Coal trucks from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken heads towards the coast to the south of Sydney. Encountering just one or two coal trucks along the way. Good job he’s got a flask of tea.
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Coal trucks
July 27th, 2011Campbelltown nights
July 27th, 2011Martin, I thought, must’ve had a few bad experiences with cyclists. Sharing his obvious frustrations very diplomatically, just as I sought to reassure him that I at least sought not to impede others on the road. Fortunately, the conversation soon moved on to koalas. Previously a fairly emotive subject, tonight the only point of contention was that they were just that. Koalas. Not koala bears.
I’d reached a small town close to Campbelltown, a little to the south of Sydney, at dusk. Slow but steady progress through the western suburbs. Half expecting a quiet evening staying with Debbie and Steve, relatives of Dewi who, back in North Wales, had trained me as a cycle mechanic. Instead, a rather more rapturous affair, joined by their friends for a homely dinner. Curious names. "Mrs DDS".
Cyclists they might not be, but a firm grasp of what would go down well after a day’s ride Debbie certainly had. Rich, homemade lasagne, garlic bread. And alcoholic ginger beer. Lashings of it. A fine return to the road.
Nuns on the run
July 26th, 2011By the time I was called the ticket was crumpled. Slightly sweaty. Decided to rest it on top of my small pocket book. Into which I’d shoved various documents to support my case for a US visa. Letter of introduction from The Outward Bound Trust. Outlining my venture. Evidence of funds to support myself. Of ties to the UK. That’d I no intention of over-staying.
Glanced once more at the number printed on the small slip. Three hundred and ninety. Must been the twentieth time I’d checked it. Sat in the waiting area of the US Consulate. High above Sydney. Fiftieth or so floor. People came and went. Called forward to the small interview booths. If there was an order to it, it wasn’t numerical.
Curious about my fellow applicants. Sat about. Family with four daughters. Quite a few students. Overhearing snippets from the booths in front. Questioned mostly on their ability to support themselves. And a couple of nuns. One of whom bore an uncanny resemblance to Robbie Coltrane.
Then my turn. A few questions. More of a pleasant chat than an interview. Explained the purpose of my visit. Why I sought a visa rather than use the usual Visa Waiver Programme. Added I had various documents in support of my application. But these weren’t necessary. Ten year multiple entry visa granted. Helpfully advised that the duration of each visit would depend on the immigration officer at point of entry. So wise to keep hold of the paperwork.
Reflecting a short while later with my flask of tea, I felt rather buoyant. For one thing, I’d found the US Consulate very understanding. A few days earlier concerned Chilean ash clouds might preclude me from getting back in time from New Zealand for my interview. I’d explained the situation in an e-mail. Personal response within the hour. If was delayed, they’d be able to accommodate me. Just get in touch. And the morning’s experience had been similarly pleasant. I was really looking forward to visiting.
[Author’s note: Ken sought a Class B-2 tourist visa because he needs more than the three months permitted by the Visa Waiver Scheme for British Citizens. Time that includes that spent in Canada. So, de facto, a North American visa. Cost. About one hundred pounds]
Consular affairs on camera
July 26th, 2011Consular affairs from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken heads for the US Consulate in Sydney, Australia. In search of a visa.
A bit behind…
July 25th, 2011I’d finally made it back to friends in Sydney’s northern suburbs. Bit later than I’d hoped. Immigration to thank for that. Bite to eat. Glass of wine. Chance to reflect on the day’s events. There’d been the unexpected airport departure tax. Not included in the ticket. But only for those bound for Australia.
More expense. Which struck me as odd. Just why was Australia so expensive? If any country was justified in being more costly than, say, the UK, it was New Zealand. Far side of the world. Relatively small population. About four million to Oz’s twenty or so. And yet I’d found it pretty comparable to Blighty.
As we’d made our approach into Sydney the Captain had announced they were two hours behind. I’d laughed out loud. Quipped if you came out from the UK make it twenty years.
