One London evening in '16, while stalking explorersconnect.com hoping for something that would make me go squealies, I went squalies. There it was.
This tomboy had always wanted to be an adventurer and explore the world. I had marvelled, and was deeply inpired when Ffyona Campbell, simply by putting one foot infront of the other, went from Cape Town (where I was) all the way to Tangiers. But... two years felt too long to see so little, so very slowly. And who was going to be mad enough to drive my support vehicle (Ray Mears drove hers)? And what about my skin! The hole in the ozone then, was still huge.
More excuses mounted:
Overlanders cost a lot of money, and know-how I didn't have. But if I won the lottery, I would. Motorbikes seemed an unwieldy and technical disaster, confirmed after watching 'The Long Way Round' with Ewan and Charley in '05. Also... "Hello BMW, give us a bike!?" Not bloody likely, I thought without even asking.
Then there were the border/vehicle/bribe/paperwork dramas everyone spoke of, probably in languages I didn't know. All extra-extra-extra costs I wasn't keen on saving for either. Plus I hadn't even bothered to play the lottery. My commitment to what I really, really wanted was astoundingly stalled at zero.
I had however decided I wanted to be free, to just go and be me! Every commited lifestyle decision I had made, meant I was ready, always. No kids, no car, no house, no spouse. To give you an idea of just how simple I wanted my adventure to be, at this time I hadn't visited one country I needed a visa for. The total stood at 24. Now it is 30 more. My dual citizenship of two decent-ish passports facilitated plenty of visa-free fun to begin with. And yet, I knew I was not an adventurer no matter how much adventure I was having, because I couldn't squeeze my-life-will-never-be-the-same into a six week annual holiday (five weeks UK standard, bought the sixth), now could I?!
A real adventure to me seemed like something that shapes/redefines/moulds you, on top of rewiring your thoughts and gene expression, forever. And all for the better, in a way normal life is just not equipped to do. An adventure needs to be done over endless tough terrain/kms/countries/experiences with very little stuff/resources/help. I wanted to look/feel/see/be just like all those rugged, raw, tough guys with hefty sponsorships (another excuse lined up) that made the news headlines, and filled the pages of National Geographic. I too wanted something insane, impossiby possible (or was it possibly impossible?), and it needed to be a low budget do-it-yourselfer. I was clueless as to what it would be, and unwilling to give an inch.
Can I remember the link headline that made me squeal in delight that night? Nope. That link was dead. Clicking a random one above, a page opened. James was looking for fellow adventurers to cycle to Japan with, from London. I was stunned. This is possible? One bicycle can do all that? The genius was, that I could indeed ride a bicycle. I commute on one every damn day. Wait? One can fit everything one needs into a few small waterproof bags made specifically for bicycles? And just like that, I ran the pros vs cons. Faster than on foot, but not as fast as an overlander, which is too enclosed and isolated a way to travel for me anyway. Not as cool nor sexy, and not as nimble with the kms as a motorbike, but cheap, eco, yet unsexy-as-all-hell, but seriously badass. Ohhh! This was it. I was going to commute around the world by bicycle. I was sure of it.
Lucky for me, James had taken the droll (lots and lots of excuses) out of it. I knew the seasonal when, the countries of where, and the simplified how. And I already knew my why! To see the world how it really is. I didn't need to find myself, I wasn't looking to start over, and there was no trauma to respond to by doing something crazy. Just an endless unsaturated curiosity. I knew the news wasn't real, but what was? I was going to find out, or die trying. And I was okay with that. Little did I know just how close I would come.
I was in so deep, that when James and another pulled out due to pressures from parents/society to conform instead of go wild, I didn't care. I was going to do this, solo. I got this, right?
The hell I did. Did I have that kind of bicycle? Nope, but I had tomsbiketrip.com, which is an incredible world-by-bicycle by-any-means-necessary super encouraging resource. Insane actually. Every question answered, every 'yes but' catered to, and no stone or budget left unturned. I devoured books by British world cyclist and history buff Anne Mustoe who started touring at 55, and died many books worth of adventures later in Alexandria, and a few other British do-it-yourselfers that I got to know at Explorers Connect talks in various London pubs, like Leon 'The Road Headed West' McCarron, Alastair 'Moods of Future Joys' Humphreys. And even the stat-filled book by Mark 'The Man Who Cycled The World' Beaumont inspired me. The emotionless numbers gave a different kind of clarity.
I just needed my cojones to drop. By a lot. And Instagram helped. Two solo Skandinavian blondes were en route, doing their individual authentic thing. For the first time, I paid attention to how women were doing something, specifically blondes like me. Different hair colours ellicit different behaviours, and I wanted to go au naturel. I also wondered about vagina-friendly bike seats, world tampon supplies, and if cycling shorts really were necessary for my vulva.
The only exceptional piece in my puzzle, was that as a female I am not scared of spiders, snakes, insects, doing things solo, the dark, the unknown, other people, other cultures. I was other, so I was comfortable. I have always loved sports - the harder the better. Two Tough Mudders in one weekend? No problem. I was fit, I was strong, and I had no-one and nothing to stop me. Only two humans knew that my trip might go further than the friends-and-family announced Black Sea. When I got to Budapest 1500km later, the Iranian visa made its way into my passport. First difficult one done easily, and I was elated. Black Sea my arse. Turkmenistan and China would allude me (and most others that year), and for Uzbekistan, we applied in Ankara. I had met my first touring bestie. Cameraderie when you don't feel like doing everything yourself, is gold, and it was very, very wise to buddy up to cycle Iran. All other borders were either a walk-up, or some simple online paperwork, and most came with that pesky visa fee. Cambodia tried to extort, but no dice. I had become unfuckwithable.
