A couple of weeks ago it occurred to me that, contrary to my promises and my good intentions, I hadn’t yet made it over to Dutchland to see my old mucker from Kerewan, Ivo. We’d spent many happy hours riding motorbikes, discussing work, crying about how little progress we were making and getting drunk, and we’d always said that we would keep in touch when the whole Gambian adventure was over. In fact, Ivo swore that he would pass his bike test so that we could go and reprise our ‘Not So Long Way Round’ exploits on a grander scale in a European setting.
Well, true to his word, Ivo passed his test earlier this summer – the only thing he forgot to do was to actually buy a motorbike (excuses about money, lack of parking etc etc)!
Obviously the grand tour wasn’t going to happen without a set of wheels for the Dutch lad, but I was still hankering for a ride on the continent and so, when the opportunity arose, I arranged to pop over to Amersfoort to see what a Dutch person looks like in their natural environment.
Naturally the venture was meticulously planned (as always). I sent Ivo a text on Sunday night to ask if he was at home to visitors during the next week. He replied that, apart from the inconvenience of working in the afternoon and early evening, he was around and was willing to hire himself out as a drinking companion.
A quick trawl of t’internet secured me a cheap Dover – Calais return and the trip was scheduled for that Wednesday!
In order to find Chez Ivo, the helpful person sent me a Google Maps set of directions which, as I haven’t got a printer (thanks children!), I had to transcribe onto a sheet of paper. Copying the map out proved to be incredibly tricky and I soon ran out of different coloured pens for the many categories of road to be found betwixt here and Amersfoort and so I eventually settled for the written instructions only.
The next couple of nights I could barely sleep for excitement at the thought of riding all the way to Dutchland and spending a couple of evenings catching up with Ivo. (That sentence was put in to make Ivo feel special.)
On Wednesday morning, I sprang out of bed at 0500, washed, got dressed, packed a change of clothes, kicked the bike up (well, pushed the starter button) and was heading for Dover by 0600.
The journey to Dover was largely uneventful: the bike ran well, the weather was good and the traffic was light. I had plenty of time in hand and stopped for a coffee at a service station in Kent. Stepping inside, I thought for a moment that I’d accidentally gate-crashed someone’s ‘70s party but it turned out that the owners had simply forgotten to redecorate for around 35 years! Fortunately the coffee was only around 10 years old and still contained sufficient caffeine to make sure I stayed awake long enough to reach the ferry terminal.
Boarding the ferry proved to be a fantastic reminder of those heady days of executive travel between Bajul and Barra. I followed another motor bike onto the car-deck and watched as it was directed to the area where the rings are set into the floor for strapping down the bikes during the crossing. I began to ride towards the same general area, only to be stopped by a deck-hand gesticulating wildly. I could hear him shouting, but with the bike engine running, my helmet on and earplugs in, I couldn’t make out a single word he was saying. When I shrugged at him to indicate my total lack of comprehension, he began to make sweeping arm movements, presumably showing me how he wanted me to park.
I was still a little uncertain what he was trying to get across but gamely tried my best to comply – only to be stopped by the deck-hand jumping in front of me, still shouting (and still not being heard) and making elaborate gestures, roughly circular in nature. It gradually dawned on me that he wanted me to turn the bike around and park it backwards – though it still hasn’t dawned on me why anyone could have thought that this was a necessary manoeuvre! Anyway, having done as the kind gentleman wanted me to, I dismounted and began to remove my biking gear only to be confronted by said deck-hand popping up beside me, wanting to remonstrate about my lack of speed when it came to following incomprehensible instructions. Having traversed the River Gambia many a time, I was well prepared for such tribulations as this, and duly ignored him! It was slightly ironic that, each and every time that Gambian deck-hands ranted and raved at the silly Europeans who were unable to follow simple directions to park in 4 different places simultaneously, Ivo and I would say, “You don’t get treated like this on a cross channel ferry!” How wrong you can be.
Amused rather than upset by this little contretemps, I made my way upstairs, downed another coffee to keep me awake – and promptly fell asleep.
Just over an hour later I must have caught the exotic aroma of mainland Europe as I awoke to hear the Captain announcing our final approach to Calais.
Rolling of a ferry in a foreign country is always exciting to me and, albeit that it was only France rather than Africa, I still had the same buzz as ever. The sky was blue(ish), there was a definite sense of being in a different country and I was about to set off on a journey to what was for me, a brand new country. Heaven!
