Chain a blog by Jeff Barnes

Just when I thought that Hoi An had sold its soul to tourism I jumped on a rickety single speed hotel bike and over calculated both the distance and the strength of the sun in riding to the coast. Within minutes of summiting the flimsy, clackety clack motorbike bridge the tourist blare faded. Suddenly it was stooping farmers, waving children and smiles from rural people uninterested in my foreign currency. Buffalo sat neck deep in the rivers, fishermen steered with gnarly feet whilst tossing shimmering nets into the same sluggish river. One bridge led to another each time with less people. True I could still get my hair cut, feet massaged and a bowl of intestine soup easily but there was a calmness to the place.

One morning Eric announced he had a mate who may be able to help, John Carter. A few texts, a couple of phone calls and a loose arrangement was made to borrow John’s bike for a week. So here I am five months later on a train from London to Stansted airport where I was met by John and taken to his nearby house in the tiny hamlet of Bacon End. It’s a real name… “Pigs arse” I hear you Aussies mouthing. An hour later I’m away with two small bags lashed to John’s bike frame and a wave of faith from he and wife, Judith.

I stripped off, found my bike shoes were a bloody mess of squirming leeches and and headed downstairs to the onsen shower. It looked like a blood bath afterwards as the leech wounds just wouldn’t stop bleeding. The host, Satoshi eventually ran me down to the station with his wife wanting to spray everything entering their car with bleach. “You’ll laugh about this tomorrow” he said not turning but looking straight at the windscreen. “No, it’ll take a few days” I replied as I got out of the car

Now these headlands no longer have gun placements instead it’s rows of camping cars all in a line satellite dishes turned skywards and being buffeted by the coastal winds. We peddle on, many in the group telling family stories over dinner of grandfathers and long forgotten uncles who went excited looking for adventure as twenty year olds and didn’t return.

We left our traditional bus behind on Bohol. Siquijor has supplied us with a much small technicolor party bus. It struggles to carry us all. Young Harold, the guides assistant clambers onto the roof. He sits there cross legged clutching his bike for fear it will be scratched against the others. For a minute I feel like I’ve been transported back to India.

I’ve felt like a bear forced into back to back hibernation. I, like many, was […]

One hundred kms on gravel is a far harder push than bitumen. Thankfully there were sections of bitumen each day to allow my body to stop shaking. Some sections of corrugation left me unsure if my teeth would ever bite into a bread roll again. Worse was I didn’t have the skills to stop or ride over such a punishing track even if I’d wanted.