Friday, August 15, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rogue Rhodie on a Roller : Part 11 - All hell breaks loose.

Day 12: 8th August

Eish – I am losing track of time. I have to try and count on my fingers how many days and just where the hell am I. If it is Tuesday - it must be Belgium. No it is not. It is the Czech Republic and after SSS, it takes a mere three hours to pack up.

This whole amazing construction mounted on roller with no name attracts a crowd and thunderous applause as they take photos and post them on Facebook - 'Check out this fucking idiot - it is amazing he still alive or not arrested!'

I need to look at the map very carefully as I struggle to comprehend that I must be insane and why am I torturing myself? I pop my pill and smile - this is unquestionably the best time I have had in years.

I bid farewell to my motor heads, who are so sweet. The owner took kids around on the trike. They screeched with delight. Then all his pals insisted I park up next to his mighty machine and we made revs. (The video is on FB TGK – please join, you are missing loads of extras).

And so, I hit the road, and, it was rather uneventful, nice scenery etc until... somehow...

Down there is where I do not belong

And up there is bad news...

I AM ON THE BLOODY MOTORWAY again, and crapping myself. Eish, trucks, cars, blaring horns, waving wagging fingers out the window. I see visions of flashing blue lights in my tiny side mirrors. I would not hear the yowling of sirens because I was (was) so chilled, I had the MP3 player blasting away with America's greatest hits Part 2. This includes the track 'If I can make it to the border'.

I had an awful feeling I might make it into either a hospital bed or a police cell or a morgue or all three.
Did I shit? Oh yes. I took, 10 clicks later, the first exit - promptly stopped the roller (which had been at full throttle) and vomited all over the grass. Like hell I did. I removed my helmet, rolled a fag, and saw yet again a strange shape with wings going up to hide behind some clouds.

I had a problem with what the map said was a village but actually huge cities! The west was here also, no Penny Markt, but Lidle and Kaufland. I just wanted out. Traffic was heavy, the roads, well, they are still fixing them.

Once, I had to cross a pontoon bridge. They had stripped the tarmac ready for a new layer. The problem was that it was riddled with ridges, and the scooter was a nightmare to hold onto the 'road'.
And trucks!!! One nearly wiped me out as I desperately tried to hold the line. Listen hey – they don't need a zero tolerance for drink driving, you would not last a minute here – as I spotted from all the crosses and mini alters just about every 5 clicks on the side of the road.

The problem is the road directions are confusing

Stopping for a cup of china, in some dump, I spotted this

I had parked up at the border and used my German card for some Slotties. Such a strange name for a currency. Well, it seems you can slot four for one euro. I have not a clue what this will buy. Maybe a bribe if the Polish Police stop me.

I had refilled earlier. Now, heading towards Krackow, at 4.00pm, with over 100 clicks behind me, I needed a bed of some sorts – as in camping site.

The scooter is happily brumming away. Still no signs for anything besides... the worlds largest car scrap dealers. Hard to fathom. I think I drove 10 clicks or more and both sides of the road were just full of neatly stacked bits of cars! A street of scrap. Name a car, need a door, bonnet, tyre, boot...thousands of them. This was a street with a name . Scrap, Crap Street, which in Polish is...
no idea.

I am not really panicking but my arse was a bit sore, and 150 clicks on the tiny roller is hard work...and then – whilst I keep a wary eye for the sign depicting a tent – the guardian angel swoops down and opens my eyes to a sign. A SIGN – Jesus Christ, I see the light – yeah hardly, I nearly crashed the scooter as suddenly the name of some small back arse town rang a bell – plus the massive announcement was hardly one to miss -

Now, being a clever sixpence, if his late Holyness came from this joint, there has to be plenty of idiots wandering around flogging themselves with rent 'a hire shamboks and miniature crosses'. I have seen all that bollocks just down the road from where I live – Alt Otting. Old Rotting more likely. My, those sharks take the punters to the cleaners with their Catholic crap. Although, trade did drop off a bit when Ratzinger threw in the towel. All well and good chanting 'Pope from here and now Pope has done a runner.`Well, well hey. Fancy that! As if I care.

