by Chett Vosloo
Right from the start of the trip we both didn’t want to have a rigid plan that we had to stick to. Instead, we wanted to be more open and to see where the road took us. Where possible we would try to cover at least 100 kilometres per day, but if we couldn’t we weren’t going to lose any sleep over it. What often determined how far we rode in the day was the distance to the next campsite. Jerome and I had been warned that we may run into a few bears along the way and so we thought that we had better play it on the safe side and sleep at official camp sites, and not in the forests off the side of the road. The only down side to this was that we had to cough up around 20 bucks each night for a campsite. Travelling on a budget as we were, this would make things expensive. After ten days into the trip, we then came up with the genius idea of knocking at a random door to see if we could pitch our tent in their garden for the evening. We figured that we might as well try. What’s the worst that can happen? They say, “No.”
***
Later on in the day when it was around the time for us to start looking for a place to sleep for the night, we spotted a trailer home a few hundred metres ahead of us. There was nothing else in sight and it seemed as though this was as good as it was going to get. When we got up close and saw what a mess the place was in, I started to have second thoughts. The grass in the front yard was two feet high and things were lying all over the place. An old rusted trampoline stood in front with half the canvas missing. The place looked so run down that I wondered whether anybody was even living there. Jerome and I played a game of rock, paper, scissors to see who’d have to go and ask whether we could camp in their yard for the night. Having lost, I cautiously walked up the pathway and knocked a few times lightly on the door. A middle-aged man, with who I could only assume was his wife and two kids, opened the door soon after. I put on a big smile and told him the story about how we were cycling across the country from coast to coast and that we hadn’t found a campsite. “Would you mind,” I asked politely, “if we pitch our tent in your garden for the night?” I promised him that we would be out of there first thing in the morning and that we wouldn’t make a lot of noise.
He said, “No problem,” and even offered us a cup of coffee and a small bite to eat.
The next evening we tried the same trick and, would you believe it, it worked again. However, this time they not only asked us to join them for dinner, but insisted that we sleep in their spare room for the night. Staying at campsites had, just like that, become a thing of the past for us. Why spend twenty bucks on a campsite when you could get a bed, a shower, and maybe even dinner and breakfast in the morning, all for free? At first I felt a little awkward knocking at a complete stranger’s door, as I thought that we were imposing. But in time I came to realise that many of the people we stayed with had little company and were lonely. What we gave them was a story, and someone to talk to for the night. Staying at a different person’s home day after day did mean that we had to repeat the same stories, but for what we were getting, who was I to complain? Besides, when it came to sitting around in the evening with a glass of red wine in hand and entertaining our hosts with stories from our bicycle trip, Jerome was your man. He could sit for hours with the conversation going back and forth and never feel like it was too much. Whereas I, on the other hand, liked to sit around and socialise to a point, but sooner or later I’d fade and go off to bed.
***
Cycling across Canada was always going to be a great adventure, but what made it that much more special was all the people we stayed with along the way. Having lived in a city for most of my life, it never ceased to amaze me how people would take in two complete strangers for the night. If there was one lesson this cycle trip was going to teach me, it was to show me how kind and generous people can be.
One night we got taken in by Mary, a lady in her late seventies. Like many of the people we’d stayed with along the way, Mary seemed lonely and in need of some company. No sooner had we put our bags down than she had run a bubble bath. “Now who wants to climb in first?” she asked cheerfully.
After dinner, Mary pulled out a single piece of chocolate cake from the fridge. She was having none of it when we told her that we were okay and that she should have the cake herself. Mary insisted that we cut it in half and share it between us. “You boys need the strength for tomorrow,” she smiled.
By ten o’ clock that evening both Jerome and I were knackered and ready to pass out. After saying goodnight, we made our way to the beds that Mary had done up for us in the spare room. Lights off and about to fall asleep, Mary tapped on our door and then walked in with a guitar in hand.
“I know you boys need your sleep,” she said apologetically, “but please can I ask you a favour? When my kids were young I used to love singing them to sleep at night. It’s been such a long time... and it would be so nice to sing you boys to sleep tonight.” So out came the guitar and for the next fifteen minutes Mary sat there singing away. I didn’t come close to falling asleep, but it was another memory that we would take with us.
Nine out of ten times we knocked on a door they welcomed us in with open arms. There were those times, however, when we got turned away. Sometimes with less subtlety than others. After yet another long day on the road, Jerome and I arrived in Quebec City well after sunset. We spent some time cycling around the neighbourhoods hoping to find a suitable house that we could try our luck at, but nothing seemed to jump out at us. After some time, we then cycled past a mansion with a big French flag above the front door. When we got a little closer to the house, we saw a plaque outside the gate with writing and a title on it. Clearly someone important lived there.
“What do you think, Jerome?” I asked, both of us standing next to our bikes and covered in dirt and sweat from the day’s ride. “You think we should give it a go?”
“You’re mad, Jed! I think that this is the French ambassador living here. No chance they’ll take us in.”
“Oh, well,” I smiled back at him. “It’s worth a try.”
