How I Became The Blind Scooter Guy: My soul searching safari by scooter from the Southern Tip of Africa to the Shamrock fields of Ireland

By Christopher Venter

Join Chris as he embarks on the adventure of his life. Touching twenty countries and travelling close to 30 000 km over 8 months, all the way from the southern tip of Africa to the shamrock fields of Ireland. The journey was a publicity stunt creating media opportunities for paediatric healthcare service providers. And, of course, Chris relished the opportunity to taste his very first Guinness at the source. But was the trip all the way to Dublin worth it?

Battling ill health and broken friendships this rollercoaster ride eventually cost Chris his eyesight. He relays the story of his adventures on the road, medical trauma and recovery with passion and good humour. After his devastating prognosis as a blind man, Chris thought that sight loss would cause his adventures to end but it has rather ignited his curiosity. Chris’ inspirational scooter ride and journey to recovery and how he has overcome the obstacles he has faced has not slowed down his adventurous spirit!
#BlindManCan

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Mar 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9780639924823

Book preview

www.blindscooterguy.com

© 2017 by Christopher Venter All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover design: Nicole Hartley

Front Cover Photograph: Michael Timm

ISBN: 978-0-620-77496-3

2nd . First published in South Africa by BSG Adventure Travel Books 2017.

Endorsements

If you’ve ever wondered what an Overland adventure is about warts and all, this book tells it straight and with a grip that makes it hard to put down. Chris had me in tears! So powerful are his descriptions and the passion with which he writes, that I felt the frustration, and was shocked by the betrayals. But I laughed with him and rode along with the pure buzz that being on the long road on two wheels gives you. Raw courage and determination – a true tale of the road where the surprises never stop coming.

Sam Manicom, Motorcycle adventurer and world traveller. Author of four best-selling adventure travel books: Into Africa, Under Asian Skies, Distant Suns and From Tortillas to Totems. Exeter, United Kingdom

www.sam-manicom.com

A story of the ultimate two wheeled adventure. The author never imagined how much this 30 000 km trip would cost him, told through the eyes as only the Blind Scooter Guy can.

Dan Parker, Blind Land Speed Racer. Georgia, USA

www.facebook.com/QuestfortheSalt/

Christopher is the kind of man who leads a life that most of us only dream of, or read about in books. But what happens when after years of meticulous planning for the adventure of a lifetime, the one thing he didn’t plan for is the one thing that happens. This is a powerful and deeply moving travel memoir of an extraordinary man with an extraordinary heart, and a real privilege to read.

Megan Darcy, Coffee Addict, Runner, Baker, Blogger and Blind Mama. Sydney, Australia

www.megandarcy.com

Endorsements

Harrowing. That is the only word that could describe the beginning of this book. I found myself holding my breath and flipping pages like I was reading a thriller. However, that simply does not do this book justice. Inspiring is the only word that can do that. Chris is a remarkable man, and a phenomenal storyteller. I was proud to have my logo on that fateful scooter, and even prouder to have these words on this book.

Richard Mulholland, Speaker, Author, Entrepreneur. Cape Town and Johannesburg, South Africa.

www.richardmulholland.co.za

What an adventure! Who would know this selfless act of charity would lead to a lifelong journey of a whole new world. For most people this would be the end of their life, but for the author it’s just an opportunity to motivate people to overcome the obstacles and keep inspiring them even more."

Jim Paradiso, Visually impaired traveller, adventure seeker and mobility instructor. Ecuador, South America

www.facebook.com/Blindjimcantdothat/

More than just a travelogue, more than just a personal memoir, this is a story filled with experiences both wonderful and traumatic, insights into diverse lands and cultures, and varied culinary delights. Well worth the read!

Lois Strachan, Inspirational Speaker and Author A Different Way of Seeing: A Blind Woman’s Journey of Living an ‘’Ordinary’ Life in an Extraordinary Way. Cape Town, South Africa

www.loisstrachan.com

Endorsements

Charity gatherer Chris Venter who covered over ten million meters to generate funds for the Red Cross Hospital for children was robbed in Africa. He was robbed not of material possessions but the blessed God gift of sight. Through his acceptance of this dreadful burden and his new pitch black World, he is a shining example to us and how supremely fortunate we should consider ourselves. Chris thank you for showing us the way.

Terence Tracy, Adventure traveller, petrol head, restaurateur and author of ‘No Way back! Johannesburg to London in an Imp.’Johannesburg, South Africa

This story tells the tale of a man´s desire to do good for people less fortunate. It´s adventure, courage, hardship, endurance, joys, pains, laughs and tears and ultimately a sting in the tail (or sting in the tale) or tale as the case may be.

Mark Wild, Lambretta Scooter Rider and enthusiast.

(Santarcangelo di Romagna), Rimini, Italy.