The way I saw it, with JP 2 kicking his first breath here, there just has to be a stable for Mary and Joseph. Actually, me and scooter with no name. So I parked up. Is not hard to suss out where to go. All you do is follow the souvenir shops. As you wander towards the main plaza, the price of the crap goes up.

I find the 'I' for information. Holy my rollie, as I roll one, it is packed with dozens with the faithful from every corner of the planet. I manage to explain to a scary bald headed bloke in charge of the joint, answering all questions in about 14 languages, that I am looking for a camp site.

Well, after a lot of interruptions from the dumb ass peasants paying a fortune to check out the plaza with a church (I can hardly describe what was going on), the bloke sends me to the holy camp site after phoning them. HUH! Cool, it is like rocking up at heavens door, except, me thinks, the place (down the drag four clicks), would be crammed with candle burners and cross staggerers – the joint is totally empty.

Hmm, my Jewish blood surged, what a waste hey. Instead of 'Camping' as a sign, put up 'J-P 2 slept here as a nipper.' and the bucks roll in. But as I rock up, there is a bunch of wild boys booking into the chalets.

So, busting for a piss, I hand over the passport, and I am told it will cost four quid a night. Holy bucks hey. If the fact that they have no internet; I could retire here.

Outside the camp site (a mere 20 second drunken crawl) is all you need. Cheap booze and food. Sorted.
So I leisurely make my home.

When I was almost finished, the yobs show up at the communal sit around and grill. The one lunatic is hacking wood up with an axe. I watched with horror. One misplaced blow and he chops his own hand off. Just for a joke I went over to the eight of them (all lads, early 30s), and presented my mini First Aid kit.

Well, did they laugh or what, plus they had seen me arrive with my overloaded beast. It turns out they were on a bachelor party and all of a sudden – I am guest of honour. I had bought some holy steak in holy square - not bad, rib eye for 1.50 euro, and at Lidl had picked up a small potato salad, (and almost passed out with fright. The road Number 28, is heavy with traffic. I have my blinker on and need to cross over and turn left onto the main drag. AND, oh help me guardian angel, at that moment the cops turn up blinking to turn into the supermarket. Well, they did a good looky at me and roller packed to the proverbial hilt. I was creaming my unwashed jocks big time. They turn in, I turn out and look in the mirrors, expecting them any moment to give the good old flashing blue light and wailing noise...nothing), so, they had a grill going, I was the royalty, and ...erm

They like VODKA. Bottles of it. I had the most amazing party. The bloke who was chopping the wood is nicknamed 'Butterfly', not sure why, but he had mouth only equalled to mine, and...German is not spoken here. English is the second language, and how we laughed. The groom received his presents. Two boxes that took two men to carry them.

Crazy shit. The boxes were full of weights.

But I can lift them - with a little help from my friends...

I cannot recall when 20 shots of VODKA later, I managed to find my bed.

Day 13: 9th August

I awoke around about … no idea. I didn't really have a hangover because I was still pissed. Everything was a bit of a blur. All I can work out is I need to find internet. The roaming on the stupid smart phone does not work.

Totally off my trolley, I had shower and with roller with no name totally enlightened, I stupidly headed back to the holy place. I mean, there must be internet there - even maybe a direct connection to God.

I was dressed to kill. T shirt and shorts of my Boss's firm. But the whole place is just one huge rip off. I park my roller, wander to the square. It is full of clowns crossing themselves, touching  bronze statues whilst anointing themselves with the trickling water that pumps quietly over JP 2 s feet.

Stupid – Oh so stupid. These people are fools. Simple minded in a belief. Idiots- strange, I see no signs to tell me how to get to Auschwitz. It is not far. I gather JP 2 actually had the decency to rock up at the place. So kind of him hey. I think they made the so called 'Nazi Pope', (he made a deal. The corrupt waster – I no see – you no invade the Vatican), a god damn Saint!

