Cycling the Kjolur and Sprengisandur routes in Iceland’s interior

There are two major tracks through Iceland’s interior: the Kjolur and the Sprengisandur. Last July I cycled both in surprisingly good weather. It was breathtakingly beautiful!
8 days through the largest uninhabited region in Europe, with amazing views of glaciers and stretches of lava desert.
In case you want to have a go, don’t wait too long: they have this huge tarmac monster that they let out every spring!
Turn up the volume! The music is appropriately from two versions of À Sprengisandur, an old Icelandic song!

move, eat, learn: three beautiful one-minute travel films by Rick Mereki

3 guys, 44 days, 11 countries, 18 flights, 38 thousand miles, an exploding volcano, 2

cameras and almost a terabyte of footage… all to turn 3 ambitious linear concepts based on

movement, learning and food ….into 3 beautiful and hopefully compelling short films…..

= a trip of a lifetime.

Dervla Murphy (1931), Irish traveller and writer

First, buy your pack animal

In this age of mobile phones, cybercafes and satellite links, it’s harder than ever to truly escape … but not impossible. Dervla Murphy, who has ventured to the ends of the earth with only the most basic provisions, explains how:

The individual traveller’s “age of adventure” has long since been ended by “S&T” (science and technology: an abbreviation that dates me). Now our planet’s few remaining undeveloped expanses are accessible only to well-funded expeditions protected by mobile phones and helicopters – enterprises unattractive to the temperamental descendents of Mungo Park, Mary Kingsley et al. Happily, it’s still possible for such individuals to embark on solo journeys through little-known regions where they can imagine how real explorers used to feel.

Reviewers tend to describe my most exhilarating journeys as “adventures”, though to me they are a form of escapism – a concept unfairly tainted with negative connotations. If journeys are designed as alternatives to one’s everyday routine, why shouldn’t they be escapist? Why not move in time as well as space, and live for a few weeks or months at the slow pace enjoyed by our ancestors? In recent decades everything has become quicker and easier: transport, communications, heating, cooking, cleaning, dressing, shopping, entertaining. “S&T” have reduced physical effort to the minimum – but are we genetically equipped to cope with our effortless new world? The stats show increasing numbers of us developing ulcers, having nervous breakdowns, eating too much or too little, taking to drink and/or drugs, retreating from our own reality in plastic surgery clinics. It’s surely time to promote the therapeutic value of slow travel.

There is, of course, a certain irony here: technology has rendered the traditional simple journey somewhat artificial. Previously, those who roamed far and wide had to be isolated for long periods; now isolation is a deliberately chosen luxury. Had I died of a burst appendix in the Hindu Kush or the Simiens or the Andes, it would have been my own fault (no two-way radio) rather than a sad misfortune. Therefore, in one sense, escapist travelling has become a game – but only in one sense. The actual journey is for real: whatever happens, you can’t chicken out. You’re alone where you’ve chosen to be, and must take the consequences. (I prefer to forget that nowadays one is never quite alone. With all those satellites, the solitary traveller may be observed picking her nose in the middle of the Great Karoo.)

To facilitate escapism, I offer the following tips …

1. Choose your country, use guidebooks to identify the areas most frequented by foreigners – and then go in the opposite direction.

This advice reeks of political incorrectness; it’s “snobbish” to draw a clear distinction between travellers and tourists. Yet it’s also realistic. The escapist traveller needs space, solitude, silence. Tragically, during my lifetime, roads have drastically depleted that natural habitat. Adverts for phoney “adventure tours” make me grind my few remaining teeth. For example, “England to Kenya by truck! Overland adventure! See five countries in six weeks!” Who in their right mind wants to see five countries in six weeks? How not to escape . . . I always try to get off the beaten track. One favourite place where I did so was a trek from Asmara to Addis Ababa. Things are different now, but most people I encountered then had never seen a white person before. Even on more recent trips inRussia and Romania - where I took fairly obvious routes that certainly weren’t unchartered land – I always stayed away from the tourist trails.

2. Mug up on history.

To travel in ignorance of a region’s history leaves you unable to understand the “why” of anything or anyone. For instance, Castro’sCuba (the subject of my latest book) must baffle visitors uninformed about the 500-year lead-up to Fidel’s revolution. But heavy sociological or political research is unnecessary – although if you happen to fancy that sort of thing it will add an extra dimension to your journey. Otherwise, enough of current politics will be revealed as you go along, and in those happy lands where domestic politics don’t matter to the locals you can forget about them.