Dedication

This story was a tremendous task to tell. Remembering and reliving everything that happened to me before, during and after the trip was torturous at both the best and worst of times. Alas, the story had to be told and ultimately the obstacle of completing the book, which for months felt insurmountable, has been conquered.

It is with this triumph in mind that I firstly dedicate this book to all those people around the globe who have overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles in their lives. To both the sighted and the blind who live their dreams, face their challenges and continually strive to explore what lies beyond their comfort zones. This book is firstly for all of you.

Secondly, to the most amazing woman I know, without whom I would never have stayed semi-sane, never would have completed this book, never would have become strong once more, perhaps never would have survived and most importantly, never would have become the Blind Scooter Guy. To my forever loving and dedicated wife, the most beautiful person I know, inside and out, the most passionate, curious, kind and caring, Tamlyn. I love you more than I ever knew possible. Thank you for choosing to share your life with me and for helping me keep the adventure addiction alive. You are my everything.

Thank you

Christopher, The Blind Scooter Guy

Riaan Manser is one of the world’s leading explorers. Through Riaan’s message of courage, perseverance and attitude, he continues to inspire and motivate people around the globe

This intrepid adventurer has completed four unparalleled world firsts; cycling the entire perimeter of the African continent, a circumnavigation of Madagascar by single kayak and Iceland with partner, Dan Skinstad, by double kayak. His thirst was barely quenched when he went on to row with his wife, Vasti, firstly across the Indian ocean (from Morocco to New York) and then across the Pacific (from San Francisco to Hawaii).

You can read more about Riaan’s epic expeditions and legendary thirst for adventure in any one of his must-read books. Riaan has been a long-time supporter, friend of the Scooter Addicts and an inspiration to me.

www.riaanmanser.co.za (Pioneering World Explorer. Four World Firsts).

Foreword by Riaan Manser

There is an ocean between saying and doing.

Riaan Manser

We all believe we are determined, we all believe we are brave. The truth is most of us, including me; find excuses not to do the things we have dreamed of. Finding excuses to camouflage our fear and cowardice. Christopher Venter is not one of us. He is the opposite. A man who took matters into his own hands and acted on his dreams.

When I think of people who seek adventure in their lives I rarely, as most would expect, imagine a person surviving in jungles and deserts. Rather I see determination personified. I see someone that is willing to do what others are not. And then some more. I see someone who will not accept a NO. Someone that will incessantly look for a solution.

Our ancestors; the ones responsible for our modern existence; survived whatever they had to for this simple reason. They did not except that they could not cross that river or that mountain, never mind that ocean.

Christopher’s story is one that will resonate beyond the adventure characters we have become familiar with. His story is actually in its infancy when it comes to its true meaning. His impact on those around him is only beginning to find its shape. A man who goes on the grandest adventure you can imagine and unknowingly has to sacrifice his most emotive sense – Sight. He and his companions had said it a million times before their departure. We cannot wait to see this and cannot wait to see that…

This, in my opinion, is where Christopher’s real story begins.

For him to pen this story of taking a scooter from Cape Town to Europe could not have been easy. He has opened up to me about the unglamorous side of his expedition. Something I know a little bit about. Times he felt alone, afraid and vulnerable. Times when he felt the pain of being rejected and unwanted. These are human emotions we can all relate to. The truth and reality of what he endured, through his eyes, is an opportunity for us to share in this adventure. To have a safe literary saunter through what it takes to get something like this done. I love books that involuntarily have us chipping in with a what would I have done opinion. But the reality is we weren’t there. We have to live it through him.

On my journeys I have lived and breathed many an experience. The most rewarding experiences were strangely enough the ones spent with the most poor, suppressed and disadvantaged. The lessons we learn from someone inspirational are not supplied in bullet format. There are no power point presentations we get clicked through with the motivational speaker laser pointing us to a more fruitful existence. Lessons from people who have less than us either make their mark or they don’t. They either change the way you see the world or they don’t.

A few people on my journeys come to mind. A handicapped man in a wheelchair in Congo Republic was the proudest electronic street stall owner I have ever met. I would sit on the sidewalk waiting for the coffee stall to open. The sun had not even risen and this man in the icy dawn would push/roll himself up the bumpy hill to his wooden roadside stand. He would unlock, dismantle the heavy security gates and then within 15 minutes be set-up and ready to do watch and electronic repairs.

The three mornings I witnessed this were enough for me to ridicule myself as to what I was really achieving, especially as an able bodied person. Maybe circumnavigating Africa by bicycle wasn’t enough?

The people I met and spent time with in war torn Liberia and Sierra Leone were beyond inspirational. The first man I met was a one legged guy by the name of Mohammad. In the Sierra Leone capital of Freetown I jumped into a dilapidated minibus taxi to get to the United Nations headquarters.