And I am here, just 50 clicks away from the place. So the trains full off Jews must have rolled by this city. I feel it. It is here. Death. German is not spoken here. JP 2 must have known. Yeah, stuff him and all the religious shit.

In the plaza, still a little woozey, I get conned. I order an ice coffee. Yeah, Jesus prices hey, and ask if they have WiFi. Yes they do. Until I get the drink and told sorry, no WiFi.

In fact, of all the places I have been to in the last two weeks- here, I am frightened. I have no fear of the people, they are the best and friendliest – but I feel something. Anyone who has read 'Simply the Pest', will know I am not religious, but why must I go to that camp? Camp – yeah, I gathered it took over 50 hectares of land and nearly two million people were murdered there. As Goebels said, 'A hundred dead is a tragedy, a million is only a statistic.'

All around is crap for sale. In the plaza, the highest price for some shite pic of JP 2 and as you wander back to the roller, the shit is half price. I just want to vomit. Yeah, Jesus, where are you with your whip in the temple? Believe me, if this town hadn't got a Pope, it would just be another tiny, unnoticed dot on the map. There is nothing here. But wow, how to milk the holy cow – and the idiots spunk massive dosh for the shite. Since when you have to pay entry to a church!!!

Ahh. I eventually get WiFi. Upload a couple of videos and stuff for FB. I order a cup of china at four euros a pop and all I want is OUT of this disgusting place. God is not here - just money. So many people from all over the world, just being bled dry...for what? Of course I have pictures. I have to show the world- DO NOT BOTHER coming here.

That night Butterfly and co are having party day number two. One chap spoke very good English. He had worked in a scrapyard in Ipswich for four years. He explained,by living on almost nothing, he saved enough to buy a house in Poland. RESPECT..

And, he hated the UK, hated the beer, hated their attitude to foreigners, and is delighted to be back at home. But to them as a Rhodesian, they haven't the foggiest notion of putting me in any kind of catorgary. I am neutral. Being a Rhodesian I find that I am not just only neutral, I am welcome.

Day 14: 10th August.

I awoke a little hungover and now faced a dilemma. I had planned to meet up with Darek, a bloke that bought loads of my stuff from Ebay a couple of years ago. I had given him a ring but he said he would only be back in Krakow on Wednesday night, the 13th. Hmmm I need to make a plan, but before one can find its way through a haze of caffeine mixed with the last of the vodka, another crowd pitch up.

Well, the usual happens. Where you from, where you going, all in a mixture of sign language, a bit of English and German. All best friends as the beer flows so of course the day is cancelled.

Day 15: 11th August – It is Monday

And tell me why I don't like them? Because that night the heavens opened and it does not stop.
There is no need to make a plan. It is blasting down. The tent stays waterproof but soon everything is damp. A few crawls away is a supermarket and the restaurant where I eat. I set up the Notebook to write but within minutes I am interupted (there is an open shelter with benches) and it does not take long before the beer and vodka flows. The people (all Polish) are of course on holiday here.

There is a young couple who plan to cook some sort of stew on the grill in a stone fireplace at the end of the shelter. I am invited. They use my extension socket and plug in a portable beat box. It pounds out heavy metal Polish. The young father (two lovely girls) is getting extremly drunk to the point of dropping bottles of beer onto the floor, shattering glass everywhere. The noise is disturbing me big time. I pack up my stuff, (notebook and rucksack), but them in my tent, grab mymoney belt and head for the restaurant for some peace and quite and some food.
It was to be a huge mistake...

As I nosh away outside (seating and tables covered by huge umbrellas), a rather boisterous crowd of young men in their mid twenties soon latch onto me. One of them spoke fluent English with, of all things, a Manchester accent! He happens to like the UK. I cannot recall what he had been doing there but intended to return asap.

Now, this is where I start having a problem. We all became great chinas, took photos, all sitting around having a laugh. I had stupidly taken my money belt off because of its clumsy bulk whilst sitting and eating. At some late point, I went to the toilet. I came back, and through a rather murky world (I might have had a beer spiked), noticed the belt was gone. Check mate. At some time the drunk young man from the camping site had turned up looking for me, droppedmore glass bottles, stirred aggro, but he went. Now I am frantically looking and asking what appeared to be a rather thinner crowd if anyone had seen the belt.

