Ants, human beings, motorcycles, clouds and dreams

I am seated on the garden of the Stop Over Motel in Johannesburg and I see the ants crawling up and down like a disciplined army. But some seems to be lazy or full of uncertainty. Now and then you can see one of those little bugs going slower than the others, or changing suddenly its direction for no apparent reason. It’s supposed that are not rebel individuals among ants; but I see they are. I like them most than the others. Perhaps they also have dreams.



My friend Rydall is here. He has driven all the way from Port Elisabeth to Johannesburg to pick my bike. More than 1300 km without sleeping just because we are friends. He is a big boy who loves steaks and he is also a good father and a hard worker.



I saw his gun last night. It is a Spanish one, an Astra. He always carry it since he was 21. He has little, but he needs to protect it. “Few days ago someone stabbed 4 times my neighbour, the woman who lives on the farm at the other side of the road”, told me Rydall when we were having dinner. “What did they want?”, I asked. “Her cell phone”.



It’s time to say good bay to my Princess under the Johannesburg sky. Rydall put her in the van and left me alone. But I am not sad. She should not be either. Rebel ants, lazy human beings and motorcycles dreams are made of the same kind of clouds. I have a new plan and it will make her happy. I will tell you soon what it is.

Merry Christmas from Maputo

Loneliness under the sad Maputo sunrise .



We all are masks. Monster faces in the far distance, but behind them probably we will meet our equals. We are all just terrified tinkers looking for some love and a hug now and then.



The grey clouds looked at my Princess on the dock.



I sat in the dirty room of the cheap Andalucia hotel. The place is perfectly African: dirty, noisy, warm and the elevator does not work. The whole city lies in front of my room. I can see a man on the mirror writing these words and avoiding asking him questions.





There is not place for questions when travelling Africa. The wind is full of answers I will probably do not want to hear, but I know It’s time to go home. Merry Christmas to everybody.

Indian sunrise waves at toaster master

As I was sad, I decided to dump my sadness in beer. I am not only a biker, I am also a toaster master. One of the bests. Holding a beer, seated on a bar, I can toast anyone for hours and hours without mercy. I have toasted waiters, customers and girls all over the world in all kind of bars.



If I start talking, I won’t stop till the beer chocks me down or the owner kills me. My victims barely can say something about their lives and they got really and deeply toasted about mine. Then, when they are like dirty cloths for laundry, I go to sleep walking doing zigzag.



Last night I explained to everybody how I haunt (or should I say "fish"?) in Mozambique crocodiles for an Spanish company which sells crocodile meat cans. That was the reason for my t-shirt. I assured as well that crocodile meat is like chicken one but much better. The only problem, by de way, is crocodiles are not like dogs, they are not friendly and if you feed them as friends they will eat your hand or something else. All the customers in the bar nod their heads and agreed that crocodiles are bad guys who do not feel love for friends like dogs do. “What do you want? I exclaimed, we do not eat fucking dogs!!



The best of sleeping is waking up at the following morning (otherwise you are dead), especially if you are lying beside the Indian Ocean in a tent. Then the sunrise waves you up as it is coming from the deepest blue. Is surprising to watch that prodigious which changes everyday. Sunrises and sunsets are best friends of a lonely motorcycle traveller.

Leaving the Tropics

I am a little bit sad. I am leaving the Tropics. Reality is calling me back. In few days I will be flying to Spain from Johannesburg. I will leave the Princess in the best hands possible. My friend Rydall, the angel who picked me on the road, is going to keep her meanwhile I am out. He can ride her, better said: he must do it because I do not want her to get rust, fat and lazy. She deserves the road and the path, she needs real biker love and if I can not for a while, I want a good new boyfriend who gives to her. As you can see, this is another big difference between human and bikers love.

Fish Market

Fuck you, dona Margie

I hate to say, but the karma motherfuckers who love Budism, Toaism and Self help brain masturbation are right: there is a ying and a yang. There is the fucking Chi. No love without hate, no peace without war, no pleasure without pain and, of course, no paradise without hell. The small Mozambican villa of Vilanculos is probably one of the most perfect paradises on Earth, but is also becoming another perfect hell.



I have met one of the local legends mentioned in all the Tourism Guides: Margie, a middle age woman who has lived here for more than 15 years. She has noticed all the changes since the Civil War end and the mass tourism started. Too many changes, and not all in the good direction. Vilanculos was nothing else but a small fishermen village, boring and quiet. There is a wonderful beach and, few miles away, are the Islas del Paraiso.



Those treasures made the tourism came as soon as the conflict disappeared. The first ones to come were the white Southafricans because they found here peace and no crime. But some did not know how to make the paradise last a little bit longer. I have very good Southafricans friends but I also know some of they could be very arrogant dealing with black people because they are afraid of them in their country.





The Mozambicans learnt fast the bad manners like the bad drinking habits. Is always easier to learn the bad than the good. They learnt also there is always more money in a tourist pocket than the little amount of meticais they can earn working one month. Frightened white people are always about to give enormous tips for nothing encouraging blacks to ask or to steal. Now Vilanculos could be dangerous if you walk alone.



Margie realized the change was completed when someday a small girl was happily waving at her. She could hear the girl saying with a big smile: “Fuck you, dona Margie, fuck you”. The girl didn’t understand the meaning of the words probably listened from a 4x4, but then dona Margie understood perfectly what had happened in her small paradise.

Crossing the Bay to Maxixe

Sometimes I get bored of riding the road. How about a short boat trip? It couldn’t be that bad having a pleasant sea journey. The only problem is not forget behind a German Princess. But she is afraid of water so she never learnt how to swim.





So here we are, in Maxixe, a horrible town with a really nasty hotel.



Fortunately, I always keep my insecticide to kill the bugs who like to crawl around. Think twice when you say you are envious about my trips or I will send you some pictures of those awful neighbours.