Globe Gallivanting- motorbiking across the world

We rode for eight hours or so.  Five of those hours were trying to leave Bangkok.  I was chief navigator, which is probably the main reason.  A few people have subtly suggested I couldn't find my way out of a sack.  But honestly, it really didn't help that motorbikes aren't allowed on any of the highways, and the only roads straight out of Bangkok are highways.  Bikes have to meander down little zigzag roads to go the same route, and there's billions of the buggers.   We bought 3 maps. We could see the roads on the maps, we just couldn't see them in real life.  A huge number of people tried to help us.  Once when we stopped, one man drew us his own map and explained it fully (in thai), while another girl phoned a friend so she could explain in English where to go.  Everyone was amazingly patient, except for us.  Personally I was chewing my own face off with frustration.  The roads were huge, and there were police everywhere. ...

When we were looking for information for shipping bikes it was very hard to come by for this route, so we decided to put this on for anyone looking to do a similar thing.  So here’s a shipping report for anyone trying to ship bikes from India to Thailand.  Obviously we didn't actually want to ship at all, and would much prefer to do it all overland, but Burma aren't willing to give motorcycle tourists visas, so that was that.  We went as far as we could, right up to the border in Bangladesh (we even asked the border guys), but then turned back and sent it from Calcutta. We researched various departure points and destinations around the area and this one won in terms of price AND speed. Kathmandu to Bangkok was pricier on flights for us, and based on other peoples reports pricier for shipping too. Chittagong in Bangladesh for sea shipping proved to be far more expensive, far less professional, and much much slower. Chennai, Sth India, to Bangkok looked to be...

look what we found! We made it!! This is just a mini-update but we are now in Bangkok, and the bike is sat happily in the courtyard, pleased to no longer be caged. Customs was a blimmin nightmare, and took a day of faffing, and then we couldn't put the bike back together again for quite some time. But in the end all was well, and after 6 hours or so we brought Manfred home, on beautiful tarmac roads, with a real road system. before we spent a very long time trying to wedge the disc brake back inbetween the seized brake pads, and then rode off without a front brake. And then the madness hit home.  We were surrounded by holiday-makers on Khao San Rd, and there were fish massages on offer (they don't massage the fish. The fish 'massage' your feet, by eating dead skin. Nice.) The streets were packed with shopping centres and trendy thai teenagers in mini-skirts. It was a far cry from our last few conservative countries. I reeled in shock, and therefore a st...

Last thing at night in Dhaka on our way back to the hotel, I jumped in a skip. The passers-by openly guffawed.  A scruffy Foreigner had just launched herself into a bin at dusk to emerge grinning with a giant piece of polystyrene.  A security guard saw a commotion, and marched over to tell the bloody insolent beggar off…  until he saw the bloody insolent beggar was a white tourist in a bin.  Then he looked a little perplexed, and snuck off.  But we had a giant custom painting on a bit of tin, and it needed protection.  And there weren‘t all that many DIY shops around.  And anyway, the polystyrene seemed to work alright. We fashioned a beautiful if somewhat improvised security blanket for it back at the hotel.  I wish I had a photo though.  the transport of a painting The next day saw us embark upon a very long, hard day from Dhaka to Calcutta. It also included a scary border crossing with our slightly forged visas.    w...

In Chittagong we sat in the hotel room. Through the window we could see beggars sorting through piles of rotting vegetables. Their little kids sniffed varnish out of bags and stumbled up and down the road. The bike sat in the underground ‘carpark‘.   A group of labourers slept down there, on a tarpaulin in the dark. They took it in turns to manually pump sewage from the hotel foundations. They sang in canon while they worked, like the old African slave songs, and waved at us with big smiles. Sometimes it seems like everyone is trying to leave Bangladesh. In the internet cafes, people fill in the ‘Online Diversity US Visa Application‘. Yesterday a man showed us the way to a restaurant. He handed us a CV, and asked us to give it to someone in Britain. It wasn’t his- he couldn’t speak any English. He had printed someone else’s CVs off, and carried them with him in case an opportunity presented itself. We tried to explain that we were frankly the least likely candidates fo...