It had been stolen by one of them. Now I was well and truly fucked and one of the restaurant staff called the police. They rocked up 30 mins later. Not a lot they could do really. I was told to turn up for an interview the next day at 8.00am.

Day 16: 12th August.

I awoke, and the panic attacks hit me. Not only that, my pills were in the pouch. I took a massive risk and drove down. Normally I kept the keys in the pouch but obviously in some stupor I had left them in the ignition! I was trembling and shaking all over. They had arranged a translator for me. A nice enough bloke but the stench of his breath made me often go to the toilet to dry retch.

The sorry story? Passport, two bank cards, one credit card, health insurance card, Rhodie driving license, 80 euro, 1800 kronur (about another 80 euro) and a bit of Polish kronur. Still, I suppose I was a bitlucky. I had photocopies of the lot (not the cash of course).

With no internet and my nerves in bits, I text my ex, Daniela to send money via Western Union.
In the town of John Paul Part Two, was the utter stupidity of the staff in whatever bank I went to. (and for some strange reasons the banks outnumber the pubs and the queues are longer than an average bar multiplied by three).
Explain the hassle - show them police protocol, and tell them the story and could Danny simply wire via Western Union to one of their staff. It takes a couple of hours and job done.
Then you hit the classic 'Humba', one finger in nostril, one digit up bumhole." I speak Manager."
Manager come. me say, "Pretend you my china ekse and get money for me."
"Ah not possible, I not know you."
Me say - "You see that flag pole outside your building? How thick do you think it is, because your head is at least four times its diameter? You dumb fuck!"
Back at camp, the owners and another couple. Rafai and Ania The bloke with 'Fuck the police tattoo' and his babe) try to help, but the language barrier is a problem. In the end we work out I get Danny to send the money to the woman who owns the joint. Sadly she writes her name with Polish funny things like tails, I send it all wrong.

We rock up at the bank just before it closes. Well,5 banks later. They find it on the computer, everything is correct but for two letters spelling mistake. No money. Resend. Danny is not impressed. Still, the fact that they now know there will be money, the owner gives me a bit of credit. I go to bed, without eating or drinking. Oh, the lady, after much hassle, managed to get me replacement pills.
At enormous cost I used my German mobile phone to phone the UK and cancel my cards. They did tell me they have not been used. Also, phoning the UK embassy in Warsaw was about as helpful as asking the street beggar for a loan. Pop up, and maybe we can help. Sure I said, no money, no petrol and 300 odd clicks away. Thanks but no thanks. Twats!
Day 17: 13th August.
It rained all night. Was still raining when I got up and made myself some coffee. Danny had sent a text that she had corrected my mistakes and the dosh is ready to pick up. We all pile down to town. It takes one hour, 30 pieces of printed bullshit later to finally get 150 euros!!!
With the weather clearing a bit and it was already mid day, I had made my decision. It was time to start heading back via Prague the next day where I had to go to the Embassy there and tell them about the stolen passport and get some temporary I.D.
But – with a hole in the sky for a change, I hopped on the unloaded scooter and went off...
(To be continued in next posting)

Thursday, August 07, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rogue Rhodie on a Roller : Part 10

Someone pointed out that there is a difference between ROUGE and ROGUE – I am

Day 9: 5th August

Oh dear, I dot feel very clever. I think all the excitement and great times at the bar have caught up with me. I decided to simply chill and try not to chill to a cold death. It was even a struggle to down three little beers after waking up just before 12 pm. I concluded I better just read my book and leave out the internet. At 8.00pm, much to everyone’s surprise – I went to bed.

