I regret I did not have the presence of mind to take pictures (forgive me!) but I saw a sorry sight of the bike lying on the gravel with all the luggage spread down the trail for about 30 metres. Time to take off the gloves, the crash helmet, the back pack and the jacket and just take a moment or two – this was obviously going to take a little time to fix.

From an initial appraisal, the worst issue seemed to be the aluminium Touratech panniers. Both had been stripped from the bike and the left hand box had completely burst – what was left was a mangled mess. The left-hand side of the handle bars were bent down and the foot-peg bent under. The headlight had rattled loose in the fairing, the pannier frame was badly bent and was fouling the chain guard, the mirrors were stripped off and the left-hand indicator broken.

Slowly I began to reassemble the components. I pulled the handlebars back into shape by bracing my foot against the engine guard. Then, by grabbing several boulders from the side of the road to use as a hammer and anvil, I began to bash things back into some sort of shape – starting with the pannier frame. It took 2 exhausting hours before I was fit again to move. The left-hand pannier box was held together by tape and a strap. In that time, only 4 vehicles passed reminding me how lucky I had been not to be hurt myself.

I still had 50 miles to the Estancia that the Germans were so keen about, it would take me a further 2 hours to cover this distance and the road got much worse both with the failing light of dusk and my general feeling of depression following the crash.

I found the Estancia almost by luck, it was placed 10 miles off of the main road, signposted by a small, unlit sign. I was greeted warmly and enthusiastically and shown a modest room and told that if I wanted food, a cordeo (barbequed lamb) was just being served outside. I merely dumped my bags and followed him outside, still wearing my dusty riding gear. I found a small gathering of the family accompanied with 3 Argentine documentary makers, interviewing the rural locals about how the world has changed for them.

It was a charming meal – little understood by me as my Spanish is still not good enough, but I enjoyed the food, and shared the last of my malt whisky. It felt like a good way to finish the day. The film crew interviewed me and seemed interested how a lone Englishman on a motorcycle could have stumbled on this place.

I awoke incredibly stiffly. The shoulder and the hip screaming in recognition of what they had gone through the previous day. A couple of Ibuprofen and some strong, hot coffee saw me straight and I was back on the road (filmed as I left).

After I re-crossed the border with Chile, the next few days were spent in first Cochrane and then Cohyique. In the latter I found a local mechanic to re-shape the pannier boxes into approximate shape – and the results were remarkable. So back onto the Carratera Austral (the spindly dirt-track road built on the instructions of General Augustine Pinochet) and an observation that the Chileans take far better care of their dirt-roads than the Argentines. I stopped for the night at the luxurious fishing lodge at El Parque, just north of Purto Puriguapi, and a welcome evening of relaxation after a tough few days.

The next day would get me to Chaitèn, the stepping off point to the Isla Grande de Chiloè. To continue north, most tourists and travellers head back into Argentina and drive north from San Carlos de Bariloche. I, however, have always wanted to visit Chiloè so I was excited to leave the main tourist route. The ferry was to leave at 9am so dutifully I was sitting on the ferry embarkation slipway at 8.45am the following morning. I was seemingly the only person not to know that the ferry NEVER, EVER leaves on time. After 1 hour, news filtered that it would be 12 noon, at least, before the ferry arrived. Of more concern was the phase “well, if not 12 noon, it will definitely be today at least”. I decided to cut loose and ride out to the end of the road, some 40 miles away, at Caleta Gonzalo. The ride was pretty and the coffee from the café at the end of the road made the trip worthy. I later found out that this was part of Doug Tompkins (the US billionaire and philanthropist) vast nature reserve.

After racing back to catch the ferry perhaps predictably an empty slip-way welcomed me. I took encouragement from the fact that many locals were now attending – perhaps signifying promise. The ferry eventually arrived at 2pm, and as a consequence we arrived in Castro, the large port town in the middle of Chiloè, at 9.30pm. For a change, I was let off first (motorbikes are usually last) so I had a head start to finding a hotel (boy, the beer tasted GOOOOD!)

I’ve decided to get to Santiago quickly and to get the bike fixed up and better prepared for the challenge of the Atacama Desert and the altitude and isolation of Bolivia. I’m currently in Tecumo, about 400 miles south of Santiago and late yesterday afternoon, having found suitable replacements, I got the tyres replaced. Santiago is just 1 days ride from here and it’s smooth tarmac all the way. Perhaps, after the last few weeks of intensely rough tracks and the crash on Ruta 40 this is all the bike (and I) are fit for at the moment.

If you want to know more about Greg’s travels, visit his website at: http://www.unbeatentrack.com/

Kensington Palace stands at the western end of Kensington Gardens. It was originally a private country house called Nottingham House but was acquired in 1689 by William III and Mary II (1689) because the King’s asthma improved there during the winters. Sir Christopher Wren was engaged to design improvements to the house and the Clock Court and the South Front, including the 96-foot Long Gallery were added. After William III’s death in 1702, the palace became the residence of Queen Anne. Wren designed the Orangery for her and a 30-acre garden was laid out by Henry Wise. Further extensive alterations were carried out for George I and William Kent painted the elaborate trompe l’oeil ceilings and staircases. The last monarch to live at Kensington Palace was George II, whose consort, Caroline of Ansbach helped develop Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens and the Serpentine, Basin and Grand Vista and the Broad Walk were created for her. The sudden death of George II in 1760 marked the end of an era. Kensington Palace was never again to serve a reigning monarch.