My boarding of this rattling metal structure happened so quickly that I only realized too late there was not enough space for me to sit. The broad smile attracted my attention first and then immediately following, his invite to share his space with him. He shifted over and at the same time nonchalantly swung his leg stump onto my lap. No problem he said. Off we went chatting about everything BUT the war that raged around us.

Later I learnt how one evening, a year before, Mohammad along with others in his village, had been rounded-up by drugged rebels. His efforts on behalf of the village, to negotiate and save lives, landed up with him being used as an example.

For his insolence they put him up against a tree while someone casually shot his leg off. I didn’t need a lecture at this juncture of my life to learn a lesson. I sincerely understood myself to be privileged. We can truly only grow and understand others if we are willing to hear about their world and imagine what it would be to walk in their shoes.

Many a good speech begins with the opening call of Imagine you were.. . . . . A popular invite offered to an audience to transport themselves to a new and alternate world. A world they have forever only imagined.

I will use this ‘Imagine’ idea as my closing. Imagine you had the privilege to see Africa and Europe by scooter. Meet all walks of people, dance evenings away, sit around campfires solving the world’s problems. See, taste and feel things for the first time in your life; on a daily basis. Argue with friends, debate life and grow as a global citizen. Imagine forgetting what day it is or even what time it is. Imagine living daily what millions in the world will forever only imagine doing?

Christopher has shown us that we don’t have to imagine. We can go out and do it.

Christopher, your real story is just about to start.

Table of Contents

PART 1 Planning, Preparation, Patience and Perspiration

Chapter One An Adventurer is Born

Chapter Two The Dream

Chapter Three The Planning Begins

Chapter Four Gearing Up To Go

PART 2 Africa

Chapter Five South Africa - The Coastal Ride - Going East

Chapter Six South Africa - The Ride North

Chapter Seven Botswana

Chapter Eight Zambia

Chapter Nine Malawi

Chapter Ten Tanzania - The East Road

Chapter Eleven Tanzania - Dar es Salaam

Chapter Twelve Tanzania - Zanzibar

PART 3 Europe and the UK

Chapter Thirteen Two-Stroke Withdrawal Symptoms

Chapter Fourteen France - Paris, Provence, and Cote d’Azur Solo

Chapter Fifteen Italy - Tuscany to Sicily Solo

Chapter Sixteen Italy - Italy to Salerno Solo

Chapter Seventeen Italy - Rendezvous and Ride to Rome

Chapter Eighteen Italy - Rome, going east to the Adriatic Sea

Chapter Nineteen Italy- up to San Marino and back over to Tuscany

Chapter Twenty Italy - Florence

Chapter Twenty One Italy - Pisa, Pontedera and surrounds

Chapter Twenty Two Arrivederci Italia

Chapter Twenty Three France - From the Cote d’Azur into Provence

Chapter Twenty Four France - The Mid-Pyrenees Mountains

Chapter Twenty Five France - West to the Sea. North to the City.

Chapter Twenty Six France - Paris to Calais

Chapter Twenty Seven London Calling

Chapter Twenty Eight United Kingdom - Riding the South Coast

Chapter Twenty Nine United Kingdom - Riding North to Wales

Chapter Thirty Ireland - Dublin

Chapter Thirty One Ireland - Cruising the Countryside

Chapter Thirty Two Homeward Bound

PART 4 Becoming The Blind Scooter Guy

Chapter Thirty Three Crests and Troughs

Chapter Thirty Four My Descent into Darkness

Chapter Thirty Five Coming Back to Life

Chapter Thirty Six The Road Ahead

Acknowledgments

Trip Sponsors and Supporters

Interesting Statistics and Facts from the Trip

Writer’s Note

About the Author

Recipes Index

Chapter 5:

Pot bread recipe

Chapter 7:

Potjie recipe (for 8 people)

Bobotie Recipe (for 6 people)

Chapter 8

Hamburger Recipe (This makes 4 large or 5 medium burger patties)

Chapter 9

Chapati Bread Recipe

Chapter 12

Beef Curry Recipe (for 6 people)

Chapter 14

Bœuf à la Bourguignon Recipe (for 4 people)

Chapter 18

Creamy Bacon Carbonara (serves 4 people)

Spaghetti Bolognaise

Chapter 26

Potato Dauphinoise (side dish)

Chapter 30

Irish Soda Bread

Chapter 31

Irish Stew (for 6 people)

Prologue - Zanzibar

You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice . Bob Marley

Zanzibar March 2013

I’m not a religious man. I don’t think I’ve ever owned or read a Bible. When I was young, I did, however, go to Sunday school at a local church. I remember a story that the teacher, who wore a long, floral dress, told us about a guy who was swallowed by a whale. I think his name was Jonah, or something like that. As a child, I found this story disturbing: it freaked me out, imagining what it would be like to be trapped inside the belly of a whale.

As I lay on the hard concrete, floor of the holiday bungalow on the island of Zanzibar, I recalled this tale. In my delirium, I wondered what it would be like to float around, trapped, inside its massive hollow stomach.

