Circle to Circle

by Shirley Hardy-Rix

  Tonya’s love of this city is obvious when we take her tour. Recognised as a financial centre, so many visitors just pass through Frankfurt’s airport on their way to other cities. They don’t know what they’re missing. While much of the city was destroyed during the war much has been rebuilt because the people of Frankfurt were keen to preserve their literary and intellectual standing in the world.

  I’m moved by the city’s symbolic memorial to the night the Nazi students burnt the books, empty bookshelves set under an opaque paver in the city square. The lives of the 120,000 Jews who were removed from the city are remembered in a wall around the old Jewish Cemetery. The city is certainly keen to repent for the sins of the past. Among those remembered are Anne Frank, her sister, mother and father.

  Tonya introduces us to her favourite fruiterer at the local market. He helped when she was learning German, teaching her the names of fruits, vegetables and herbs.

  Brian: We jump on a train to spend the day in Heidelberg. It’s a wonderful city that wasn’t bombed during the war because the weather was bad on the day of the planned raid. The city did lose its bridges, but they were blown up by the Germans to prevent the allied advance. There are wonderful views of the city and the river from the Schloss.

  For dinner we go to the Red Ox, one of the oldest pubs in town. Built in 1703, the student pub has thousands of names carved on the tables and walls over the centuries.

  •

  It’s our last night together. We’re sitting around the dinner table, after enjoying a spectacular Sicilian lamb stew cooked by André, when he produces his iPod. For the next few hours we listen to our favourite Australian tracks from the 60s, 70s and 80s. What a night! The four of us all miss home tonight.

  •

  Gay Paree! Paris is one of our favourite European cities, yet we’ve never been here on a bike. The one thing I want to do is ride along the Champs Elysees and around the Arc de Triomphe. It’s special to ride past Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the museums and the Seine.

  We cross Shirl’s favourite bridge, the Alexander III, go between the Grand and Petite Palaces and we’re in the manic traffic heading up the Champs Elysees. It’s slow going until I take the bit between the teeth and do what all the Parisian scooter and bike riders do — split the traffic, ride on the wrong side of the road and ignore pedestrians! No one seems to care.

  Some riders are smoking cigarettes, others cigars and one is puffing on a pipe, as they negotiate the crazy traffic.

  At a pedestrian crossing, a scooter coming the other way is on the middle white line and so am I. He indicates for me to go first. It’s all very polite. I notice he has a beard like mine, only his is plaited. Hmm — there’s a thought.

  When we get to the roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe Shirl fends off the cars, giving motorists who make a bit of space for us to get through a wave.

  It’s manic and crazy and there’re no rules, but it’s fantastic.

  Shirley: We’re in Limoges and Brian’s not keen on a visit to the porcelain factory. Flicking through the brochures at our hotel I find reference to the Village of the Martyrs — Oradour-sur-Glane.

  On June 10, 1944 a tragedy occurred here, so harrowing President De Gaulle declared the town would never be rebuilt on this spot because, ‘The memory must be kept alive, for a similar calamity must never occur again.’

  On that day more than 600 men, women and children were massacred by the Waffen-SS before they set fire to every building in the town. Only a handful of people survived.

  A thick fog has descended on Oradour-sur-Glane. It’s only 1°C and the ice warning on the bike is flashing.

  You can’t see the old town from the road and enter it via a pathway from the museum that leads to the main street. The fog adds to the chilling atmosphere. More than 300 buildings were razed — the entire town. Today it’s a ghost town. The remaining stonewalls are blackened by fire. Where there were once windows there are now just holes, opening into what were once homes and businesses. Twisted metal bicycles, prams, beds, tables, ovens, pans and sewing machines litter the shells of buildings.

  Cars were left where they were parked when the town burned, now slowly eroding with time. The town doctor’s car is still parked where he left it to make a house call. We walk past the garage, school, hotel, cafés, the butcher shop and the hairdresser. The town is just as it was when the Nazis drove away the day after their dirty work.

