From the Library

[Biggles]

During the four days spent in crossing the Nullarbor we saw no one, except that one lonely family at Eucla and the startled homesteaders at Mundrabilla. Over the distance of 1,000 miles it was as if we were the sole human inhabitants of the earth and we became attuned to this form of existence, blending in with the harsh surroundings and marvelling at what we saw. We would possibly open up a conversation at lunchtime over the lizard that scurried away and totally disappeared before our very eyes; or upon that magnificent dance display performed by a flock of brolgas; or on how we very nearly collected a wayward galah seeking to regain the flock by making a suicidal attempt to cross our path. There were a thousand and one things during the day's viewing to absorb the mind, in addition to a thought now and again about our own well-being. A dingo track in the sandy waste under the front wheel would be commented upon, or a goanna raising itself on those peculiar front legs that made it look like hydrofoil raised upon its foils as it streaked for the nearest tree in which to seek refuge, always spiralling to ensure the tree trunk was between it and the human invader. All these things we observed as we went our way, and were the prime subjects of conversation at stopping time.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  pp117-8

[Williamson]

During the four days spent in crossing the Nullarbor we saw no one, except that one lonely family at Eucla and the startled homesteaders at Mundrabilla ....

Thanks for today's post Bill.

Haven't followed all of your posts, but I opened this thread again today and it brought back some memories, and I wonder if the lonely family mentioned above could've been my Dad with his parents who crossed the Nullarbor in 1929.

Dad told us the story about the crossing many times, particularly the time they broke down and had to wait a number of days for a tow, which was provided by an Afghan camel driver / herder, to the nearest homestead.  I seem to recall that this was at the Eucla Telegrah Station where he celebrated his 5th birthday with a toy truck which his Mum had packed before they left Swan Hill.  Dad has gone now so I can't ask him the Afghan towed them to Mundrabilla, and he'd be 101 anyway, so he probably wouldn't have remembered.

Dad had for many years expressed a wish to do the trip again, and in a Model T.  When we visited Dad & Mum on Dad's 87th birthday he told us that he bought himself a birthday present, a Model T Ford (1st pic).

This T wasn't really up for the trip so a friend, Alan, offered the use of his T (with an overdrive gear, making it capable of 70km/h, 2nd pic), much more suitable, would've been better if it had proper brakes.  Sadly, T's didn't.

Anyway, in September 2003 we set off from Swan Hill to Perth.  When we got to Eucla we visited the (now) Old Telegraph Station (3rd pic) - Dad was like a puppy with two tails.

Good memories.

 

Have got the dreaded message, "Your attachment has failed security checks and cannot be uploaded. Please consult the forum administrator", we be back later with the attachments.

In the meantime, hi-jack over, back to normal viewing.
 

[Brock]

Have got the dreaded message, "Your attachment has failed security checks and cannot be uploaded. Please consult the forum administrator", we be back later with the attachments.

What type of file were you trying to upload, and what size.   I think there is a 500meg (or is that Kb) size limit, and certain file types arent supported.

[Williamson]

Pic 1

Pic 2

Pic 3

[Biggles]

Upon the final stamping and signing of our card, which by now bore stamps and signatures from all the capital cities in the Commonwealth of Australia, our mission was ended. We could now go home and sleep in a proper bed and dispense with our plain flour, cream of tartar and soda, put our firearms away without fear of molestation by man or beast and lead an ordinary life once again.
Despite the hazards of the last eleven weeks- sleeping in the open under all sorts of conditions, drinking water in which lay dead cattle, and living from day to day always dependent on our skill in handling that heavy, unwieldly outfit in all manner of motoring hazards- despite all these hazards we had made it.
We had returned triumphant and were not only the first to circumnavigate Australia on a motorcycle and sidecar, but the fastest for any type of motorised land vehicle. We had also dispelled all doubts those cautious potential sponsors had about man not being able to live with man for long periods of isolation. We really felt as though we had achieved something. And that's a great feeling.
Around Australia The Hard Way In 1929  Jack L. Bowers  pp130-1