The room was humid and claustrophobic. The putrid stench of my own shit and vomit lingered in the stifling air, making my eyes burn. I had lost count of how many times my cramping and liquid bowels had worked in the previous twenty-four hours. The buzz of the ever-present mosquitos added to my discomfort. Their co-ordinated assault felt planned, as they landed in the sweat pooling around my mouth and on my forehead. Stings at the ready, they waited for the moment of maximum annoyance before striking. Rewarded with the sweet nectar they craved, they circled and came back for more. I was an easy victim; I just didn’t have the energy to brush them away or protect myself with the mosquito-net over the bed. I didn’t want to lie on the bed and soil it with the mess from my illness – I would at least spare the hotel staff that much.

My parched throat couldn’t be appeased, no matter how much water I drank. I realized that my body was dehydrated. The taste of blood and puke in my mouth added to the nausea. The more I tried to drink, the more I vomited. I hadn’t been able to keep any food down for over two days. I was shivering yet I was hot and sweaty; I watched my hands shake as I struggled to control them.

My only company was the mosquitos and the slow turning of the ceiling fan, which did little to cool the tropical heat or dissipate the odour. When I looked up, the bamboo ceiling seemed to be moving from left to right, right to left. The straight lines of the bamboo were the ribs of the whale that imprisoned me, the bars of my jail cell. I felt drunk but I had not had any alcohol. The closest sensation I could compare it to was scuba-diving: in the shallow water, the waves pass over your head and the surf causes a surge which pushes you from side to side. I closed my eyes and succumbed to the dizziness. There was no fight left in me. I thought I was going to die. I wanted to die.

I was sharing the bungalow with the Farmer. I had given up calling out for him and I assumed he had gone to the bar in an effort to escape the noxious smells in the room. I couldn’t really blame him, but I was angry, as he had made no effort to check whether I was still alive. I was sure he was pestering some poor woman, making a nuisance of himself. I desperately needed his help, but he wasn’t there. Perhaps for the first time, I felt real fear. Then I blacked out.

When I came to, I was still lying on the hard ground. The sun’s rays painted the floor with a long stripe that shone through the crack at the bottom of the door, lighting up the cement and telling me it was early morning. Struggling to my knees, I crawled to the bathroom, less than two metres away. I dragged myself into the shower. Otherwise fully clothed, I let the cool water run slowly over me as I sat, bare-bummed, on the floor. I tried to wash the dried shit out of my soiled underpants, but I was so weak I couldn’t wring them out.

After some time sitting alone, resting against the wall of the bathroom, I summoned up my last reserves to seek help. I made my way slowly, half walking and half crawling, from the bungalow to the Wi-Fi area in the boma. My team-mates weren’t there. Where the hell was the American? Probably arguing politics and lecturing some of the hotel staff at the breakfast bar. Where was the Pilot? Probably getting stoned on the beach with some of the locals. The effort of getting to the boma had left me exhausted, although it was only a couple of hundred metres from the room. Why were none of my team-members around to help me? I would have carried any one of them on my back if they needed help. At the boma, I blacked out again.

Sometime later, the hotel staff found me and guided me into the manager’s office. The duty manager was a red-faced young South African. When he saw the state I was in, he started making calls around the island, trying to find medical help. He had Imodium in his first-aid kit, which he gave me for the diarrhoea. I sat silently, watching him through my tear-filled eyes as he called one number after the other. There was no doctor on the island, and he started trying to find one on the mainland. He asked me if I had medical cover or travel insurance; I shook my head. Despair hit me and I passed out again.

When I came round, the duty manager was holding a cold, wet towel to my forehead. He explained the situation and outlined my options. For some strange reason, there were no doctors on the spice island at that time; all the resident doctors were on holiday. The hospital for expats in Dar es Salaam wanted a deposit of 5000 US dollars before they would even look at me, and I wouldn’t get a cent back, regardless of the diagnosis.

If I didn’t have the funds for the expat hospital, which I most certainly didn’t, the best alternative was to get on a flight back home. I sat looking at the man, stunned. Home? The thought hadn’t crossed my mind until then. Tears welled up as I nodded my head.

The duty manager searched online for flights to South Africa and helped me make the booking with my credit card. The resort staff found my three team mates and brought them to me so I could tell them that I was leaving. At first they didn’t believe it. I told them I was sick, that I needed help, that I thought I was dying. They still didn’t believe me; they joked that I was just homesick. The sound of their voices faded out; I was dizzy and disoriented and I passed out again. All I could smell was my own shit. All I could taste was blood and vomit.

As I left the lodge in the airport shuttle, the Pilot stuck the video camera in my face and tried to get me to speak. The Farmer stood next to the car, shaking his head. And in the distance I could see the American laughing.