  The only sound is the crunching of our bike boots on the pathways and streets. We’re both deeply moved, particularly by the items recovered from the town and now on display in a memorial — the ink wells from the schools, toys, reading glasses, pocket watches and a toy pedal car.

  Inside the shell of what was once the town’s church it’s easy to imagine the women who were rounded up and trapped inside as it was set alight.

  What makes this tragedy even more devastating is there were French, Vichy French, among the troops.

  Man’s inhumanity to man …

  Brian: The bitter cold and persistent fog make me realise we made the right decision not to head to Turkey. Instead we go south to Spain for some better weather. Our first stop is a café in a little town just over the border. There are photos of motorcycle racing champion Carlos Checa on the walls. In broken Spanish I find out he has a villa nearby and often drops in for lunch, but not today.

  The sun breaks through late in the morning and it turns into one of those magic days on the road. The sun’s shining; the road is twisty with very little traffic. We hit the edge of the Pyrenees.

  There are plenty of tunnels through the mountains — two kilometres, four kilometres and five kilometres cutting down our journey time. It’s not cheap, though — the longest costs €11 (over $16.00) — and we spend more on tolls than fuel today.

  Barcelona is a troubled city. Workers are revolting against the banks that are foreclosing on mortgages at a time when people are struggling to pay their bills because of the austerity measures introduced following the Global Financial Crisis. Unemployment is running at 26 per cent and people are being evicted from their homes. There’s been mass violence on the streets in cities around Spain.

  A national general strike has been called and our hotel advises we stay inside today. Imagine saying that to a retired policeman and a journalist who cut her teeth on police rounds. Despite the warnings we venture out. We did something similar in Esfahan, Iran on ‘Down with America day’ so why not here? The demonstrators on that day weren’t concerned that foreigners, even western foreigners, were watching their anti-US protest.

  We’re sure it’ll be the same here, today. Packs of demonstrators are walking the streets, going from bank to bank, chanting, blowing whistles and occasionally letting off massive fireworks. Some are banging pots and pans together. We feel their sense of despair, anger and frustration.

  Apart from the fireworks, the crowd isn’t violent, but there’s a huge police presence on the streets. Brawler vans, police in riot gear and wearing balaclavas look pretty confronting, but the crowd don’t seem to care. And the police aren’t fussed when I take photos of them.

  There’s an upside to the demonstrations. No public transport and no business activity means we can take in the splendour of architect Antoni Gaudi’s buildings without being jostled or run over.

  His most imposing work is the Sagrada Familia, the futuristic basilica commenced in 1882 and still not completed. Towering arches, modern stained glass reflecting a myriad of colours across the huge interior, an exterior adorned with gargoyles, animals and flowers all meld into a fascinating building.

  I sit for a while and reflect on loved ones, particularly my dad and Roger our neighbour all those years on the next fruit block. It’s inevitable that we’ll die, but for me it’s what you do with your life, what you experience and what you leave behind that are important. Life is for living, that’s why we’re on this adventure.

  In the evening the streets are deserted and so is the Flamenco theatre. There are on
ly four of us in the audience. It seems everyone thought the show would be cancelled because of the strike. The performers outnumber the audience two to one. It must be demoralising for them to perform this most sensual dance to a handful of people. No matter how loud we shout, the olés sound very hollow.

  •

  The road south reminds me of the tiny town on the Murray River where I was born, Merbein — the rich, red soil, orange trees with lush verdant foliage and huge, ripe fruit. The Spaniards are obviously keen on alternate energy. We pass massive banks of solar panels that seem to power factories and there are huge wind farms. It all makes sense — using the natural resources.

  We take a break at Oliva by the sea to visit the family of a drinking buddy of Brian’s. Kevin’s daughters, Clare and Amanda, make us feel very welcome in their bar which is filled with ex-pats watching European football. After a couple of days at the beach we’re ready to hit the road again.

  Shirley: Surfing the net I see a photo of the Zaragoza Basilica del Pilar and convince Brian this is as good a way as any to head back to France at the end of our brief European sojourn. We avoid the main roads and their exorbitant tolls and enjoy the ride through the small villages much more.