The realisation that nothing is as hard as we think it is, dawned. Baby steps and deep breaths. In fact, once I let go of control, any perceived expectation, became aware of my ego's protective entitled (but unnecessary) ways, and trusted my diversely seeded gut wholesale, an amazing world revealed itself to me. A world full of kindness, caring, hearty laughs, endless smiles and blissed-out joy. It is a shangri-la out there, if you are open to it.
So in early May '17, I set off south along the Rhine river on my long researched, but newly acquired bicycle of choice. It has never let me down. And I it. Germany is a goldmine of excellent quality endurance touring and outdoor equipment. The opposite of London then. I was going to switch to the Danube river at source, and ride east all the way to the Black Sea. The signposted bicycle routes of the Eurovelo throughout Europe make this a doddle. The perfect way to see what works for you, what doesn't, and get comfortable with your new normal. Supermarkets, signposts and campsites all the way. You can pick and choose your comfort's difficulty level.
I then hopped onto the Silk Road, an ancient trading way. Gone were the signposts, recommended routes, campsites and regular interval food, drink and toilet paper shops. The fun started in Turkey, disappeared in Iran, and returned full force in Uzbekistan, while Tajikistan delivered a nose-bleed-high at 4655m, Kyrgyzstan was gorgeous, and Kazakhstan vast. I then hopped over and cycled around touring perfect Thailand, followed by Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia with new touring besties, cycled solo south to Malaysia, flew to Okinawa Island, ferried to mainland Japan and South Korea, flew to the epic Victoria Falls (see them from the Zimbabwean side), and cycled via Zambia, Namibia all the way to Cape Town. The initial plan was to fly only once, to wherever home would be next. Fat chance.
17 158kms through 24 countries in 423 days. That was adventure one. I had changed. I was wilder than before, resilient, badass, beyond capable and in love with our world. I had aquired a bomb-proof inner knowing. I knew I would be fine, no matter what. Of all the presents I have given myself, this would be the greatest. I was liberated. I had become more me.
No surprises then, that acclimatising to regular life was tough. Same-same is a hard pill to swallow. Life on the road is so varied, so unpredictable, so rich, so joyful, that my previous fun 'normal' seemed an utter waste of my life.
Not long after, there was a swift reassesment of funds and fears. Then another dose of intense touring YOLO, and a loud 'fuck it, let's go'. I set off in late '19 from Cape Town with the aim - via the largely unknown-to-me and more difficult West African side - to make it to Nord Kapp somehow, before I was too threadbare, lean and broke.
I made it well-fed as far as the end of central Africa, to Cameroon. The pandemic was becoming a very bad thing. Despite initial protesting and willingness to stick it out, I learned the borders and airports wouldn't open anytime soon if the handling of Ebola was my template. On top of that my hard-won $100 Nigeria visa would expire, and with no way to get it renewed, I would need to fly over to Benin. Nigeria is a wonderful and really tough country for a cyclist (according to the few reports of those that managed to get a visa en route and cycle across) and I am not going to miss out. I got flown out to Zurich instead, straight into the heart of the pandemic. I do not have a Swiss passport. My two countries failed me. I am forever grateful to the embassy staff that got me and my bicycle on their repatriation flight. I then promptly almost-died in a posh-as-standard Zurich hospital with a hefty 8% parasitic dose of malaria, surprising a string of doctors (diagnosis and recovery: there was nothing normal about any of it), and myself. After five weeks of check-ups and fainting spells, I decided to keep cycling. My blood needed to reproduce, otherwise a transfusion loomed. I did not want the blood of another inside me. My vampire phase was firmly behind me. As I was too weak and confused to deal with normal life, I had little choice. Lying around was going to kill me. Bodyparts and neurons were frequently misfiring, giving me false data. I figured fresh air, constant movement, endless outdoor rest and doing what I can do best, were the smartest options, and so with my virologist's approval, I set off. It took 13 months total to heal, which resulted in a ten country European pandemic-loop, plus a 6 month winter break in Portugal last year. I have just made it to Germany, and the acclimatisation of normal life has begun, again...
11 739km, through 16 countries, of which these seven were previously unknown to me: Angola (the love of my life), Republic of Congo, Gabon, Cameroon, Liechtenstein, Denmark, Portugal.
To follow my past, and future adventures, check out www.instagram.com/rawcandyrides where you will likely witness an upcoming post-adventure meltdown soon.
And feel free to ask me all the questions about touring, that you'd like answers to.
Just do it, I did.
Much love,
B x_x
ps. I know... What about the money? I never did win the lottery. Instead I learned what real budgeting is. The zero-excuses kind. The needs vs wants kind. Bare bones London is fun too. On the road I would learn two more levels of doing without. The harder it got, the more fun it became. Billionaire autobiographies frequently mention their best and funnest times being the early days, when everything was a hustle and funds were vapour. I believe them.
As with everything that seems insurmountable, start small. Nothing will happen, if you don't start somewhere. There are no excuses. This I had to learn the hard way. And I am very glad I did.