On the way to the airport I asked the driver if he knew of a place where I may be able to purchase more Imodium - I didn’t want to shit myself on the flight back home. He said there was a clinic that might help, but they usually only attended to Muslim patients and he was uncertain about taking me there. We stopped at a small, rural building that looked like a funeral parlour and the driver helped me stumble up the steps and into the reception area. At the counter, I spoke to a woman dressed in a full burka. The driver helped to translate my request, but she just stared at me through glazed eyes and looked worried. Suddenly, a tall, gaunt man came out of an office and started shouting at me. Pointing his long finger, he told me to get out. He told me I was a dirty pig and I must go and die. He told me he would never help me. His aggression was so extreme and so unexpected that I felt fear wash over me; I edged my way backwards towards the door.

The man carried on screaming at me and the driver, as well as at the receptionist. Then he reached behind the counter and brought out a big roll of paper towels. He tore some off and started wiping the floor where I had stood. I didn’t know if I had soiled myself and messed on the floor, but I didn’t think so. He carried on screaming while the driver helped me out of the door and down the steps. I looked back and saw that the woman behind the counter, still looking terrified. I blacked out again.

The driver shook me awake when we reached the small Zanzibar airport. He helped me to carry my luggage and check-in. The flight to the mainland took less than thirty minutes and my connecting flight from Dar es Salaam to Johannesburg would leave later that day.

I don’t really recall anything about the flight back to Dar es Salaam. I just know that I somehow made it from the plane into the terminal and found myself standing, stunned, in the international departure area. The check-in counters ran in a line along the rear wall. Above each counter was a television screen with flight names and numbers in Arabic or Swahili, which I couldn’t read, so I didn’t know where to go. I saw a man seated behind a computer at a counter where there was no queue. I approached him and asked him if he could please tell me which kiosk was the correct one for the South African Airways check-in. The first time I asked him he ignored me, so I asked again. He ran his finger across the top of his forehead, mimicking a decapitation, or something equally violent. I had seen this gesture many times on the road to Dar es Salaam: the locals used it to show that you weren’t welcome and they were prepared to kill you. In perfect English he said, I have no interest in helping you. He turned back to his computer. I said, Excuse me, sir? thinking I had heard wrong. He leaned towards me and repeated, even more loudly, I have no interest in helping you! You dirty pig! I blacked out and collapsed.

It was a time of turmoil and trauma in Tanzania. There had been mass murders at two coastal resorts. The attacks and killings were reportedly part of some extremist ideology and were religiously motivated. I guess I was just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it felt terrible to experience such hatred.

I came round in the small airport clinic. A Dutch expat doctor examined me and told me that I needed a rehydration drip urgently: a lack of fluids was causing me to pass out continually, and unless I could gain some strength he could not approve me as fit to fly. The cost was one hundred US dollars. I nodded and handed over my credit card.

Standing next to me, with a concerned expression, was an Indian South African from Kwazulu-Natal. He had found me, disorientated, at the airport information counter and very kindly brought me to the clinic. He was from Durban and was booked on the same fl ight to Johannesburg. I would probably have been left to my fate on the fl oor of the airport if he hadn’t taken pity on me. He reassured me and offered to help me and make sure my bag was safe.

After thirty minutes on the rehydration drip, I felt much better. When the time came to check in and board the plane, I thought I was strong enough to walk, but as soon as I stood up I fell to the floor. The clinic staff helped me into a wheelchair and a flight attendant wheeled me onto the plane. I was the last person to board, and was taken to a seat at the rear. On the opposite side of the aisle was my new friend from Durban; I must confess that I never found out his name, but I’ll forever be grateful for his assistance!

My seat was just in front of the rear toilet and I was thankful for this as I spent most of the flight from Dar es Salaam to Johannesburg in that tiny cubicle, shitting myself.

On the four-hour flight, I tried to eat a little. I remember that the meal was a bland curry and rice. I drank a lot of water all the way. I don’t remember disembarking at OR Tambo International Airport in Johannesburg, but vaguely recall that my Durban friend helped me to the Cape Town check-in. I remember waking up on an uncomfortable, cushion-less steel seat in the departure area, then boarding for the final two-hour leg.

When I reached Cape Town, late that night, I walked into the arrivals hall supported by a luggage trolley. I saw Tamlyn standing there, waiting, and I was incredibly relieved! I hadn’t even known if she knew I was coming or if someone had managed to notify her. Her jaw dropped when she saw me and she started to cry. I realized then just how sick I must have looked, moving slowly through the arrivals hall, ashen-faced, with a thick, scruffy beard and shaking hands. My clothes were dirty and hung loosely (I had lost 10 kilos). She helped me into the airport toilet to clean myself again before the drive home.