  The Basilica del Pilar is an amazing building with domes, towers and tiled rooves built right on the Ebro River. It’s getting dark and the Basilica’s unique roofline is etched against the night sky. It’s as wonderful as it is unique.

  Across the road is a little café in a palatial room with cast plaster ceilings and enormous mirrors. I order a hot chocolate expecting a chocolate flavoured milk drink. Instead I get a cup of hot, thick sauce, that’s just melted chocolate. It’s tasty and sweet and sickly all at the same time. One is enough for a lifetime.

  The harsh financial situation in Spain is very evident here. There are beggars everywhere, but they’re not wasters or druggies — they’re families, young couples with their pet dogs, old men, young men. These are desperate times. Brian gives to a man with a photo of his children. We’d like to do more, but we can’t help everyone.

  Despite this Zaragoza has a good vibe. An old lady on a walking stick comes up as we’re loading the bike. She has one message for us — you only have one life to live so live it. It’s pretty much our ethos.

  Zaragoza now ranks among our favourite cities in Europe along with Paris, Barcelona and Bruges. Despite the biting cold on the bike it’s been well worth the effort to come down here.

  Brian: Back in France the weather is getting more like winter. There’s just one more place before we head to Calais and the train to England. Caen.

  The Memorial of Caen is a museum that explores World War II, and not just from the Normandy landings. It looks at how the war began and how it played out for the people of Europe, especially the French. It begins with the signing of the Armistice on November 11, 1918, follows the financial problems of the restructuring of Germany and the emergence of Hitler and Mussolini. We read with horror about the treatment of the Jews, gypsies, intellectuals and all those interred and murdered. It also deals with the Vichy French and how they turned against their own people and even participated in wiping out members of their population as they did at Oradour-sur-Glane.

  By the time we leave it’s dark and our bike is the only vehicle left in the car park. I have to use the light of the GPS to unlock the helmets.

  It’s Sunday and most of the restaurants are closed but there’s an old English double-decker bus across from the hotel. It’s a pizza restaurant with seating upstairs and a takeaway window. The downstairs section has been converted into a kitchen. With a piccolo of red wine we head upstairs. The safety-crats haven’t arrived here yet. I can’t imagine you getting a permit to have a restaurant without an escape route above a kitchen cooking with gas. It’s a firetrap. Safe or not, the restaurant is very groovy and the pizzas are remarkably good.

  Caen isn’t famous for just its unusual pizza restaurant and museum. William the Conqueror lived here and made it his power base. The Men’s Abbey, Women’s Abbey and cathedral are impressive.

  On the way to Calais I ride along the beaches made famous by the World War II allied landings. It’s cold and blowy — very different to the weather in June when the D Day landings took place.

  The museum gave us an insight into the dilemma faced by the allies. Because the Germans had many major communication points in this area it was brutally bombed. It must have been very hard on the innocent bystanders — the locals.

  Now we need to organise the bike to fly to South Africa. The freight company is insisting on the bike being crated, which is a bloody nuisance. To have one built is going to cost £300 (about $520.00) so I ring West End BMW where they just throw out the crates when new bikes arrive from Germany. They’ll save one for us, if a GS arrives. But it’s a big IF.

  Shirley: The forecast for England is bleak so we’re pleasantly surprised when it’s bloody cold but dry as we ride out of the train at Dover.

  The bike needs another service and the rear drive seal is weeping. It needs to be replaced — again. It’s an interesting ride to BMW. Brian’s so used to riding on the right hand side of the road we end up on that side a couple of times. He corrects before we get into any trouble.

  There’s been no GS delivered so there’s no crate, but they have a base for another model that should be OK. This will mean strapping the bike onto the base, like a pallet, rather than completely crating it. I panic, saying they’ll refuse to carry the bike if it’s not crated. Brian’s not concerned. We’ll strap it on the base and see what they say.