Learn as much as possible about religious and social taboos, and then scrupulously respect them. Where gifts of money are inappropriate, find out what substitutes to carry. In Muslim countries, such as Afghanistan, a code of conduct towards travellers prevents acceptance of money from guests, so I often buy gifts for the children from the local bazaars.

3. Travel alone, or with just one prepubescent child.

In some countries even two adults may be perceived as providing mutual support, making acceptability by the locals less spontaneous and complete. Au contraire, a child’s presence emphasises your trust in the community’s goodwill. And because children pay little attention to racial or cultural differences, junior companions rapidly demolish barriers of shyness or apprehension often raised when foreigners unexpectedly approach a remote village. I found this to be the case in all my travels with my young daughter, especially when we travelled through Kodagu in southern India.

4. Don’t overplan.

At sunrise it’s not necessary – nor even desirable – to know where you are going to be at sunset. In sparsely inhabited areas carry a lightweight tent and sleeping bag. Elsewhere, rely on fate to provide shelter: dependence on those met en route greatly enhances escapism, and villagers are unfailingly hospitable to those who trust them. I have been welcomed into villagers’ homes everywhere I’ve cycled or walked, and was always grateful for what was typically a space on the floor. “Trust” is a key word for relaxed travelling among people whose different way of life may demand adaptability but should prompt no unease or suspicion.

5. Be self-propelling: walk or cycle.

Dervla’s trusty steed

For long treks, far from roads and towns, buy a pack animal to carry food, camping gear, kerosene for your stove if firewood is scarce – and of course your child, should he or she be too small to walk all day.

When organising such a trek, allow for spending a week or 10 days at your starting point, enquiring about the best source of pack animals. Take care to find a reliable advisor as well as a horse trader – preferably someone unconnected to the trader. In Ethiopia, in 1966, I was lucky enough to be advised by Princess Aida, granddaughter of the then-emperor, Haile Selassie, and half a dozen mules were paraded around the courtyard of a royal palace for my inspection. A decade or so later, in Baltistan, I bought a retired polo pony to carry Rachel, my six-year-old daughter, and our camping gear and supplies, including two sacks of flour because in mid-winter in the Karakorum, the villagers have no spare food. In Peru, as a nine-year-old, Rachel rode a mule named Juana for the first 600 miles from Cajamarca, but a fodder shortage necessitated her walking the remaining 900 miles to Cuzco: poor Juana had become so debilitated that she could carry only our gear.

It’s important to travel light. At least 75% of the equipment sold nowadays in camping shops – travel clotheslines, rolled-up camping mats, lightweight hairdryers – is superfluous. My primary basics, although it depends on the journey, are a lightweight tent, a sleeping bag suitable for the country’s temperature, and a stove.

6. If assisted by a pack animal, take detailed local advice about the terrain ahead.

And remember, campsites suitable for you may be disaster areas for a hungry horse or mule. Then you must press on, often to a site hardly fit for humans, but providing adequate grazing. We can do the mind-over-matter bit, while resolving never again to let supplies run so low, but an equine helper doesn’t have that sort of mind. If there’s no fodder at 6.30pm, the mule cannot have consoling thoughts about stuffing it in at 6.30pm the next day. And there is nothing more guilt-provoking than seeing a pack animal who has worked hard for you all day denied sustenance.

7. Cyberspace intercourse vitiates genuine escapism.

Abandon your mobile phone, laptop, i-Pod and all such links to family, friends and work colleagues. Concentrate on where you are, deriving your entertainment from immediate stimuli, the tangible world around you. Increasingly, in hostels and guesthouses, one sees “independent” travellers eagerly settling down in front of computers instead of conversing with fellow travellers. They seem only partially “abroad”, unable to cut their links with home. Evidently the nanny state – and the concomitant trend among parents to over-protect offspring – has alarmingly diminished the younger generation’s self-reliance. And who is to blame for this entrapment in cyberspace? Who but the fussy folk back at base, awaiting the daily (even twice daily) email of reassurance.