I vaguely remember arriving home that night and my dog, Scooter, jumping up to welcome me and wrapping his front legs around me as I tried to pet him. It was almost as if he knew that something was wrong and wanted to protect me. I was so relieved to be home, but so totally stunned and exhausted that I couldn’t talk properly. Tamlyn helped me to shower and put me to bed.

The next morning I felt well enough to go and see my GP. His surgery was very busy and I couldn’t get an appointment. As I stood, begging the receptionist to fit, me in, one of the doctors came to the front to call his next patient. He took one look at me and asked if I was OK. I Told him that no, I definitely wasn’t. I explained that I had bad diarrhoea and there was lots of blood both in my urine and crap. The short, fat, bald man took me by the arm and led me down the passage to a small toilet cubicle, where he told me to drop my pants. He wrapped toilet paper around his two fingers and wiped my anus. He looked closely at the shit on the toilet paper, even lifting it to his nose to smell it, then he told me to get to a hospital immediately.

The next thing I remember is waking up a week later on the sofa at home. I had spent a fortune on blood tests and specialist consultations, but I was alive. Where in Africa the rest of my team and my scooter were, I didn’t know.

The diagnosis was severe bilharzia, dehydration, food-poisoning and exhaustion. The doctors pumped me full of meds and vitamins and announced that I would soon feel better, which I did.

But my problems were far from over; the diagnosis was incomplete. My health issues had only just began – an iceberg of problems was only showing its peak while most of it was still hidden under a sea of confusion. My life was about to change forever and I had no control over what would happen. I floated in a sea of uncertainty like a rudderless boat, just letting the wind blow me in whatever direction it chose. My world was about to be turned inside out, upside down and ultimately become very, very dark.

PART 1

Planning, Preparation, Patience and Perspiration

The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.

Vincent Van Gogh

Chapter One

An Adventurer is Born

Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.

Albert Einstein

For as long as I can remember, I have been addicted to crazy and sometimes foolish adventures. I have always related strongly to the age- old adage, ‘Curiosity killed the cat’, not as a warning, but as a challenge. I interpret it as an invitation to seek out all sorts of adventure, as well as the trouble that often goes along with it. What can I say? I’m a junkie.

Perhaps I should never have been on the long road, seeking out the unknown. Perhaps my inquisitive nature was just waiting to challenge me one time too many. Perhaps, in a previous life, I was a real bastard and my karma was waiting to get back at me, and it was just a matter of time before trouble found me. Through all this, I knew my nine lives would sustain me - I make a habit of always landing on my feet, no matter what the circumstances.

In his famous poem, Robert Frost wrote, Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference. I took these words literally.

From the time I was a naughty, snot-nosed boy, I buried myself in books by authors like Enid Blyton. Even before I could read, I recall my parents playing scratched records on an old Pioneer LP player so I could listen to the ‘Famous Five’ and ‘Secret Seven’ tales.

I sat entranced, my imagination running wild as I held tightly onto the covers. I wanted desperately to be member number six or eight of either of these clubs. This is my first memory of being really happy. I experienced a sense of longing for curious escapades and of being inquisitive about the world around me. This was the beginning of my addiction to adventure.

When I was in primary school, I stole all the hardboard-backed political posters from the lampposts that lined our suburb before a general election. Then I spent a couple weeks digging in the black soil next to the little stream that ran under the trees at the bottom of our garden, the natural boundary between my house and the neighbouring farm. I got filthy almost every day, digging with my friend, a small, chubby, ginger-haired guy called Jon.

We dug until the hole was large enough to become a makeshift fort. We laid the poster boards on top of some long, straight branches that we cut from the black wattle trees that grew on the bank of the stream. We covered the pictures of candidates from the National Party, as well as the Democratic Party, and even the People’s Progressive Party, with a mix of dry autumn leaves, sticks and more of the black soil. We would sit in our little clubhouse; with the dim lights of our torches shining on each other’s faces and chat about all the adventures we would have when we grew up.

My mother scolded me for getting my clothes so dirty, but I couldn’t understand why she was so upset. Being a privileged white family living in upmarket suburbia, there was always a maid to do the laundry. Anna, our maid, would hide my muddy cotton shirts, give her big, happy grin and tell me it was good for me to play and get dirty. She always looked out for me and allowed me to be a pretend explorer while my parents were at work.

I joined the Boy Scouts when I was about ten years old, and went camping and hiking in the mountains with like-minded boys.

This made me even thirstier for further exploration of the unknown. I managed to earn every badge available and learnt skills like sewing, first aid and tying knots. Most importantly, I learned to be brave. I was so brave that at one of the scout socials, a disco of sorts (this was back in the eighties), I got to prove my bravery to my fellow Scouts. The local Girl Guide troop came to the disco and I was the first boy to go and ask a girl to dance. OK, so it wasn’t all about ropes and knives, and sometimes the adventure involved the opposite sex.