I told Jerome to hold on to my bike, and then I casually started strutting up the dimly-lit pathway as if I was going to meet an old friend of mine. Without a moment’s hesitation, I rang the bell and stood back. What exactly I was going to tell him, and whether or not this was such a good idea, I hadn’t really thought about. I was desperate for a bed, a shower and a nice meal, and if it meant that it would have to come from the French ambassador, then so be it.
A few seconds later the door opened, and standing in the hallway was not one, but several people dressed in suits and evening gowns, each with a glass of champagne in hand. When they saw me standing there in my helmet and cycling clothes, looking as filthy as I was, there was a look of absolute shock on their faces. They didn’t smile or say a word. They only stood there with blank expressions on their faces, as if an alien from another planet had just set foot on their doorstep. At this point I should have got the hint and turned around and walked off, but I wasn’t about to give up just yet.
“Hi, there,” I smiled, with my hands held open in front of me to show that I had come in peace. “My friend Jerome and I are cycling across your beautiful country and we thought that maybe we can camp in your…”
Bang! This was as far as I got, as without saying a word, the door was shut in my face. I walked back down the pathway and packed up laughing when I got to Jerome. He had been standing at the gate watching the whole thing and was crying with laughter just as much as I was. They didn’t invite us in with open arms, they didn’t give us that much-deserved glass of sparkling French champagne, but they did give us something to laugh about for days after.
***
The days rolled by and before we knew it we had arrived at the great lakes, the halfway point of our trip. On our way out of Thunder Bay, a small town on the northern shore of Lake Superior, we happened to stop for our lunch break at a memorial that we’d spotted on the side of the road. The memorial was of a guy by the name of Terry Fox, and written on a plaque was the incred
ible story of what this inspirational man had done in his life. Little did I realise that us stopping like we did was no coincidence at all, and that this memorial would play an important part in my life in a few years to come.
When Terry Fox was in his late teens he was diagnosed with cancer. Sadly, the cancer had spread leaving the doctors with little choice but to amputate his right leg. Not sure how long he had left to live, Terry decided that he was going to do something great with the time that he had left. Using a prosthetic leg, he planned to run a marathon each day on his way across the entire country from coast to coast. The Marathon of Hope, the name that he had given to his adventure, spread like wild fire and it wasn’t long before Terry Fox was a household name. As he made his way across Canada, huge crowds of people came out to cheer him on. Unfortunately, his struggle against cancer forced him to stop at Thunder Bay, almost 6 000 kilometres into the trip. Terry Fox died soon after, but the legend of what he’d done still lived on in the hearts of many throughout the world. I got shivers down my body and the hairs on my arms stood on end when I read his story. It was the same kind of feeling I’d felt when reading the article of the Canadian lady on her cycle trip from Alaska to Argentina. I knew at once that one day I’d have to do something similar, a long distance adventure by foot.
Not long after passing through Thunder Bay, Jerome and I bumped into a guy walking alone on the highway. A Forest Gump look alike, he had a long, scraggly beard, a big wooden walking stick in one hand, and an army-style raincoat down to his knees. Curious to know what the hell he was doing all by himself in the middle of nowhere, we pulled off the road to have a chat with him. He introduced himself as Michael, and what a story it was. Michael told us that one night he had a vivid dream of himself doing a long distance trip by foot. When he woke up the next morning he was so inspired by the dream and felt sure that it had been a sign that this is what he had to do. Later on in the day, when he told his mother about his dream and that he was thinking of walking from Toronto to Vancouver, instead of trying to put him off, as you’d expect most mothers to do, she supported him and encouraged him all the way. Her only suggestion, however, was that he walk north into the Labrador area, and not from Toronto to Vancouver, as he had already hitchhiked that route after finishing high school. By the time we met Michael he had been on the road walking for 180 days and had 100 to go before making it back to Toronto. What an amazing story his was. If I wasn’t already sold on the idea that one day I’d have to do a long distance trip by foot myself, there was absolutely no doubt now.
***
Winter was fast approaching. By September the temperature was already hovering around zero degrees in the mornings and evenings. Once we had reached Newfoundland, our tenth and final province to cycle across, I was ready to get to the end. All I could think about was how great it was going to be when we got to the east coast and what an amazing feeling it would be. However, when we did reach St. John’s, the small city on the east coast of Canada, the feeling didn’t match up to what I had expected at all. In truth, it felt like a big anti climax. Instead of being filled with euphoria, as I’d imagined I would, I felt as if something were missing. It soon dawned on me that this empty feeling that I was experiencing was because I’d been thinking so much about the end, the destination, and how great it was going to be when we got there, that I’d completely lost track of the journey itself. What a cliché it was, and how many times I’d heard over the years that life is a journey and not a destination, but now this golden truth had so much more meaning to me than it did before. I made a mental note that on my next adventure I must remember to focus on the adventure itself, instead of putting too much emphasis on reaching the end.