  To get the base to the freight yard we need to hire a truck. The costs are mounting. After months in North America we’re used to customer service, a concept that seems to have disappeared in many parts of England.

  Take Europe Car for example. When we ring their customer service number it has an automated response telling us what numbers to press. It doesn’t matter what we press we always end up in the corporate area where they can’t or won’t transfer us to someone who can help. We walk to the nearest depot while the bike’s being serviced and the man at the customer service desk couldn’t be less helpful. They don’t have any vans and even if they did we couldn’t leave the bike in their yard while we use the van. Right.

  The next morning Brian hits the phones and organises a truck from a smaller company not far from Jacqui and Trent’s. It’s freezing this morning, literally, so it’s good to crank up the heater in the truck.

  With the crate base in the back we head to Heathrow airport and the freight terminal. They’re expecting us and they’re expecting a crate. In the end, the manager says it’s up to us if we want to take the risk. We have no choice.

  We pass a bookshop and I cajole Brian to let me buy a Southern Africa guidebook. We used eBooks in Canada and the US and I didn’t like them. I promise I’ll fit it in my pannier, but he doesn’t look convinced. I’ll make it fit.

  Brian: The bike’s prepared for its flight, strapped onto the crate base and bubble wrapped. Every extremity is covered in the plastic to protect it as best we can. We still haven’t seen the paperwork but have been told it will be okay. The dangerous goods certificate is here, so that’s a start. The workers at the freight terminal tell us to lock the panniers and assure us all will be well, the bike will be in South Africa the same day as us.

  It all seems to be going smoothly until the agent rings to tell us he needs the bike keys so the panniers can be inspected by Customs. Oh great. We need to organise a courier to collect the key and take it to the agent’s office. We’ll get it back when we arrive at the airport tomorrow.

  It really seems like the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. Imagine if the bike was in a crate? How would they inspect it then?

  •

  It’s snowing, the first snow of the season.

  It’s time to leave after about 6,500 kilometres around Europe. We’ve ridden 70,704 kilometres through 25 countries.

  Southern Africa
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  6 December 2012 – 6 February 2013

  Shirley: Africa, our seventh continent. We’ve now set foot on every continent on earth. If we went to Antarctica now we could join in drinking the seven shots.

  We haven’t even picked up our bags at Johannesburg airport when the freight company rings. They need our carnet so they can clear the motorcycle through customs and will send someone to the hotel to collect it. This is a very good sign.

  We’ve booked a room near the airport at the Aero Guest Lodge. Inside it’s a pleasant spot with a shady garden, pool, restaurant with an honesty bar and fantastic staff. It’s surrounded by a high fence topped with electric wire and has an automatic gate. We know South Africa is a dangerous country and we need to be aware of our surroundings when we’re on the road.

  The owner, Adrian, is a young fair-skinned blonde pom married to a white South African. The office manager, Erica, is also white but the rest of the staff are black South Africans or refugees from Zimbabwe.

  We’re struck by the friendliness of the staff immediately. Moses, one of the drivers, is fascinated by our trip and can’t wait to see the bike. Miriam cooks and serves in the restaurant. It’s still four weeks until Christmas but she’s already wearing a Santa hat over her traditional white headwear to get into the festive mood. Miriam and Moses are both from Zimbabwe and fled the oppressive regime for a better future in South Africa.

  Brian tries the pap for our first meal in South Africa. This sticky mashed maize is a staple for many here. It’s too bland for me, but Brian doesn’t mind it.

  Brian: It’s Friday. Yesterday the freight agency was very positive about collecting the motorcycle. Now they tell us they’re not sure when it will arrive, so we decide to stay here for the weekend. The next call from them says the flight won’t arrive until 4.00 pm on Monday and customs will only inspect the bike between 10.00 am and 3.00pm. So we book the room for Monday night too. At dinner time an email arrives to say the bike isn’t in Johannesburg. It’s in Jeddah. That’s interesting, considering we were told the bike was on our direct flight from London. The UK agent says he’ll sort it out straight away. That’s the last we hear from him.