Reading kept me curious and continued to throw fuel on flames that were already burning brightly. As a teenager, the short stories of Herman Charles Bosman caught my attention. I fell in love with his unique storytelling style and the mischievous and eclectic characters of the Groot Marico. The way they used outrageous tricks to get out of trouble stole my heart. I also roamed the globe with Hergé’s character, Tintin, exploring every corner of the planet with him and the two detectives, Thompson and Thomson. I was thirsty to discover what mysteries lay along unchartered paths. I could barely wait until I was old enough to begin my own real adventures.

As a young adult I discovered Bill Bryson, the travel writer. For the first time I was convinced that this was what I wanted to do. I loved the offbeat approach Bryson took on his journeys: his books gave real views by an outsider, a traveller passing through, with ironic stories to enchant the reader. I wanted to be a story-teller and a travel and adventure writer - I just had no idea how to make it happen.

Of course, things don’t always work out the way you plan them. When I completed my studies, I embarked on a normal career: I became a chef. At least, it was as normal as working in hectic, fast-paced kitchens can be. To keep the flame of adventure burning, I specialized in remote destinations.

I took on contracts all over the globe and worked for short stints, setting up kitchens and catering operations. I did business plans and competitor assessments and found out where to source the best deals on equipment, as well as how to find suitable contractors. I implemented manageable supply chains and trained staff in all aspects of running a culinary operation.

I specialised in working in remote places, the more distant and unusual, the better. My crazy culinary career took me to almost every corner of the planet. I loved working on small, far-flung islands, and what with the hardship allowance and extra pay, I was able to earn more, waste more and play more.

My culinary years found me working on places as awesome as Saint Helena, where Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled for the last years of his life. I even had the privilege of working on Little Cayman in the Caribbean. This was where the famous underwater adventurer Jacques Cousteau, one of my heroes, had explored the spectacular coral reefs and undersea of Bloody Bay. The majestic aquatic walls stretch from just below the water’s surface to depths of thousands of feet. They’re littered with barrel sponges so large that a man can swim in them. This subterranean wonderland has basket stars that are as large as wagon-wheels and fish of all shapes, sizes and colours. I loved scuba-diving among the black-tip reef sharks and playing with all the speciality diving gear, from rebreathers to underwater cameras and the special mixes of gas in our diving cylinders. This specialised equipment allowed my companions and me to dive deeper and stay down for longer.

When I was not under the warm Caribbean water, I wandered around the little island. Pirates were rumoured to have buried treasure on the island generations before and I kept my eyes peeled as I stumbled through the overgrown mangrove swamps, looking for iguanas to feed with my kitchen scraps. I was on the lookout for a shining coin from a buried cache of stolen treasure.

I fantasized about being born in times gone by: I would have relished being a sailor on a tall ship, exploring uncharted waters and discovering lands beyond the horizon. I probably would have ended up as a pirate with a parrot and a hook for a hand. I also liked to pretend I was a character from Clive Cussler’s novels as I explored undersea caves and swam with manta rays. Perhaps I was the true-life incarnation of his hero, Dirk Pitt?

In between preparing feasts for visitors, I became the adventurer that I wanted to be, and that fed my addiction. Once I was employed by a coral reef research centre; I got to share my banquets with some of the world’s leading marine biologists and their students. Adventure was always a common denominator and a likely topic at the dinner table, but I found myself wishing for more. I was ready to start sharing my stories. I knew that I just had to be brave enough to put my career aside and get out there and do it.

In 2013 I decided that the time had come. I would combine my love for adventure, scooters and travel, go and live a story and write a book about it. I didn’t want to be the old man sitting on the veranda, talking about all the things he wished he had done. I believe that if you want to write a really good adventure and travel story, you must live the experience first. After four years of research and a rock-solid plan (or so I thought), I found a way to make it happen. I would go and live my own personal adventure. I would create a story to tell. I would write my book.

Now, when contemplating the phrase, ‘Curiosity killed the cat’, it has so much more meaning for me. Curiosity did not kill this cat, it just came damn close to it…

Chapter Two

The Dream

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

H. Jackson Brown Jr

We’re are all faced with our own mortality at some point in our lives. After all, we’re dead for longer than we’re alive. I’ve contemplated my own life deeply on many occasions. I’d seen so much disappointment already, and experienced the crippling frustration of being where I didn’t want to be, the bitter taste of living a life I didn’t enjoy, the suffocation of finding myself in a situation that I hadn’t chosen but that was of my own making.

I wanted to steer a path that would satisfy me, add value to the lives of others and make my friends and family proud. I decided to start small, or as I love to say, in one giant leap at a time. As a way of finding adventure and perhaps discovering the purpose that I felt was lacking in my life, I came up with a plan that would steer me in a new and unpredictable direction.