8. Don’t be inhibited by the language barrier.

Although it thwarts exchanges of ideas, it’s unimportant on a practical level. I’ve wandered around four continents using only English and a few courtesy phrases of Tibetan, Amharic, Quechua, Albanian or whatever. Our basic needs – sleeping, eating, drinking – can always be indicated by signs or globally understood noises.

Even on the emotional level, the language barrier is quite porous. People’s features – particularly their eyes – are wonderfully eloquent. In our everyday lives, the extent to which we wordlessly communicate is taken for granted. In “far-flungery”, where nobody within 100 miles speaks a word of any European language, one fully appreciates the range of moods and subtle feelings that may be conveyed visually rather than aurally.

9. Be cautious – cautious as distinct from timid.

The assumption that only brave or reckless people undertake solo journeys off the beaten track is without foundation. In fact, escapists are ultra cautious: that’s one of their hallmarks, and an essential component of their survival mechanisms. Before departure, they suss out likely dangers and either change their route – should these seem excessive – or prepare to deal with any reasonable hazards.

Granted, there’s a temperamental issue here: is a bottle half-empty or half-full? Why should your bones break abroad rather than at home? Optimists don’t believe in disasters until they happen and therefore are not fearful – which is the opposite of being brave.

10. Invest in the best-available maps.

And whatever you do, don’t forget your compass.

(The Guardian, 3 January 2009)

“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.” (Bob Dylan)

A 5×5 video – or a 5 vignettes – is a short video of 5 shots, 5 seconds each. No music, only ambient sound.

Shot an hour ago. Just got wet (a bit).

Postcards are cool!

Doug Mack, a writer from Minneapolis, is campaigning to make handwritten postcards cool again. He invites you to send him postcards and now receives even more by snailmail than he gets comments on his blog. He refers to an interesting article in the New York Review of Books blog, titled “The Lost Art of Postcard Writing.”:

“Unlike letter writing, there never has been, and there never could be, an anthology of the best of postcard writing, because when people collect postcards, it’s usually for reasons other than their literary qualities. If there was such a book, I’m sure it would contain hundreds of anonymous masterpieces of this minimalist art, since unlike letters, cards require a verbal concision that can rise to high level of eloquence: brief and heart-breaking glimpses into someone’s existence, in addition to countless amusing and well-told anecdotes. Now and then one encounters in antique shops and used book stores boxes full of old postcards valued for their antiquity, their images and their stamps. The writing found on them most often tends to be in faded ink and hard to read. To anyone with plenty of time on their hands, I recommend reading a bunch of them.”

And:

“So, dear reader, if you happen, on your daily rounds, to come across in a coffee shop or a restaurant some poor soul sitting alone over a postcard and visibly struggling with what to write, take pity on him or her. They are the last of a species, and are almost certainly middle aged or elderly, already nervous and worried about all the problems older people face in this country. But this may be a moment of respite for them, as they sit there, happily licking a twenty-nine cent stamp and looking out to see if they can spot a mailbox in the street, to send what may turn out be the last card they will ever write, this one with a picture of your beautiful town or city, with a message that might be interesting or downright embarrassing to read, but most assuredly will be welcomed by its unknown recipient, either in the next state or across many time zones on some other continent and place you and I can’t even begin to imagine.”

In case you are “struggling with what to write”,  make things easy for yourself and  use Doug Mack’s all-purpose postcard template below!

“I’m in Hell. Wish you were here!”

Years ago, travelling through Norway on my way to the North Cape, I crossed a nondescript little village called Hell. The local postoffice was the only tourist attraction, selling postcards with the text: “I’m in Hell. Wish you were here!”. Or, in Winter: “Hell frozen over”. I decided on the first one to send home.

I came across it browsing a journal that I kept during the trip, and it brought back sweet memories of one of my first solo bycicle tours.  I sent another postcard from the North Cape itself, laid out with colourful stamps.

In this digital age of social media and blogs, how many postcards did you receive this Summer? Or send?

Aglou: The camel’s song and British expats

Aglou is a typical seaside resort, reminding me of Cadzand. I take a room at Le Chant du Chameau, a few kilometers before the village. And a beautiful song it is: right at the beach with a spectacular view of the setting sun. The French lady who owns the chambres d’hotes also gives courses in the art of Moroccan plastering!