(But not before I nearly brought up my dinner. It was a Czech speciality. I cannot remember what it is called and I am glad because I would only recommend it to my enemies. It was forced upon me by my enthusiastic camp fans as the real taste of Czech. It is hard to describe. A shame I was too lethargic to take a picture. But, it reminded me of the glue we made for papermache, with par fried onions and lumps of fatty bacon chunks. I was actually retching when I crawled to bed. What came out the other end the next day was remarkably similar in consistence and smell - but just the opposite in colour though.)
Only to awake deep into the night to the howling sounds of wolves and screeching of giant wood owls. I also discovered that the bloody zip had done a runner and the sleeping bag was open and would not close.

Great, first the free tent collapses and now the free bedding is shot. I had given the kind woman 20 euros in goodies!

Day 10: 6th August

Hah, I sprung out the tent as fit as a fiddle. Which of course is a load of crap. After getting the weird flap doors open, I gingerly crawled out backwards on hands and knees. That maybe sounds a bit daft but it stops the mourning Jew getting the morning due from the damp doors all over his face.

I had noticed a strange smell in the tent, and after sniffing around a bit (it is a small tent) concluded it came from my plates of meat but even worse from my sandals. How can open footwear pong so bad? I had even showered in them. They must have been made in China.

I also noticed a bag of jocks and socks, swollen with gas, hovering at the roof of the tent like some weird kid's helium balloon. I wondered if I could just tie it to the back of the roller as a sort of fairground attraction.

Anyway, I furiously started to pack up, had a shower, shave and defecation (known as a shit), and two hours later I was ready. It takes an age to pack everything up. Studying the bits of scraps of a two dimensional diagram of a three dimensional landscape, I sort of worked out which way to go. East by North East. I had to kick start the machine as all my toys had sucked the batteries life blood out of it.

I had been told about a small short cut (oh-oh) that actually started on the road outside the camp site. It was supposed to be quaint and quiet with lovely woods on both sides and all that romantic stuff. What the man at the pub neglected to add was that no sunlight penetrates through this forest, it is shit scary and cold, and the reason there is no traffic on the road is because there IS no road.

The loaded roller, was skittering and jumping around like a Castle beer loaded up Rhodie on an ice rink. And the pot holes. Eish - even Zimbabwe would be proud of them. This did not abode well. Speed was down so low, a rat ran out of the undergrowth to savage at the tyres whilst I screamed like a girl in fear of plunging into hole so deep, all the police would find was the top of my helmet peeping out my watery grave.

After what seemed at least over half an hour; 31 minutes later I broke into sunlight and a junction.
After a quick fag to smooth my nerves, I hit left and short time later, right, then left and.... yay oh yay, somehow I was sort of going vaguely in the right direction. I stopped to fill up, even though I reckoned I still had 50 click range, but I had forgotten to fill the emergency cannister and after the last fiasco, didn't fancy another bitOvank. This meant stripping half the roller down. It takes (after some practise) 25 minutes to put 2.5 litres of fuel into the tank.

Besides the left, right stuff, it was savage curves, steep climbs where at some point I actually didn't think the poor thing was going to get up, but when it did, wow, like the proverbial horse giving head, it went mad down hill and shuddering in spasms of delight hit 55kmh with me laughing insanely with fear. Through forests, fields of sown wheat and the occasional small town, I slowly went east, and as I did so, I realised I had left the west behind....

It seems the last camp site was end station for the foreign tourists. No Dutch, no German registered cars passed – no Czech police either thank god, as I came across a couple, but I was left in peace.
Sure the roads that I was on, some still just patched up from the Commie days, were shite, but they are not major veins of an economy busting its ass to become, and is, ranked a developed country.

It is interesting to note (as a writer I clock all this) that the first place, Cesky Krumlov, being a fancy tourist joint and near Germany and Austria, plenty locals make plenty bucks, but out here, only 40 clicks from Poland, I have not seen a BMW or a Mercedes in two days.

Then I am in a town called Frenstat Pod Radh. My bum hurts. It is past 4.00 pm and over 130 clicks behind me. I need a camp site and to my astonishment, a huge sign leaps at me saying 'Rhodies Welcome' and I ploughed straight into it. Nah. It was for a camp site, and what a place! Quickly sorted out, a couple of toots, a tired FB TGK entry and video, I hit the sack after I had sort of fixed the zip...