Along the way 55 different hosts had taken us in for the night. However, it was the 56 and final host who was the cherry on the top. Later on in the day in St. John’s we met an Irishman by the name of Ray in a local pub. Despite having only a small one-bedroom apartment, Ray told us no problem at all and that we were welcome to crash on his floor for the night. When we got to his place, Ray cooked up a feast and cracked open a few bottles of wine. Now this was the grand finale to our trip that I had been imagining. At midnight Ray told us that he had to get some sleep as he was leaving on a two-week business trip first thing the next morning. We asked him what time he was leaving so that we could be packed up and ready, but Ray quickly shook his head and told us not to worry. “How long are you lads planning on spending in St. John’s?” he asked.
“About five or six days,” Jerome answered, by now well on to his second bottle of wine.
“Well then you lads may as well stay here, but I’ve got three requests,” he smiled, with one finger pointed up in the air. “The first is that you help yourself to whatever is in the fridge and booze cabinet. There’s plenty there, so please feel free. The second is that you leave the dishes for me to wash when I get home. As crazy as it sounds, I actually like cleaning the dishes. And the third request is that you drop the key in the letterbox when you leave.”
This sounded too good to be true. Here was a person we’d known for only a few hours offering to leave his house in our care. There had to be a catch. As unbelievable as it was, there wasn’t. Ray took off first thing the next morning and left us with the keys on his way out. We never saw him again, but many times over the next few years I’d tell people about this crazy Irishman we’d met in Canada.
CHAPTER 5
Of the fourteen mountain peaks in the world over eight thousand metres in height, Nepal is home to eight of them. For a small country only six hundred kilometres in width, this really is quite something. For many years I had wanted to get to the Himalayas, but had never got the chance. After Jerome and I had spent a few days at the full moon party on Ko Phangan Island in Thailand, which marked the end of our trip, I decided that this was now the right time. Jerome set off to do some more travelling through Cambodia and Laos, and I caught a plane to Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal. It was a sad farewell as it felt as if Jerome and I had been through a lifetime of memories together, yet the mountains were calling and I didn’t want to give up this chance of getting to the Himalayas.
***
Of the many treks on offer in Nepal, the one that interested me the most was the Mt. Everest base camp trek. Over the years I had read a few books by people who had summated Mt. Everest, and now wanted to see the world’s highest mountain for myself. I didn’t hang around in Kathmandu for long. I got everything I needed and caught the first flight that I could to Lukla, the closest runway to Mt. Everest. The runway at Lukla is not your normal, everyday kind of runway and is regarded as one of the, if not the most dangerous runway in the world. Running at an incline of twelve degrees, and only 500 metres in length, there is a cliff face directly at the bottom of the airstrip and a mountain towering above it at the top of the runway. This means that if the pilot either undershoots or overshoots the runway, the plane is doomed to crash. When I looked out of the window and saw the size of the runway that we were about to land on, I thought, you have got to be kidding me. It looked no bigger than a sports field. Any pilot attempting to land a plane on that small thing surely had to be mad. What made it even more terrifying was knowing that there had been several plane crashes at Lukla in the past, one of which was a plane that had Sir Edmund Hilary’s wife and daughter on board. Sir Edmund Hilary was the first man, along with Tenzing Norgay, to summit Mt. Everest in 1953. At this point all I could do was sit back, close my eyes, and hope for the best. Thankfully, our plane wasn’t to be the next fatality to be added to the list, as we touched down safely and came to a halt at the top of the runway.
***
My plan ever since arriving in Nepal was to do the three-week trek alone. I figured that the path would be clearly marked and therefore there would be no real need for me to join a group, or to hire a Nepalese guide, but as I had learnt quite well since the start of my travels, things didn’t always go according to plan. A few minutes after touching down in Lukla I met S
tefan. Stefan was from Hamburg in Germany and was also hiking alone. Both roughly the same age, and both planning to do the full three-week hike, it made sense for us to team up and to hike together. We bought a few supplies in Lukla and got started straight away.
The first thing that struck me about the trail was how quiet it was. Within a matter of minutes after leaving Lukla it felt as though we had the trail all to ourselves. The odd Sherpa and trekker passed by, but far less than what I had expected. What with Mt. Everest being as well known as it is, I had expected the trail to be overcrowded with hoards of travellers at this time of the year, and for the trek to have lost its magic, but it wasn’t like that at all. Then there was the beauty, the overwhelming beauty of the Himalayan mountains. I had seen many awesome places in the world over the years, but I had never seen anything quite as breathtaking and awe-inspiring as these mountains. With the surrounding snow-capped peaks, the trail as quiet as it was, and the incredible sense of silence and peace you couldn’t help but feel, it was as if we had just arrived in another world.
Stefan and I made a good team right from the start. We both enjoyed taking it slowly, stopping for plenty of tea breaks along the way, and not speaking all that much while we were on the trail itself. The first five days passed by without any problems to speak of. It was only on the sixth day when things took a sudden turn for the worst. As eager as I’d been to get to the Himalayas, the one thing I’d failed to think about was the chance of getting altitude sickness. This was a possibility for someone else, maybe, but not me. I was young and in good shape and so surely it wouldn’t happen to me. However, the ironic thing about altitude sickness is that it’s often the fitter and healthier people who are most prone to getting it. Hiking up the mountain too fast, as is more often the case with people in good condition, means that your body has less time to adjust to the increase in altitude. The end result – altitude sickness!