Le Chant du Chameau in Aglou

Breakfast at Le Chant du Chameau

I met Brenda and Graham in Icht last week. They’re a retired British couple with a house in Aglou where they spend their winters. If at any time I am near Aglou, I should give them a call and have coffee.
After unpacking I give Brenda a call. They’re having a BBQ with a dozen other British expats, and would love me to join them. Fine company, good food, and a great time! Thanks Brenda and Graham for your hospitality!

BBQ with Brenda and Graham and fellow British expats in Aglou

 

Just an intriguing old photograph

The photograph – the popular 18×24 size that I used so much myself – is glued to a piece of plywood, and standing on a sidetable on the patio beneath a map of Morocco. Black and white of course, curled at the edges. Taken probably somewhere in the 70s in France. A boy, trying his best not to pose, nonchalantly chewing his sunglasses, leaning against a traffic sign.
It intrigues me. Why would anyone put such a photograph on a sidetable in a hotel in Mirhleft? Who is the boy, and who took the picture, and where and when was it taken?
I could of course ask the owner of the Abertih hotel. But somehow I prefer the photograph without the answers.

A fadograph of a yestern scene

Mirhleft: Jimi Hendrix was here!

It seems that Jimi Hendrix stayed in Mirhleft sometime in the 80s, and found it a very charming place. He must have been as stoned as a goat. Mirhleft is mainly two unpaved streets, with an overpowering smell of animals and urine. Today the village is still a hippie paradise, where the sun slows everything down, particularly the many stray dogs. Time to enjoy a perfect latte in the shade!

Near Sidi Ifni: a cyclist's paradise!

Ups and downs near Mirhleft

Lazy on a Sunday afternoon in Mirhleft

Fort Bou Jerif: What the hell am I doing here?

Instead of going directly to Sidi Ifni I’m planning a detour to stay at the Fort Bou Jerif. One night, maybe two, who knows three! My expectations have run sky high. This is what the Rough Guide says:
“Fort Bou-Jerif is a truly romantic spot … with a wonderful auberge-campsite in an old French legion camp in the middle of nowhere. … Travellers heading for Mauritania and Senegal should be able to pick up information here as a lot of overlanders stop over at the fort on their way down.” Then there’s the usual blabla about types of accommodation, etc.
I filter out the words that neatly fit my favourite mental registers: overlanders stopping over on their way south. Before I know it Bou Jerif has grown into a hotspot for overlanders, checking their gear on the long haul south, exchanging experiences with fellow-overlanders about their vehicles (Land Rover Defenders, naturally), and discussing the actual situations on border-crossing hassles. THE place to be for an overlander in the making: me!
After 45 kilometers of surfaced road and some superb pistes I arrive at the fort. It is some kind of a shock. In its own way it is beautifully laid out, meticulously kept, and the “in-the-middle-of-nowhere” feeling gives it a fairy-tale character. There are signs pointing to “the hotel”, the “petit hotel” and the “motel”. There’s an enormous campsite, completely empty. And the only overlanders are a retired French couple in their Citroen Berlingo, sipping tea on the terrace!
I bear my disappointment like a man, and book a Berber tent for the night. And I must say, the tajine chameau (or rather dromedaire) was excellent, and the French owners and staff very friendly. But it wasn’t the overlanders hotspot I had imagined!

Berber tent at the borj-biramane campsite near Fam el Hisn

Surfaced road to Fort Bou-Jerif: "Tea, anyone?"

"Anyone?"

Piste to Fort Bou-Jerif

More piste to Fort Bou-Jerif

Still more piste to the Fort

Me in a berber tent at the Fort Bou-Jerif (don't laugh!)

Rough piste from the Fort to Ifni

Near the Fort, fording the Oued after rains

Rough piste to Ifni

Ifni blues

Sidi Ifni is split in two by an enormous abandoned airstrip, built by the Spanish, who occuppied the enclave until 1969. The last plane to land was an American spraying plane shot down by Polisario guerillas in 1988 .

The Ifnians praise the tranquility of their town. That hundreds of French pensionados hybernate here in their luxurious campervans for exactly the same reason, is an attractive economic asset.

The Art Deco town centre, built by the Spanish in the 30s, is in neglect. And sadly that only adds to its romantic charm. The washed-out blueish candy colours form the perfect backdrop for the Atlantic.

Ifni blues

Friesland College in Ifni

Donkey on the Ifni airstrip