On a Bike and a Prayer
day 1. bureaucrats and blunders
'So
what do people who are going camping do to take fuel for their stoves?' 'They go
by bus', said the cheery British Airways voice at the end of the customer
enquiries line. Stephane still packed his Calor gas, although I refrained
from filling my stove with paraffin before leaving.
We wobbled through the early morning London may-hem that August morning and choked and spluttered our way into Victoria Station to check in. The desks were deserted although smart buttoned staff were milling around.
It was 7.05am when we started to dismantle the bikes. Twenty minutes later the job was complete and we lugged everything round to the other counter. 'I'm sorry said the cherry BA voice' but luggage for that flight has already left - we're not taking any more - you'll have to hurry to check in at Gatwick'.
I was stunned. How could ten months of plans be foiled so easily. In a frenzied, heart pounding sweat we hurled bikes and bags onto a waiting train. Our new hope of still making the flight was dashed when the buxom guard spotted the dismantled bikes in the corridor and forcibly evicted us with treats of calling the police to counteract my furious protests.
'There's another train going in fifteen minutes' she smirked as she flounced off down the platform.
The guard's van was bare and second class crowded. It was
a horribly fraught journey down to Gatwick - uncertainty mounting with our
frustration. North terminal lay a further monorail journey away and by the
time we reached the check-in desk it was just ten minutes before the flight was
due to leave.
'So there you are', said the cheery voice. 'We thought you didn't want to go' smiled a hostess as we stumbled aboard. 'It's been a bad day' I replied as I slumped into a seat over the wing. Andrea and Stephane found window seats. The child-like glee of flying for the first time, overwhelmed Andrea who sat fidgeting in her seat. Stephane submerged himself in a financial magazine and I in a guide book.
Gibraltar was hot and bothered - with tiny clogged streets - a mixture of English seaside town and Mediterranean holiday resort. The oil fires burnt bright and sooty in the bay and cranes bowed low about the monstrous limestone hulk that is Gibraltar.
We shopped and peddled around before heading out towards Algiceras and our gateway to Morocco. I dozed away the voyage and woke numbed with sleep and with the sun low in an Atlantic sky. Tangiers bought more hassle than four months in China and it took two hours of haggling and diplomacy to fight out some currency, a room and some food.
listen to audio diary