The ferry on the horizon would dock within minutes, but a commotion was breaking out. Mum rushed towards me in a small panic. “The pump! The pump!”
Day 4: Maslow would be proud of the ferry terminal at Barra, which clearly catered to ferry travellers’ hierarchy of needs:
Hot & cold drinks
We were proud too, having made the 10-mile journey from the BnB to ferry in good time.
Mum, busying herself packing and unpacking her bags, declined my generous offer of a vending machine coffee: you can lead a Melburnian to coffee, but you can’t make her drink it from a machine.
The spy was also lurking around, but I stayed away from conversation beyond the obligatory “Hello” and small-talk about the fine weather.
Meanwhile, I read the signboard on otters, which lived around the pier. It was good timing, as World Otter Day was only a few days from now, and I knew next to nothing about them. In short, they are a cross between a weasel and a seal, live in the salt-water, and eat fish.
In fact, otters routinely hold the heads of their mates under water while having sex, causing them to drown; have been known to rape baby harbor seals to death, and even make love with deceased mates.
Clearly this type of behavior had been deemed too commonplace in the outer-reaches of Britain to have been considered of any interest for tourists to read on the signboard.
The ferry on the horizon was making good speed towards us, and would in fact be docked within a matter of minutes.
Yet a commotion was breaking out. My mum rushed to where I was sitting in a small panic. “The pump! The pump! My tire’s got a flat.”
Someone had walked past mum’s bike and heard the tell-tale fast rush of escaping air. Luckily, we were far from the only bikers on the ferry that morning. In fact, there were close to 15 of us, nearly outnumbering vehicles.
Seeing mum in stress, a silver-haired man rushed into action. Within seconds he’d whipped off her front wheel, removed the tube, and soon had it pumped up good as new.
As for what caused the puncture, that remains a mystery. The tire was not pierced by glass, screw or stone, neither did the inner tube look torn.
Famous detective Sherlock Holmes sort-of said (I’m paraphrasing), when you’ve eliminated all other explanations, the one that remains, no matter how fanciful, is your solution.
Therefore, it was either the dodgy spy, seeking vengeance for my panier bag death joke of the day before, or it was an otter. Either way, it was an act of otter bastardry.
The first day of riding was also about testing out THE GEAR! I’d been on an online shopping spree as part of my preparation, and now had all the gear, and no idea.
Day 3: Having travelled from Paris, to Glasgow, to Oban and now Barra, we were sufficiently out of harm’s way to discover whether we could actually ride the bikes or not.
Mum had been putting in months of hill training back in Melbourne, with a vigorous regime of three rides a week of up to 80kms. I know this, because she set her app to send me an automatic message boasting of her daily accomplishment. Before the bike trip, the guilt trip.
Because my training regime had been somewhat less than vigorous. Rather than put faith in endless training on an actual bike, I instead backed my boundless ego.
Given I was half mum’s age, twice her size, and poor at math, I figured that 8 minutes of spin cycling at the gym should be a suitable training regime for a 380-km trip through the wilds of Scotland.
The merits of our respective regimes were about to be tested.
The bikes were hybrids: 24-speed, and ‘speed’ here was relative. I maxed out my speedometer at 24 miles/hour (this is the empire, remember, where the metric system is on eternal holiday) on a straight, with wind assistance along a causeway.
Mum meanwhile was maxing out the other end of her speedometer, with her ‘slow and steady’ approach to walking up the odd hill, seeing her bottom out at 0 mph. Still, it was good to know the limits of our equipment, both upper and lower.
The suspension forks came in handy for the numerous potholes in the roads around Barra and Vatersay, and allowed us to negotiate gravel paths and lesser roads much more ably than a pure road bike.
Their weight, while a disadvantage going up hills, made it easy to build momentum, and perversely, meant you didn’t get blown off the road by a strong gust of wind or blow-back from any helicopters nearby (stay tuned for the upcoming entry on Skye for more on this…).
Aside from the bikes, the first day of riding was also about testing out THE GEAR! I’d been on an online shopping spree as part of my preparation, and now had all the gear, and no idea.
These included my first ever pair of bib-knicks, in short and long-legged variety. I also had a short-sleeved jersey with highly motivational phrases printed on them: “Pleasure” across the breast, and “Suffering for Glory” on the sleeve.
We started with a light downhill from the house to Barra’s main village of Castelbay, then continued around the bay and up a sweeping hill, the top of which was marked with a memorial to the men of the area to have died in the “Great War” of 1914-18 and ’39-45.