Day 11: 7th August

To be honest, the weather isn't great. Always cloudy and for my African blood, rather cool. The locals still run around in shorts and T shirts. This camp site is well switched on. They even have a coffee machine almost right next door to my tent. They didn't half kick up when I asked for it. Hah hah. I am the only alien here. The place is 90% full of middle class, late 20s early 30s families with kids. It all makes sense. This must be well known and the kids make friends asap and leave the adults most of the time alone. And yet, I see no drunken debauchery. Cars are all two, maybe three wears old, mostly Skoda (top car as VW own the firm) a scattering of Renaults and Japanese models, but just average family cars.

What is so cute is the 'roads' in the camp site. I am not sure if they are used to teach kids' road traffic rules in the off season, but here and now – they ignore the lot as they
tootle along on their bicycles and these strange push along things.

I popped into town. Nothing much. Took a couple of pictures. This area is for hikers and bikers. Push bikers.

 I clocked the local public transport of buses is well used. The models are strange to me (local make I think), but all new. The big surprise was that they are run by ARRIVA, a multinational public transport company headquartered in Sunderland, United Kingdom. It is a subsidiary of Deutsche Bahn. They run services in London and even the trains I took to Birmingham when I lived in Barmouth.

A bit of something to see – as I am almost at the end of Part 1 of Game of Thrones- I thought this cool in a sad way...

There are still some remnants of the old Commie flats they built after the war. Most have been renovated. This one not yet...

I changed yet more dosh and went to a Penny Markt. I actually fancied making myself some food and I had this terrible desire for a bacon and fried onion sandwich. Also, after last night's misinterpretation of the next door restaurant's prices, whilst the spare ribs, salad, beer and fresh brown bread were excellent – it was ten pound. I can't afford this luxury.

Oddly, up here no one takes Euros, nor cards, credit or otherwise. Anther strange fact – their second language is no longer German but English. And they speak it very well.

And so finally, I dug in my 'kitchen' bag, only to find out that somehow the top of the Nescafe had come off and everything was covered in coffee. One small rage later, I had my brand new frying pan out and...

Great White Bwana says to his Sixpence- “ Eeway, kuramidza, for I am hungry for skoff. Look, I have bakon, bread bun, butter and one onion. Cut it up and fry it chop-chp and make me lekker, lekker sandwhich.”

Sixpence is veeeeery pleased to be Bwana's cookboy, it was better than taking him home when he pissed from talking to other Bwanas and trying to feel the tits of the strange girls. All the time telling them he big Gokwe Kid war hero.

Sixpence started to chop up the bread but Bwana hit him a flat smack over his head -

“You bloody fool, chop the onion, not the bread.”

Sixpence was perplexed but even more so when he examined the frying pan.

“Baas, why you want to fry this bakon in coffee powder?”

Bwana shout and make Sixpence clean the frying pan. But Sixpence had a sneaky question for Bwana -

“Ahhh, oh great one...” said Sixpence holding up a handle in one hand and the pan in the other, “Where is the screw?”

Bwana scowled and rummaged around in every pocket he had, and it was a lot of pockets.
“Just fry without a handle,” he said, but felt very stupid for he had hidden it also but cannot remember.

Sixpence examined the frying pan without the handle veeeeery carefully.
“Oh great and clever Bwana, when you take the screw out of the hole to take the handle off, why you not put the screw back in the hole – that way, we know where it is?”


Well, as I was just finishing the gorgeous sarmy paid for by Beverly Allen, there was a mighty roar and this rocked up next to my tent -

Oh well...

It is dribbling down now. I am up at the bar, connected to the mains. Looking at the map, if all goes well, I could crack Krakow tomorrow...

Stay tuned...

Monday, August 04, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rouge Rhodie on a Roller : Part 9

Day : Not a clue

It is Monday – tell me why I don't like them

I am still in this place. I like it. So - done nothing ( I had a haircut -Euro 2,50),but, I was attacked by savage man eating bears and wolves last night. I fought them off by screaming like a girl – but....