[Biggles]

I'd grown used to the chaos and noise of a city like Delhi by this point, but Naiwala Street seemed to step it up a notch. The street itself was barely visible among the abundance of motorcycles, pedestrians, wooden carts pulled by either people or animals, tuk-tuks, food stalls and motorcycle parts on display. But it wasn't long before I became a fixture of Naiwala Street myself. I decided to spend my time gaining some essential repair skills. To me, motorcycle maintenance was like a secret language that only the bikes themselves spoke, drawing from a dictionary written in hieroglyphics. I met Satnam, a man who worked at Shakti Accessories and who was willing to teach me the basics. He had a short goatee and a couple of deep scars on his left cheek. His calm disposition made me trust him. In exchange for his lessons, I bought all the accessories we installed on my motorcycle in his shop.
"I just don't have the additional headlights," Satnam said, clearly disappointed. Then his face brightened. "My cousin has a shop, he does sell them. Come, come, I'll take you," he said over his shoulder while making his way to his moped. "Come," he said encouragingly. I hesitated. I wasn't overjoyed at the prospect of riding pillion with him. I wanted those lights though, so I reluctantly agreed. I'd only just grabbed hold of the grips on the back when he revved the engine and the shabby moped lurched into motion. He skillfully navigated the small streets and kept narrowly avoiding pedestrians, motorcycles, and once even a cart full of gas canisters.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  p16

[Biggles]

The mechanic started by unscrewing the air filter's protective cover. Although I only realized that's where the air filter lived once he took it out and held it up. I'd never seen a motorcycle's air filter before, let alone a dirty one, so I didn't know what it was supposed to look like. Given the look on the mechanic's face, it was far from fabulous. He shook his head at me.
"This is not good. Not good."
He turned the key, started the bike and held the filter in front of the exhaust while his assistant revved the engine- which is apparently how you clean an air filter. The dust cloud that emerged was so large that I broke out into a coughing fit. According to the mechanic the air filter hadn't been cleaned for thousands of miles and I started to doubt Pankaj's optimistic assurances about the bike being "shipshape". I didn't know enough about motorcycles to specifically tell the mechanic what else to check though. For the past three years, I'd just dropped off my Ducati Monster at the dealership in the Netherlands whenever it needed to be serviced. I didn't have the slightest idea what they did to it, or what parts needed to be cleaned or replaced or when. And I knew even less about the maintenance of off-road motorcycles. I opted for a general request.
"Could you check everything?"
The mechanic blinked. "Everything?"
"Well, you know, the most important things," I said as nonchalantly as possible.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  pp37-8

[Biggles]

I turned onto a side street, parked Basanti next to the kerb, and dismounted to inspect my tires. Completely dumbfounded, I stared at my rear tire. There was no doubt about it: the tire was flat. In Karol Bagh, back in Delhi, they had injected some kind of black slime between my tire and the tube. The black goo was now bubbling out and running down one of my spokes.
"With this stuff, you'll never get a flat tire," Satnam had assured me. I had the unsettling hunch that he had been wrong. I shook my head in disbelief.
"But I was so close," I mumbled quietly.
As I was still coming to terms with the fact that my tire was really flat, I hadn't noticed a man and a woman approaching me from behind "You have a problem?" I heard suddenly.
I spun around. "Yes, I have a flat tire," I replied.
I was met with the friendly faces of a man wearing a colorful shirt and a young woman holding a black umbrella, even though it wasn't raining.
"Don't worry, I'll call a mechanic," the man said.
I sighed in relief. In Delhi, during my crash course in motorcycle mechanics, I had learned that when push came to shove, I couldn't repair a tire on my own. I didn't know where these people had come from, but I was glad for their unsolicited help. It wasn't long before the promised mechanic showed up. Without hesitating, he got to work and an hour after discovering my puncture, I had a new tube and was ready to carry on. I paid the mechanic double what he charged me and thanked everyone again. I realized that Southeast Asia might be the best place in the world to get a fiat tire on your bike, seeing as how it had more mopeds and motorcycles than cars. Patching punctures was the most natural thing in the world here. I'd been lucky.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  p58