“Great” is a favoured adjective around these parts, almost always used in a positive sense. Seeing the nearly hundred names on this memorial though, it could only have been a devastating loss for the communities on Barra, which could not have numbered many more men in those days. The “Suffering for Glory” motivational messaging on my lycra top was feeling a little silly.
Down the other side of the sweeping hill we crossed the causeway in Vatersay, which now divides the Atlantic Ocean on one side from the Sea of the Hebrides.
For a look at the economic and social impact of the causeway, consider this:
“The immediate reaction to the causeway saw the population rise from 65 in 1988 to 83 in 1993, and planning applications soar from a mere two in 1985-9 to 24, including four new houses, in 1990-3.”
While the causeway might make it seem that Vatersay is easy to get to, numerous monuments on the island suggest otherwise.
Somewhere on the island there was also a monument to the Annie Jane, a ship that went down with 350 people off the shore in 1853.
We struggled to find this one, but did find a pillar that marked the start of the Hebridean Way, the route we were cycling. I showed mum how to use the timer feature of the iPhone to perfect the perfect silly selfie in front of it.
The most evocative monument on Vatersay is that of the rusting remnants of a seaplane fuselage and wing from the RAF Catalina, which crashed killing three of its nine crew. The memorial stone is set down an unmarked trail off the road, next to where the plane went into the hill – you could barely see it, and I guess that was the original problem.
If Barra and Vatersay are still known for aviation landings, these days it’s only thanks to the quaint airport at the northern tip of the island, which is unique for being the only airport where scheduled planes actually land on the beach. According to our guide book, this also made it one of the “most dramatic airports in the world ™“.
I quibbled with this description, as the number one “most dramatic” was Lukla in Nepal, where the risk of mistiming the takeoff/landing means careening over a precipice to certain death.
By contrast, if you fucked up the landing at Barra, you might run over a seagull nest or get your tires wet. Still, it speaks volumes about what constitutes the definition of drama on the Outer Hebrides.
Over the road behind the airport are some dunes, behind which stretches one of the most glorious beaches in Britain. So long, white and sandy that you could think you were in Australia – until the 11-degree water gives you a refreshing plunge of reality.
That night on Elisabeth’s balcony, we erected her sun umbrella (its first outing for the year) and enjoyed the home-baking of the day: scones.
We also read up on local history and landmarks. It turns out we had actually unwittingly found the memorial to those tragically killed on the Annie Jane. And I still had all the silly selfies to prove it.
Crossing over the Minch by ferry was a near-death experience for some.
Day 2: Every man and his dog was taking the ferry from Oban to Barra, and sometimes even two dogs. Meanwhile, the more elderly guests couldn’t wait to cross over.
“I don’t think Joan’s doing well…”
Joan, 70+ years old, indeed did not look well as she vomited as discreetly as possible into the plastic Tesco shopping bag.
The Hebrides-bound ferry was in the final stages of its 5-hour journey to the island of Barra, and the last rough stretch of water, known as the Minch, was having an ill effect.
I was lying prostrate on a circular couch at the front of the ship, the only person game enough to sit in the direct sunlight flooding in through the salt-encrusted panoramic windows.
Next to me, strategically placed out of the sun, were 10 senior citizens wearing Glarefoil wraparound sunglasses and each sitting very still. They all wore identical stickers, identifying themselves as belonging to a “cultural liaisons” tour.
If my elderly neighbour was worried about Joan’s well-being, she quickly conceded there was not much to be done. “Her husband seems to be taking care of it though,” she added, matter-of-factly to her friend, who agreed with an “Mmm”.
This also seemed correct. Her husband was perfecting his ‘nothing to see here’ expression, as Joan carefully dabbed the corners of her mouth with an wad of rough toilet paper, the type commonly found onboard ferries and wrapped around ice-cream cones.
When I was younger, I remember ads for a US-imported TV show called ‘Crossing Over’, in which a celebrity medium John Edward puts audience-members in touch with deceased relatives.
I recalled this as I sat with my own elderly audience in the ferry, as from where I sat, many surely wished the crossing would soon be over. Or in any event, definitely looked closer to death at the end than five hours ago.
After hesitating for some moments, I wobbled to my feet and took decisive action. Crossing over the horse-shoe of carpet from my couch, I discreetly asked Joan and husband if I could assist.