Queen Victoria spent her childhood at Kensington Palace and it was here in June 1837 that she learned of her accession to the throne and moved to Buckingham Palace. The palace was most famously the London home of Diana, Princess of Wales and is still home to several other hanger-on members of the Royal Family.

Kensington Palace first opened to the public in 1912 with a display of relics and objects relating to the City of London. It attracted 13,000 visitors in just one day. The museum pieces now form part of the collection at the Museum of London. Visitors today can see the State Apartments, the Royal Ceremonial Dress Collection that includes outfits from the eighteenth-century to the present day, the Orangery and sunken gardens.

Kensington Palace opens daily. 10:00-17:00 (Nov-Feb) 10:00-18:00 (Mar-Oct). Closed 24-26 Dec. Tube: Queensway, Notting Hill Gate or High Street Kensington. Enquiries: 020 7937 9561. Entrance: Adults £10.80, Students and Snr Citizens £8.20, Child: £7.00 Under 5s: FREE.

We are sorry to say that Mac is not very well, but he is still e-mailing strong and recently sent the Beetle a collection of travel book reviews and things that caught his eye.

From Book Holidays In Hell by P. J. O Rourke. P. J. O Rourke is currently the White House correspondent from Rolling Stones magazine (l988.) Page ll: “There are worst pests than mainland Chinese taking Frigidaires home on the plane.”

Commodore Hotel in Beirut, Lebanon where correspondents hang out: “Get a room away from the pool. It’s harder to hit that side of the building with artillery. Rates are about fifty dollars a night. They’ll convert your bar bill to laundry charges if you’re on an expense account.”

Page 15: “The wise traveller will pack shirts or blouses with ample breast pockets. Reaching inside a jacket for your passport looks too much like going for the draw and puts armed men out of continence”

Page 16. “West Beirut can be toured on foot. — “There’s a lot of jewellery and make-up and the silliest Italian designer jeans on earth. They’re rushing from one place to another in order to sit around drinking hundreds of tiny cups of Turkish coffee and chat at the top of their lungs. The entire economy is fuelled so far as I can see by everyone selling cartons of smuggled Marlboros to each other.”

Page 17. “The Old American Embassy is here in the same state as U.S. Middle East policy.” On kidnapping – “If nabbed, make as much noise as possible (this is where the whistle I carry might come in handy.) Do not get in someone’s car. If forced in, attack the driver. At least that is what I am told.”

Page 23. “Welcome to Lebanon” said the Israeli captain. He read my credentials and smiled. “Tourism?” “Yes” I said, “I’m the only tourist in Lebanon.” The captain laughed. “Oh, no you’re not. I’m a reservist, you know, and this is my vacation too.”

Page 29. “My answer to everyone was that President Reagan wasn’t sure why he sent the Marines to Lebanon. However, he was determined to keep them here until he figured it out, but then he forgot.”

Page 35. “The Syrian army has dozens of silly hats, mostly berets in yellow, orange and shocking pink, but also tiny pillbox chapeaux, peaked officer’s caps and half a foot of gold braid up the front and lumpy Russian helmets, three sizes too large. The paratroopers wear shiny gold jumpsuits and crack commando units have skin-tight fatigues in a camouflage pattern of violet, peach, flesh tone and vermilion on a background of vivid purple (good camouflage Ha!)

On Korea, page 46: “I was overwhelmed by the amazing stink of kimchi, the garlic and hot pepper sauerkraut that’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner in Korea. Its odour rises —eyeglass fogging kimchi breath, throat searing kimchi burps and terrible pants-splitting kimchi Farts.”

And here is a guide to frequently used hotel terms (and their real meaning):

Guide to Hotel Terms

• All the amenities – free shower cap.
• Aristocratic – needs renovation.
• Gentle Breezes – gale-force winds.
• Picturesque – theme park or mystery house nearby.
• Carefree natives – terrible service.
• Bustling metropolis- thousands of hostile locals.
• Airy – no air conditioning.
• Brisk – freezing.
• Off the Beaten Path -people have stopped coming here.
• Remote- People never came.
• Standard – Substandard.
• Superior – free shower.
• Undiscovered -not worth discovering.
• Authentic native dishes- inedible but cheap.
• Playground of the stars – Regis Toomey once stayed here.
• If you like being pampered -you can get waited on.
• Exquisite cuisine – limited menu.

We are sorry to say that Mac is not very well, but he is still e-mailing strong and recently sent the Beetle a collection of travel reminiscences about China.