[Biggles]

I was just exiting the bathroom when I saw a TV crew waiting for me beside Basanti. I felt caught, as if my pants were still around my knees. I glanced down, just to be sure, but thankfully they weren't. I quickly fixed my hijab and walked toward the small group of people that had assembled. A man wearing a dark purple shirt and blue vest was waiting for me with a large microphone. A young woman wearing a chador (kind of like a burqa, but where the face is left uncovered) was ready with the camera.
"How you from?" asked the journalist in broken English.
"From Holland;' I replied.
"Please, welcome to Bafgh," he said.
"Thank you." I didn't know what else to say.
"Welcome to Bafgh and please go to the tourist," he said, pointing at the opposite side of the traffic circle.
"Tourist?" I couldn't make heads or tails of what he was saying.
"You. Go to tourist and television."
Eventually, I understood that he wanted me to come to the other side and that we would film there. Obligingly, I rode Basanti around the traffic circle and stopped at something resembling a market stall. There, the interview began. He asked me why I had come to Bafgh (to pee and have lunch, though I didn't bother to mention the first bit) and what kind of sights there were to see in Bafgh, Yadz, and Kerman (beautiful mosques). He had me shout "Welcome to Bafgh" at the camera a few times, and with that, the interview was over. I got a cup of tea and a fan with the words KHOSH AMADID printed on it, which meant "Welcome". Despite the somewhat stilted interview, my interviewers had succeeded: I really did feel welcome in Bafgh and in Iran.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  pp84-5

[Biggles]

I stayed in Khorog the next day. There was rain forecasted, and I planned a rest day. I needed to recuperate, wash my stinking, dirty motorcycle clothes, give Basanti a thorough checkup, and, most importantly, hear more of Ganesha's stories. While examining Basanti's wheel, I was horrified to find a small piece of metal sticking out of the tire. I instinctively pulled it out, then briefly stood there holding the sharp object. I didn't hear any air escaping from the tube, so I assumed I'd narrowly avoided a puncture. I grabbed my tire pressure gauge to make sure. The reading was the same as always, and I breathed a sigh of relief. If I'd kept going for one more day, the metal would undoubtedly have penetrated deeper into the rubber, and I would have gotten a puncture. I'd been so lucky to discover this now! I rarely checked my tires, something I might do daily if I were a more sensible person. I didn't allow myself the time. In the mornings, I was so eager to start riding that it never felt like I had a moment to spare for something so tedious.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  p134

[Biggles]

When I was some sixty feet away from them, I promptly stopped Basanti in the middle of the road and hobbled to the passenger side of the truck, which had stopped too. The door swung open before I'd even reached it and without any hesitation I clambered up the two steps and swiveled myself inside. I yanked the door closed behind me. Two Pamiris dressed in thick winter coats and fur hats stared at me, their eyes big with surprise. It must have looked pretty comical- a blond woman with a red nose and blue lips from the cold tottering off her overloaded motorcycle and unceremoniously climbing into their cabin. Without saying anything, I peeled the perforated gloves from my hands and showed my white fingers.
"Cold, I'm so cold," I muttered. I didn't bother trying to say something in Russian and simply spoke Dutch to them. The two men looked at each other and then back at me.
"Adin kilometer," said the man sitting next to me. One kilometer. "House."
"House?" I repeated in English. They both nodded. I blew on my hands for a brief second, breathed in the warmth of the cabin, and nodded too.
"Thanks," I remembered to say before climbing out again, back into the cold. The truck stayed put for a little longer, until I had my helmet back on my head and my gloves on. Then its engine fired, it slowly came into motion and honked. I raised my hand and started Basanti as well. One kilometer. Just one kilometer to go.
Free Ride  Noraly Schoenmaker  p157