Eish, the tent was in a bad way. I tried a Rhodoe fix it job but luckily, it survived a serious rain storm – only to collapse on my head at about 4 in the mourning (no spelling mistake).

Rhodies are hardcore. First we need some coffee

Then, what do you do when you need a new tent in the arse end of the Czech Republic? Easy, you simply pop down to the local TESCO hypermarket (yes, do not choke on your drink as you read this - it is all true),and blow me down with a frozen stave, they have a special offer on three man tents. Well, I only needed one  - job done.

And so the great Gokwe Kid, smart as a shiny sixpence, works out the old tents poles make a cool flag pole.

Now - I am hungry...

tra la la....

Saturday, August 02, 2014

The Gokwe Kid – Rouge Rhodie on a Roller : Part 8

Day Seven - 1st August

I need to get the hell out of this place before I drown. It pissed down all night and when I had a peep out the tent, it was just a gentle 'guti'. Inyanga style. Rhodies are hard core and with the most terrible moaning and clutching my poor back, I considered throwing in the towel. Well, I had to - there were some puddles in the tent but they were clear of any hint of yellow, so it wasn't my fault.

Ah, bollocks. I stood in the mud and using the concrete ping-pong table, wrapped up everything in large bin bags. Strapped up roller with no name (she looked very miserable), and in jeans, sweatshirt, west and jacket, hit the road. I had this plan that if it lashed down I would wear that cheap plastic poncho – then I remembered it was under my seat! (Another lesson learnt.)

This time I kept an eye on the signs and my map. Next destination – Oldmouc. Rather a bit of a drive – but no pain no gain and along the way I learnt about the former. I stopped at a load of directions on a shield. All very confusing, but a great spot to have a crafty fag, remove the helmet, blasting out Supertramps 'Crisis, what crisis', and carefully sussed out that after 4 hours on the road, petrol tank hinting it could do with feeding soon, I was actually going the right way.

Then, something terrible happened. I had parked up on a slope. His name was Van der Merwe. The problem was that it was not an up/down slope but a sideways one. When I reached for the day pack, which resides between my legs as I brumm along, the roller rolled. I could not hold it. The back is too heavy and in an instant I was down and out with my right leg trapped underneath the horse with no name.

I writhed around, screaming like a girl who has just noticed her breasts are getting larger, and realised I would die of thirst whilst suffering the terrible pain of a broken leg in multiple fractures.
Yeah, nice try. Actually, the side packing of sleeping mattress and chair protected the roller, my leg I wiggled free, and at that moment some bloke on a motor bike stopped and together we got the roller back up. The joke was that not only did I not understand a word he was saying, but my head was being pumped full of Supertramps 'Asylum, don't send me too).

My biggest fear was that when I rolled the roller over, it had gone over the daypack. Inside was the notebook. I have already had to pay half its price for a new screen. So had visions that I had yet again a stuffed PC. Not only that, I could not post or do anything!

I didn't check. I was traumatised enough and just pondered the whole scenario as I hit the road again. At some place, I forget its name, I pulled over, ate a kebab (3 out of 5), and with much moaning popped into the local petrol station and loaded up. This of course took half an hour.

Just as well, because it turns out I had a lot of clicks still to go. Then, as I wandered the roller that was now going mental with relief that we were out of the rain and into the sun, the thing was going mental and for short stretches on 45 degree slopes , hit 60kmh. Till – the ultimate bollocks, another detour. Now what?

Okay, I clocked that over the last two decades the Czechs are jacking up their shit pot holed ex Commie donkey and cart tracks - But why must I try those out? I tell you, they were so bad that I think they released my trapped nerve in my back. It was just as well I had topped up, as scooter with no name was chewing it real time hey.

Eventually, I pull over and decide, “Where the fuck are we?”. Just as I was about to contemplate breaking into tears and start a fire so I can throw some ashes over my head, I noticed that trucks and foreign number plates were also teeth rattling past, so guessed I really was on the detour.