Beijing, China. The Imperial Palace in the Forbidden City in Beijing has 9000 rooms.  We agreed that if we got lost and separated from each other we would meet in the Hall of Heavenly Purity (if they would let us in.)  At the time I was there, the military did not wear rank on their uniforms (don't know if this still applies or not.)  You could kind of get an idea of who outranked who by the number of pockets they had on their blouse of uniform.  Someone with four pockets would have their baggage carried by someone with one pocket or no pockets.

In the hotels the orchestras (In the Peace Hotel in Shanghai I think they had some of the members or orchestra from the 30s) would play songs they thought we would like.  Oh Susannah from a couple of decades ago seemed to be making a comeback, as well as Turkey in the Straw and and Auld Lang Syne.  At the end of each number the players would put down their instruments and applaud us in the audience.  We could hardly wait for the Tuba player to unwind from his Tuba to applaud us.

Our Chinese guide in Wushi kind of had a high opinion of himself (unusual for Chinese) and thought he was hip in Western ways.  He liked to show off and showed us how he was proficient in Tai Chai.  Blonde vivacious Liza asked him to dance with her.  He said that no he could not dance with a client but that he would arm wrestle her!  He told long involved stories about the Kingdom of Wu and Dragons and such. George whispered: “I wonder what he would say if we told him we didn't want to hear any more dragon stories?” 

In 1977 I got in on a deal on a trip to China.  A western cruise ship had not gone into China in twenty seven years but suddenly a Swiss outfit got permission and an ad was in the LA paper one day only and participants had a very short time to get on trip.  I had to fly to Singapore and get on Norwegian Rasa Sayang ship.  Why it did not leave from Hong Kong I don't know.  Everything about that trip was strange.  On board we were arranged into 24 groups of 24 people and in each group they arbitrarily chose a responsible person.  This was the person the Chinese dealt with to give us bad news to pass on to us others.  Your tour has been cancelled.  Unpaid thankless job.  Our Chinese guides had names that phonetically sounded like Mr Shi, Mr Ee and Miss Ou.  They met us at gangplank with Miss Ou carrying a banner with number 13 the number of our group.   24 buses were there to meet us.  It was like a military operation although we were all supposed to be civilians.  One Australian before we left ship asked if it was alright if he wore walking shorts.  He was told “You are going to look so strange to the Chinese that is makes no difference what you wear”.

Our guide Miss Ou had pigtails, glasses no makeup and wore a bag like Mao suit.  Most of our tour group dressed down, slacks etc but one lady in our group wore high heels and a different fancy outfit for each appearance as she said she wanted the Chinese to see her clothes and how they could dress.

There was no tipping but on the second day I gave Miss Ou some picture post cards of Washington, D. C.  She then gave me a ten minute speech that she would accept hers as a signal of international friendship.  I then became her pet and she would come to me on pronunciation of English.  I, who have a speech defect, ha!

At the Pan His Restaurant No 15l Hsiang Yang Rd (Kissinger ate there,) Canton, where we ate one meal, Miss Ou would tell us what was in each dish.  Duck, shrimp, vegetable and other materials. When she saw some smile at “other materials” she looked to me and I said other ingredients.

Wherever we went there would be Chinese on each side of sidewalk waiting for us to come out of antique stores, whatever and they would applaud us.  I thought it was voluntary but was told that they had probably been ordered to do this and perhaps had been there since five o clock that morning waiting for us to arrive although they probably had no idea who we were or where we were from.  I felt like Prince Philip viewing China and found myself walking with my arms behind my back.  I bowed graciously to my fans.  They have gotten so many tourists now that they no longer applaud us.

On my first trip to China they said that five of each 24 group of 24 could witness acupuncture which was new to me so I raised my hand.  Most of us did not realize that this demonstration of acupuncture included watching five bloody operations in a hospital where they used acupuncture as an anaesthetic.  One lady passed out immediately and they put one of the needles between her mouth and nose and she came right to.  We were in a viewing area that looked down on the operating tables.  One operation was to remove a goitre from an elderly lady.  After they removed the goitre the size of a golf ball they passed it up to us on a tray much as if they were passing around something to eat at a cocktail party.  After the fourth operation I felt woozy myself and so left room and climbed stairs to roof of hospital.  Attendants came running after me.  There was a church with a steeple nearby and I tried to act like I had just gone up there for the view and to see China as I wasn't seeing much of China in that operating room.  I pointed to the church spire and said what is that building? I was told “It is where they store useless objects (religious statues, religious things).  Just wait until I tell Father Murphy!

We were told that acupuncture did not work as anaesthetic unless you had faith in it. The advantage is that there were supposedly no after effects and one could eat after the operation. In fact before the operation which I don't think is usual practice. When the tumour was removed from the neck of the elderly lady, they wanted to show us that she could navigate on her own. She kind of slid off table looked up at us and waved and we waved back. She then kind of stumbled out of the room.

Would I submit to acupuncture in an operation? Only if I could have an anaesthetic as well.

I did later on another trip submit to this form a barefoot doctor. They call them barefoot doctor (not barefoot) but those that work helping those in communes and field. I paid something like fifteen cents. It was to cure a cold. They then gave me a certificate entitling me to free acupuncture care for a year.