I’m not sure if a young Australian asking an elderly Scot if she’d like some water or tissues to wipe away her vomit was the type of cultural liaison they had been expecting on the trip, but it always pays to read the fine print.
For at least the last 8 years, my favourite regular columnist has been Marina Hyde in the Guardian. For a long time she was neck-and-neck with Hadley Freeman but eventually pulled ahead due to the comedic heft of her body. And if you can suggest any more bodily metaphors for that last sentence, I’m all ears.
Straight from the school of Clive James, her thrice-weekly columns are written with equal parts acerbic wit and intelligence, calling to account powerful and corrupt businessmen (inevitably not women) and politicians, or shining a light on that particularly British breed of daft celebrities, whose need for a spotlight belies their dimness.
In any case, as an avid reader I’m come to be quite familiar with her stylistic quirks, and favourite topics she hits on. These include repeated references to “you can be my wingman any day” from Top Gun, (which incidentally caused another columnist to accuse her of plagiarising it from him despite it fairly being a commonplace joke), to references to Boris Johnson’s trickiness in writing a pro- and anti-Brexit column “in order to clarify his thinking” in the days before the all-important vote, and her contempt for hate-peddlers such as Katie Hopkins.
As such, I’ve created a first round of Marina Hyde Bingo cards. Playing is simple: read her columns each week and tick off each reference when you see it. Once you have a full line, you have BINGO!
Car bombings, fire-bombings, thousands of extra-judicial killings, and even a time in the Congress. The horror, the horror!
Who knew Pablo Escobar was such a c**t?
That was the overriding takeaway from the Heroes of Colombia walking tour which started in the Bolivar Square and visited some of the key sites in the capital linked to Pablo Escobar and his reign on terror. Car bombings, fire-bombings, thousands of extra-judicial killings, and even a time in the Congress. The horror, the horror!
The tour highlighted some of the people instrumental in exposing his crimes and bringing him to justice – almost all of whom nobly died for their efforts. At his peak, he shipped 15 tons per day to the US, and made the cover of Forbes.
One corner on the main thoroughfare Calle 12 is the intersection of power. The church on one side, the bank opposite, and…here I beat the tour guide to his joke to point out the McDonalds on the third side, and as a result don’t know what the fourth one was.
Lunch at a French restaurant, discovering the taste sensation of fruit lightly coated in hot pimento spices, then a visit to the gold museum…where I learnt that gold was used for ceremonies by ancient indigenous tribes, but that’s about it…and that they made at least enough ornaments to fill 4 floors of a large museum.
A return trip up the funicular to the Montserrat peak, which is about 3000 metres ASL (Bogota is 2600), admiring the view of foreboding thunderstorm on one side of the mountain, and a hazey sunset view over Smogota on the other. Dinner at a delicious vegetarian restaurant that had a no WiFi policy (so avant-garde!), with succulent avocados, corn, and salsa…accompanied by a blackberry juice.
Crashed in bed watching a series (not Narcos, though that is next on my cultural appreciation guide), to drown out the couple in next bedroom having loud sex. Even though my room was “private”, the adjoining wall didn’t reach the ceiling, so it was about as private as a toilet cubicle in an airline toilet…
Hundreds of explorers never made it out alive from the Amazon. I wasn’t even going to make it in.
The Avianca airline steward at check-in was a trainee but she knew all the right questions to ask.
“And, could you please write down the number of someone to contact in case of emergency?”
I gave her my mum’s mobile. After all, mum’s first question when I told her I was headed to Colombia was “Do you have a will?”, and her second was, “No, seriously?”
It therefore made sense she be the first to hear if my plane had gone down. I imagined the airlines comms team making the phone call with one of those “Good news/bad news” opening lines:
“Hello Mrs Davies, its Avianca Airlines, we’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is we’ve lost your son somewhere between Bogota and the Amazon. The bad news is, you’ve just inherited all his debt.”
My angst worsened when, on the plane, the lady next to me looked out the window and made the sign of the cross. At this we were still only taxiing.
Hundreds of explorers never made it out alive from the Amazon. I wasn’t even going to make it in.
Landing at Leticia airport, in the south-eastern tip of Colombia, the lady next to me repeated the sign of the cross, and I started to suspect she might be do this gesture fairly regularly. The plane had been without incident, my concerns mislaid. At least for now.
The airport was a tin shed, most of which was given over to a rickety luggage conveyor belt, straining to keep up. Every minute or so the belt would grind to a halt, and the operator would kick start it by running on it with his foot. It was better than the gym, and soon most of the passengers joined in too, realising this common exercise was the key to getting their bags asap.