Rude awakening
July 25th, 2011How was I able to support myself, the official asked? Explained how I funded my travels. Added I’d paperwork in my bag that might be helpful. Offer accepted. Cursory check. He’d need to file a brief report. Just in case I was stopped again. I wasn’t sure where, or when, that might be. No particular plans to return once I’d completed riding along Australia’s eastern seaboard.
I’d been pulled to one side by an immigration officer at Sydney airport. Spotted I’d been here before. For a while. Resisting the temptation to be flippant. I’d a multiple entry visa. Six months per visit. Why not? Whilst I’d been able to satisfy the rather Orwellian Customs and Border Protection chap of my bona fides, I’d not taken kindly being stopped. British Citizen. If we’d much of a Navy left I’d have summoned the gunboats.
At least the woman in Quarantine was friendly. Nice smile. I’d explained I’d been here before. Last time with a bicycle. Knew the do’s and don’t’s. Not even a rummage in my bag. Allowed to proceed without further delay. Welcome to Australia.
This is Punakaiki
July 8th, 2011This is Punakaiki from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
As Ken says, this is Punakaiki. Filmed in slow motion lest you miss it. Enchanting spot on the west coast of New Zealand’s South Island
Changing values?
June 28th, 2011She’d looked bemused. Why, I asked? Seemed I was the first person she’d met who’d actually incapacitated someone using plastic tie-wraps. This wasn’t, she quickly added, the sort of thing people normally did. I’d recounted the circumstances in a rather matter-of-fact way. Without fuss, melodrama or embellishment. Merely describing how it was. Something that had been necessary. I’d felt very strongly about this.
She wasn’t questioning why I’d done it. Just the apparent shift in my values that placed this sort of thing on a par with, say, fixing a puncture. What you did to get the job done. But had I shown a little moral flexibility? Crossed a behavioural boundary I might later regret? Found her observation thought provoking.
Details of the incident add little to the narrative. Suffice to say it’s a rarity on the road. Distraction rather than detraction. Simply put, a situation had arisen to which I’d chosen to deal with, well, logically. Applying the rules. In this instance, the doctrine of reasonable force. The usual moral, legal and practical arguments. Carefully, if quickly, considered.
Decision made, dealing with the miscreant was just a process to be followed through. Unexpected response from a Westerner. Art of surprise. Swiftly executed. The offender rendered harmless. To himself or others.
Getting out of Gosford
June 28th, 2011Getting out of Gosford from Ken Roberts on Vimeo.
Ken is only too pleased to be leaving Gosford. And the final push to Sydney’s northern suburbs.
Night rider
June 28th, 2011Acceptance. When you know you have to do something. Even if you really don’t want to. Makes it easier. Stoic. I’d pulled off the road. Dark in less than twenty minutes. Quick phone call to friends. They were expecting me. Wasn’t exactly sure where I was. Just an inkling I’d quite a way to go. Two. Maybe three hours. Could be more.
I’d reached Gosford at lunchtime. Making satisfactory progress from my overnight stop at Swansea. Brief break for coffee. Centrepoint town. Lower social demographic. Benefit office mainstay of the local economy. Cheap looking shops. Salvos – Salvation Army – second hand store doing a brisk trade.
Couple of cyclists had spotted Emma, my trusty steed, outside the cafe. Guessed it was my bike. We chatted for a short while. Soon apparent the final fifty miles into Sydney’s northern suburbs would be slow. Lengthy, if steady, climbs. Wooded valleys.
Sun fading fast now. Lights rigged. Fresh batteries in the rear set. Quick snack. Been on the road since eight. Anxious to press on. Headlights bright enough to be seen. But insufficient for picking my way along unlit roads. Needed to make the most of the last glimmers of daylight. Striving to reach the comforting orange glow of street lights on the outskirts of Sydney.
There’d been a steep gradient at the end. Too tired to ride. Suburban street. Checking letter boxes for house numbers. Needed evens. But which way did they run? Then a shout from down the hill. Welcoming party. We’d made it. Sydney.
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