| Submitted by: Ren Withnell, United Kingdom |
| Submission Date: 02 October 2005 |
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I think of my mother waiting for me to text her again to let her know I'm ok and she can stop worrying for a while. I think about yesterday, and wonder if I'm enjoying myself. I know I did not enjoy the later part of yesterday when I finally lost my sense of humour. And I am lonely. I am surrounded by people, friendly people all on holiday and all in a good mood yet somehow I still feel very much an outsider. When I realise this my heart sinks and the shower matches my mood by going cold for a few moments so I jump out.
I've got a whole day to kill, what can I do? I tidy up the tent a bit, go to the shop but they sell nothing with what I would call real food pictured on the side of the tin, wander around the campsite then return to my tent. Hmph! The problem with a day off is that there is nothing that needs to be done. I go to the beach, yeah that'll keep me busy for a while, I can look at all the girls and try to get some sun onto these milk white legs. As I wander down to the beach I notice a small black seething mass on the sand. An ant's nest. The sand around the nest is pure white where millions of tiny legs pass every day. I watch a while admiring the tiny insects doing there work but then I notice other beach-goers looking at the odd pale foreigner looking at the ground for no apparent reason. I move on.
The beach is an almost picture perfect sample of what a Spanish beach should look like. It is sandy, the sea is deep blue with small waves lapping the shoreline, the sun is now shining and there is barely a cloud in the sky. It is hot, but not like the hot from yesterday in the desert as the sea has a gentle cooling breeze coming inland. I feel somewhat silly walking down the sand in my big walking boots, but I have no choice. 3 Years ago I had a motorbike accident which left me with one leg shorter than the other and now whatever footwear I have has a super-thick sole added to the left side. I can walk without this but I limp and tire quickly. I stop near the water and remove my boots. I walk into the water a few paces but the sea is freezing! I stand there with the waves washing over my feet which feels refreshing after the boots. I decide it's far too cold for a swim and to make myself feel less of a wimp I advise myself there may be sharks out there anyhow.
I go back up the beach to where the sand is dry and sit down to admire the beautiful Spanish women every beach is covered in. Only this beach is fairly quiet, there are no hotels nearby. I still take time to look around. I am disapointed. The people look just like the same people you would see on Blackpool beach on a hot day, except the suntans are deeper. There are fat blokes on sunloungers, frumpy women moaning in Spanish to skinny children, dads and mums throwing balls over toddlers who giggle incessantly and teenagers trying to look cool in bikinis and shorts. I laugh to myself, thousands of miles but the folks still look the same. There is only one girl whom is pretty, and she's sunbathing topless. I sit and letch for a while through my sunglasses but even that gets boring. I head back to the campsite.
It's only lunchtime. I go to the shop and find some chocolate with a name I recognise and eat that. I wander around again. I get another cup of poor tea in the cafe. I check the bike over. I'm so bored I even have another shower. By mid afternoon the heat is relentless so I go to my tent, lie down in the porch and go to sleep. I wake up covered in sand sticking to my sweat and the ground sheet is sodden from my overheated body. I get my mobile phone out and turn it on to see what going on back home. I get a message of the gf. Her mother has deteriorated and is in the hospice. Another message from my mother who has spoken with the gf and tells me it's not looking good. I want to go home NOW! I want to hug the gf and tell her I am there for her, I want to get out of this hot, stifling country with it's strange food and bad drivers. I want to be with people whom I know and who know me. I want to go home to go where people care for me and I care for them. I'm so homesick. Did I mention it is very hot?
I reply to the messages. The gf replies and is trying to be a rock for me, telling me there is nothing I can do, she will be ok and she wants me to worry about enjoying myself not her mother. I know she is right but I cannot switch off my concerns and no matter what is going on at home I am finding this trip to be very hard work. I beg the gods I do not believe in to send rain and cool me, to keep the gf and her mother well, to entertain me and to let me enjoy myself.
I wander back to the cafe and hear English being spoken with a distinctive midlands accent. It's the crew I'd spoken with briefly on the ferry from West Bromwich. I ask if I can sit with them and they welcome me to the table. They tell me of their journey down through the desert and where they stopped and of how one fell got separated from the group and the worries about him. He is there now and they rip into him for not texting he was ok and for worrying them. The politics of being in a group remind me of some of the advantages of travelling alone. I speak with them about work, home and the exhausting heat here for a few hours, then it's time to eat. They tell me they will be in the bar later. Some of them have already been on the beer for too long already.
I go to the shop in search of something I can eat that I recognise. I end up with 2 of the strange French bread buns, some boiled ham slices and mayonnaise. I make myself a massive sandwich with these items. I step outside the tent to eat and spot the German crew by their tents. I go over, they are cooking up some odd concoction of meat balls, spaghetti, tomatoes and garlic. It makes an improvised bolognaise and they ask if I want some. I decline as I'm still struggling to finish my improvised sandwich. The sandwich is very tasty though and it reminds me of the sort of things I like to eat at home. I sit and talk in German as much as I can. I'm very pleased with how well I can get by in German and only need a little help with complex ideas from the English speaking fella. We talk of work, holidays, the heat and compare suntans. The suntan on my body is coming along, but my legs are just turning pink, not brown.