One of the more interesting items on the belt was two blocks of gravelled concrete. I’m still not sure whether this was somebody’s luggage or part of the airport that just that moment had collapsed. Third hypothesis: you’ve heard of rocks of cocaine? This was a full concrete slab of it.
“Are you British? You don’t look British.”
“I’m Australian.” I told the tour operator who met me at the gate.
“I knew you weren’t British,” she continued.
In years of backpacking, I’ve decided the only thing separating Brits and Australians is that we are more sunburnt, and less drunk. Controversial, I know.
Three hours later, I had swapped the plane for a low-slung motorised wooden canoe, Colombia for Brazil, and we were motoring in darkness and a thunderstorm up the tributaries of the Amazon, a full moon rising as we headed to the camp.
Aside from being eaten by cannibalistic tribes, what other dangers lurked in these parts?
The guide and I were camping alone in the jungle last night, and he had a literal potboiler of a story.
When he was 10, his childhood friend was kidnapped, and eaten, by a local indigenous tribe.
“Why was he eaten?”
“Because he was white.”
We unwrapped the palm leaf parcel that had been roasting on the fire. It was a delicious local river fish known as arapaima, or by locals as “the other white meat”.
Aside from being eaten by cannibalistic tribes, what other dangers lurked in these parts? The daily offer of activities around the camp gave a fair overview.
Piranhas are legendary for devouring whole carcasses of cows within minutes, much like the Polish tour group that arrived that night. In reality this only happens in exceptional circumstances. Tempting fate, we took a motorised wooden boat into a mangrove forest close by the lodge with a handful of bamboo fishing rods.
The guide cut up a large fillet of fish into bite-sized pieces, which we threaded onto hooks and cast into the water. To attract the piranhas you slap the bamboo rod repeatedly on top of the water. This is said to simulate a chicken – though what a chicken might be doing slapping around in the middle of a mangrove forest was not explained.
After 2 hours the guides had caught 2 piranhas and a small catfish. I had caught nothing, but had singlehandedly fed the fish at least half of the fillet. It was not a good return on investment for those in the group wanting to eat fish that night.
In the land famed for its jaguars and anacondas, what beasts of the night were lurking in the shadows? “Look there!” said the guide, within seconds of starting up the moonlit trail.
“Where? What is it?” I followed his finger. Not to any large shadows in the trees or the forest, but to a frog half the size of my thumbnail sitting on the step outside my cabin. Tiny, but incredibly poisonous. I made a note to wear shoes for my nightly pee.
The tarantulas were all hiding that night. But I did see some rats, and a cool phosphorescent leaf litter that made the whole place feel like Upside Down world (for the Stranger Things fans among us).
I decided to up the game. A night in the jungle, just the guide and me, what could go wrong? The weather, for starters. Due to torrential rain, what was planned to be a day-long hike to the deepest darkest forest was scaled back to a 15-minute hike to the rear campsite over the ridge behind.
The guide showed me the rubber tree, the popularity of which led colonialists to enslave thousands of young boys to work in rubber plantations. The type of shitty job you never bounce back from.
He showed me the telephone tree, which sends a booming echo audible across the valley when you strike it with a stick – and is for emergency use only.
And he showed me the traditional way of lighting a fire with damp wood – burning a plastic bag to kick-start the kindling.
That we slept in hammocks, slung between two trees under a tarpaulin and mosquito net. And I was lulled to sleep, not by the exotic sounds of the Amazon forest, but of a thousand mosquitos attacking my body like locusts on a wheat field. Malaria takes two weeks to kick in, so there’s every chance I will always remember this special night.
Perhaps it would be easier to see beasts and critters in the day, lacking night vision as I do.
We set out towards a known Harpy eagle’s nest, one of the largest eagles in the world, which feeds on monkeys, opossums and sloths.
This reminded me, sloths were very close to top of my animal bucket list.
“There’s lots of sloths around here,” said the guide.
“Can we see one?”
“Sure. Just be at the campsite around siesta time. You’ll see Brazilian sloths, Germans sloths, Australian sloths…”
I’d very slowly walked into that one.
As we headed back to camp, a sudden rustle in the trees above and a hard nut the size of a grapefruit whizzed down in front of the guide’s nose.
If you thought sagging balls were something eventually to be scared of, the falling nuts of the Amazon can be a life-ending event.