Man, I tell you, this was as bad as Tanzania, scooter with no name was screaming in agony, trying to shake me and the load off. I fought the shuddering handle bars at a dangerous 10 kmh, as we struggled our way through this hell on earth (slightly tarred).

Eventually, all things come to an end and I pop out on some major drag. Juice is low, but in theory, I can crack it. Now, where ever I was, on some heavy road, I follow the sign to Olomouc. In theory, that was supposed to be a place of interest. Also... in theory it was about 30 clicks down the road. A lot of theory hey!)

What happens next verges on the insane. Check out the Czech sign for AUTO BAHN, or,in English- MOTORWAY. Now I know that this is a big no-no, so I get my trusty map out and clock it. As far as I was concerned, it was just some kind of fast road.

Yeah, it is fast. I am on it and totally illegal. Even the scooter was shitting itself. We are going at full whack on the hard shoulder wondering how the hell we get off!

I take the next turn off. Fuck me up the arse with a frozen stave (ex BSAP Morris Depot saying),
if the pigs catch me, I am well and truly not needing a camp site for a few nights.
Next thing as far as my pooping brown eye can work out -I am still on the autobahn... going backwards.

The sweat is easy to produce - scooter is going mad in fear of spending a few nights as deposit in some Czech jail as a deposit for my fine.

After 10 clicks, with scooter at full throttle, I clock an exit. Any -I didn't give a monkeys, get off this motorway before I die (I am on the hard shoulder the whole time),

Amazingly, I am just four clicks from the centre of the place. Cool beans. So, thanking guardian angel, I wander on. Of course, with a roller, it is easy to park up. Anywhere.

I up the scooter by a map in the middle of Olomouc. I am not impressed. Very big, very busy, full of twat tourists. Weather has changed, sun is shining more than it does on TV, and I clock the 'I' sign for idiot tourists. Wandering in to the office, it took a short while to find out that the nearest camp site was about 20 clicks away, direction....Poland. Yeah... what ever.

Well, I ballsed that up but only by 10 clicks and here I am in a camp site. Although.. the entrance did not bode too well.

So I am in a neat tiny town called Sternberk - 218 kms later.. Sun is shit hot as is should be. I am flirting with the bar maid and getting well oiled. I think I stay here a while. Like...I mean – holiday.

Next Day – Saturday 2nd August

As you can see, these nights are paid for by – Eish - dangerous place hey! Till I discovered the queer entrance.

Into town, met my new girl friend, where she runs a coffee shop, when not at the camp site, and otherwise I chill, write and
Marcela, was brought up in the middle house of the square. She makes no money working so hard. Eish....

bars at a dangerous 10 kmh, as we struggled our way through this hell on earth (slightly tarred).

Well, I ballsed that up but only by 10 clicks and here I am in a camp site. Although.. the entrance did not bode too well.

So I am in a neat tiny town called Sternberk - 218 kms later.. Sun is shit hot as is should be. I am flirting with the bar maid and getting well oiled. I think I stay here a while. Like...I mean – holiday.

Next Day – Saturday 2nd August

As you can see, these nights are paid for by – Eish - dangerous place hey! Till I discovered the queer entrance.

Into town, met my new girl friend where she runs a coffee shop, when not at the camp site, and otherwise I chill, write and
Marcela, was brought up in the middle house of the square. She makes no money working so hard. Eish....

But..still a little woozy in the head, and frightened of the local pigs, I made the perfect Rhodie plan. When you are scared shitless of the wolves, where would they never look for you?

I checked out the local exhibition - man, I have no time for this shit -

But..still a little woozy in the head, and frightened of the local pigs, I made the perfect Rhodie plan. When you are scared shitless of the wolves, where would they never look for you?

I am having a ball. I wanted to have my hair cut but all the places were closed.

Erm – need more money....Keep sponsoring.

To make you men more interested, I took this pic of a Dutch babe, next to my tent. This should be at least worth a tenner!

More soon.

Please keep This trip is expensive.

Till... very soon.