As the sun sets I head off to the bar. The West Bromwich crew are there and I join them with my coke and some crisps from the shop. There is a girl travelling with this crew, she is from the south coast and only joined the boys when she met them on the ferry. She tells me she is travelling alone like myself but she will meet her boyfriend at Faro as he's flying there. I laugh as she tells me he is coming in for some stick off his friends as he's taking the soft option while his girlfriend is doing it the hard way. I do think she is vary brave and spend a while pondering her motives. I listen to her talking of other things and laugh as I begin to understand.
Later 2 of the German crew arrive and join us. The conversation is getting harder now as the beer flows, German is mixed with English in various accents and the music is getting louder. Confusion reigns supreme and it's wearing me out just trying to keep up. The West Bromwich crew are laughing insanely at one of the Spanish bar staff whom they have taught to say "top banana!" while the Germans look on curiously. Then they start on a serious conversation as someone is not pleased about something and is threatening to go home. The details are unknown to me but I've heard this conversation so many times in bike clubs I already know what the score is. It's time to go to bed.
Day 6
By the time I've got out of bed, showered, washed more smelly thermals and took the tent down it's only 0900. One of the Germans is out of bed so I go and say goodbye and thank her for making me feel welcome. I get on the bike and ride to reception to pay and put the bike on a flat surface to check the oil. The oil is halfway between the upper and lower which is fine, and a dribble comes out of the bevel drive filling hole that means it's fine. I figure it's only 50 miles now to Faro, an easy ride compared to Tuesday.
On the road again my thoughts flood in. It's getting hot again but the thermals are keeping me comfortable. Will there be a border checkpoint as I go into Portugal? What will I make of the rally? I've done quite a few bike rallies in the UK and one thing I have learnt is that I prefer smaller rallies, 2 or 3 hundred bikers in a clubhouse and camping on a rugby or football pitch, a local band and DJ and a friendly atmosphere. Larger rallies seem to involve portable toilets that are unusable, fields of mud, bands at the far end of a field with poor sound quality and so many people being herded around and causing havoc. I know the rally is a big one, one of the biggest in Europe if not the world. It is with some trepidation I ride towards my final destination.
I stop 40 miles into the journey for water and a smoke. The landscape is still barren wasteland full of hard dry grass and spiky bushes. The house nearby is fresh and new but the garden is full of rubble and rusty shards of metal. I wonder how anything can go rusty here in this dry arid heat. The road takes me to the border of Portugal, not that you would really notice. I only know I'm in Portugal because the road signs are slightly different and I see more cars with a "P" at the start, not "S". Considering this is supposed to be a huge rally and the number of Brits on the ferry and this being the first day I'm curious as to where all the other bikers are. Eventually the signs direct me off the Autovista onto a single carriageway and a large town looms on the horizon.
I know I need to head for the airport, but soon I spot a "Moto Clube Faro " sign hanging outside a large house, perhaps this is the clubhouse? I stop and look into the garden. Nothing, nothing that would indicate a biker spot, just the usual dry grass and untidy driveway of any home here. I carry on and spot more of these signs hanging off lampposts, streetsigns and railings. I stop at one set of lights and a few bikers arrive behind me, at least I am starting to feel like I'm at the right place. I follow the bikers now and spot signs for the airport. The town is like any other I've seen now. White 5,6,7 storey apartments, dry wasteland, peeling paint, faded road markings and a worn out feel. I'm now surrounded by bikes and Moto Clube Faro signs. The airport control tower reveals itself along with 20 or 30 local police directing hoards of bikers between confused car drivers. I'm directed off the road into a parking area and I see a queue.
I think the one thing I've learnt so far is I hate queues. I hate being herded like cattle to wait for this or that and be told to go here or there and to do the other. Still, there I am in another queue. Soon someone relieves me of €35 and gives me a bright pink hospital tag to put on my wrist. Another line leads me into a building where someone gives me a form to fill in and amongst hundreds of other bikers milling around grabbing pens and tiny bits of spare table space I fill in details of my bike, journey, name, country and registration. I'm immediately reminded this is an international rally due to the questions being in 4 different languages. In another line I'm provided with a bag full of goodies, another line is for swapping the t-shirt in your goodie bag for one of the correct size, but I've already had enough and any t-shirt fits me anyhow. Outside I put my form into a box full of forms and return to the bike. Did I mention it is very hot?
Back on the bike I follow the herd out the parking area onto a short road. A biker wearing a bright yellow jacket directs me into a camping area and I search for a suitable pitch. I find a tree with some space under it that looks relatively flat and start to camp. The ground is covered in long spines from the trees and I've heard these can ruin groundsheets and airbeds so I try to clear a space. After 10 minutes of pushing and shoving with my boots I'm having no effect whatsoever so I put my tent up anyhow. All the gear goes in and I put the metal plate under the sidestand of the bike to stop it sinking into the sandy ground. |
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