In 2006, Hein (the Farmer) and I rode to the most western, northern, eastern and southern points of South Africa. The trip, dubbed ‘The Greater Trek’, was an epic 9500 kilometre trip that took 55 gruelling days to complete. We were sponsored by Vespa South Africa and given the use of two of their LX 150cc 4-stroke scooters. We did all sorts of crazy things, from eating calamari in the Kalahari and getting haircuts at a barber in Barberton, to exploring little unknown roads that most people would never dream of travelling. We rode up the tortuous Sani Pass, drank beer in the highest pub in Africa and explored abandoned diamond fields in areas where access was forbidden. It was an adventure that would live in my mind for the rest of my life and totally change me. The tales about this adventure will have to wait for another book.

For the original adventure, I’d looked long and thought hard at what I could do that was crazy and cool. At first I contemplated a journey by donkey- cart or a solar-powered vehicle. These ideas, and many others, were soon discarded, but one of them stood out: would it be possible to undertake the journey on small, old, perhaps vintage scooters? After a little more research I started to get excited, and soon I was hooked - I became a scooter addict, a passionate advocate for all things scooter.

The trip around South Africa was my introduction to the scootering world and I fell in love with the simple lifestyle that came with it. The sub-culture was diverse and filled with eccentric characters, all with a passion for small- motored, two-wheeled modes of transport. Scooters and scooterists come in all shapes and sizes, and there’s something charming and carefree about hopping onto a tiny scooter in fair weather, with a picnic basket, and exploring the back roads. I call it ‘old-school cool’.

I’m the kind of person who, when learning about something new that I admire or aspire to achieve, will immerse myself 100% in the detail, expending all of my energy on finding out as much as possible. It wasn’t long before I became an amateur expert on scooters and the scootering community; this was also the time when I started collecting and restoring vintage scooters (with the help of experts). The more I learnt, the more I fell in love with the scootering world. The trip to the four corners of South Africa was just a taster. My adventurous spirit was ignited, I wanted more! I wanted to do something big, something memorable and something that no one else had done before.

If you ask other adventurers, most of them will agree that even while you’re on one expedition, you start dreaming and planning another. On most long trips, you spend many hours alone with time to think; idle time, where you enjoy the success of meeting your current challenge and automatically start visualising and planning the next one. The long scooter rides down straight and unrelenting roads, where kilometres peeled away and clouds changed formation as I passed, gave my mind the freedom to dream.

As well as the desire to be an adventurer, I’d always wanted to write. However, I knew that a lived adventure would provide much more meat for a great story than anything I could write from my imagination. I needed a suitable adventure to live.

I’d always loved making lists of what I want to achieve, so I began assembling the broad characteristics of the type of adventure that I hoped would provide a memorable story:

It had to include travel and exploration (the adventurous thread running throughout)

The story had to have a different element from the norm.

I wanted the adventure to accomplish something new.

I wanted to use the adventure to do some good.

The idea, in the end, was simple. I‟d embark on a two-wheeled expedition, starting in Cape Town and traverse mainly up the east coast of Africa. On reaching the top of Africa, I‟d meander gently through Europe, scoot across the UK and end up in Dublin, Ireland. Here I‟d get to try my first Guinness straight from the source. I had always wondered what this black brew tasted like, but had yet to sample it. Not being much of a beer-drinker, I was 20 looking forward to having something unique to try. Along the way, we hoped to meet up with various child healthcare initiatives and spotlight the amazing work that these organizations do. In principle, a simple idea, right? But the planning proved a little more complicated.

To make the adventure interesting and challenging, I knew that it had to include scooters again. I knew that it would not be the first ride through Africa on two wheels - there have been numerous motorcyclists who have undertaken this trip, both ordinary Joes like me and celebrities. If my team and I were riding large motorcycles, we certainly wouldn‟t have raised eyebrows in the way we did. However, four crazy guys headed into deepest Africa on little 150cc scooters would definitely get media attention. I did some research and couldn‟t discover any record of a team that had done this kind of trip. I was up for the challenge and liked the idea of being the first scooterist to ride that distance.

Selecting a charitable cause was easy. I‟ve always felt indebted to paediatric healthcare, and specifically to the Red Cross War Memorial Children‟s Hospital (RCCH) in Cape Town. I chose the hospital‟s trust as a beneficiary, as I already had a relationship with them.

This had all started many years before, when I met a little girl called Blaze. The first time I met her, she was almost two years old. She was making sandcastles, seated on the edge of an old tractor-tyre filled with beach sand. She lived with her mother and grandparents in a little seaside village called Coffee Bay in the Eastern Cape. I was scuba diving there when I met Blaze and her mother. I was enchanted by this curious and free-spirited little girl; she quickly found a way into my life and stole my heart. It was not long before her mother and I started a relationship and I became a father figure to Blaze.

The relationship with her mother was often difficult. We struggled along as a couple for the duration of Blaze‟s childhood and into her teenage years, eventually arriving at a hard and uncomfortable split. Parting ways is difficult at the best of times, but