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Travel StoriesSpain And The Faro Rally 2005 - By Ren Withnell
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 6
By the time I've got out of bed, showered, washed more smelly thermals and took the tent down it's only 0900. One of the Germans is out of bed so I go and say goodbye and thank her for making me feel welcome. I get on the bike and ride to reception to pay and put the bike on a flat surface to check the oil. The oil is halfway between the upper and lower which is fine, and a dribble comes out of the bevel drive filling hole that means it's fine. I figure it's only 50 miles now to Faro, an easy ride compared to Tuesday.
On the road again my thoughts flood in. It's getting hot again but the thermals are keeping me comfortable. Will there be a border checkpoint as I go into Portugal? What will I make of the rally? I've done quite a few bike rallies in the UK and one thing I have learnt is that I prefer smaller rallies, 2 or 3 hundred bikers in a clubhouse and camping on a rugby or football pitch, a local band and DJ and a friendly atmosphere. Larger rallies seem to involve portable toilets that are unusable, fields of mud, bands at the far end of a field with poor sound quality and so many people being herded around and causing havoc. I know the rally is a big one, one of the biggest in Europe if not the world. It is with some trepidation I ride towards my final destination.
I stop 40 miles into the journey for water and a smoke. The landscape is still barren wasteland full of hard dry grass and spiky bushes. The house nearby is fresh and new but the garden is full of rubble and rusty shards of metal. I wonder how anything can go rusty here in this dry arid heat. The road takes me to the border of Portugal, not that you would really notice. I only know I'm in Portugal because the road signs are slightly different and I see more cars with a "P" at the start, not "S". Considering this is supposed to be a huge rally and the number of Brits on the ferry and this being the first day I'm curious as to where all the other bikers are. Eventually the signs direct me off the Autovista onto a single carriageway and a large town looms on the horizon.
I know I need to head for the airport, but soon I spot a "Moto Clube Faro " sign hanging outside a large house, perhaps this is the clubhouse? I stop and look into the garden. Nothing, nothing that would indicate a biker spot, just the usual dry grass and untidy driveway of any home here. I carry on and spot more of these signs hanging off lampposts, streetsigns and railings. I stop at one set of lights and a few bikers arrive behind me, at least I am starting to feel like I'm at the right place. I follow the bikers now and spot signs for the airport. The town is like any other I've seen now. White 5,6,7 storey apartments, dry wasteland, peeling paint, faded road markings and a worn out feel. I'm now surrounded by bikes and Moto Clube Faro signs. The airport control tower reveals itself along with 20 or 30 local police directing hoards of bikers between confused car drivers. I'm directed off the road into a parking area and I see a queue.
I think the one thing I've learnt so far is I hate queues. I hate being herded like cattle to wait for this or that and be told to go here or there and to do the other. Still, there I am in another queue. Soon someone relieves me of ?35 and gives me a bright pink hospital tag to put on my wrist. Another line leads me into a building where someone gives me a form to fill in and amongst hundreds of other bikers milling around grabbing pens and tiny bits of spare table space I fill in details of my bike, journey, name, country and registration. I'm immediately reminded this is an international rally due to the questions being in 4 different languages. In another line I'm provided with a bag full of goodies, another line is for swapping the t-shirt in your goodie bag for one of the correct size, but I've already had enough and any t-shirt fits me anyhow. Outside I put my form into a box full of forms and return to the bike. Did I mention it is very hot?
Back on the bike I follow the herd out the parking area onto a short road. A biker wearing a bright yellow jacket directs me into a camping area and I search for a suitable pitch. I find a tree with some space under it that looks relatively flat and start to camp. The ground is covered in long spines from the trees and I've heard these can ruin groundsheets and airbeds so I try to clear a space. After 10 minutes of pushing and shoving with my boots I'm having no effect whatsoever so I put my tent up anyhow. All the gear goes in and I put the metal plate under the sidestand of the bike to stop it sinking into the sandy ground. I open the goody bag to see what I've got. I have a metal numberplate with Faro 2005 on it, T-shirt, flyers, postcard, 3 meal vouchers, small Faro patch and Faro badge and a Faro sticker for the bike. I'm well impressed and consider removing my numberplate and replacing it with the Faro one.
I go to look around the site and figure out where everything is. There are bars everywhere, in amongst the tents, in their own area, in the main area and out on the edges. The site is huge, it would take almost an hour to walk the perimeter and 15 minutes to walk from one end to the other. The main arena consists of a dry field with a large stage at one end and what I can only describe as an open hangar at the other that is full of benches and tables. All around are stalls for food and bikes but the majority of stalls are in one area near the entrance. There is also a smaller marquee in a far corner with a homemade pool outside. It's not very busy yet but judging by the constant stream of arrivals it soon will be.
The stage
The hangar
In amongst all this wandering I bump into the Scottish crew. They welcome me like a great traveller among other great travellers. "You made it then!" and we all congratulate each other. This gives me a sense of camaraderie and survival that makes me laugh to myself. I sit with them and they tell me of not being able to find the campsite at Merida, going on to Seville and getting hopelessly lost and going round Seville airport until they gave up and one of the ladies got a taxi whilst the others followed. I tell them of my day of hell coming through Badajoz and my search for camping. I make a mental note to have a word with everyone who told me the roads are lined with campsites in Spain.
I learn from them you don't really use money on the rally as such, you buy 60 cent tickets then exchange these for food and drink. 60 cents! That's about 40 pence for a drink or something to eat, fantastic. I go and duly exchange money for tickets and skip off in search of top quality cheap food. I find a food place and the only thing I can recognise is "pollo", chicken I ask for this and I'm presented with a small bun with a few chunks of chicken between, then I am relieved of 4 tickets! ?2.40 or £1.60 for a crap chicken butty with no salad or mayonnaise. I'm not impressed
I wander round a little longer and meet with the West Bromwich crew who again greet me like a fellow survivor. By mid afternoon the heat is stifling so I retire to my tent and lie in the porch to sleep a while. I wake and I'm lying in a pool of my own sweat. As I wander some more I think about how different things are to my expectations. I'd hoped to see dark senoritas smiling at me whilst flicking their hair, the women look like the women back home with a suntan. I'd hoped for green meadows full of flowers mixed with fields of vines and cattle grazing on lush green grass basked in sun, I'd seen endless miles of arid desert mixed with trees that look twisted and mean. I'd hoped for quaint towns and villages with cute cafes and elderly folks playing ball games in the square, I'd found empty towns in disrepair and cities gridlocked between concrete apartments.
I had expected to be lonely. I have found friendship with the Scottish crew and countless other bikers travelling down. I am still a little homesick but I am pleased I know folks to talk to. I am also pleased the bike has got me here with only one problem and that was not serious. I am pleased with how well my thermals keep me comfortable. I am pleased I have made it, achieved what I set out to do. Now I have achieved what I set out to do, I am mentally preparing to return and the rally has not even begun. My thoughts turn to my inescapable inability to relax and enjoy the journey rather than keep on moving with a "get it over and done with" attitude. It's not just my travelling that is like this, I am always looking for the next thing yet I cling to my past like a shipwreck survivor holding onto a piece of wood.
My thoughts begin to annoy me. I need to switch them off but I can't and that's why I am terrified of being bored and having to listen to myself. I switch on my mobile as G and the rest of the stag do crew are due to arrive about 1800. Eventually I get a message and we meet up. G asks me about the journey down and where I am camped. They find a pitch in a far corner of the site and make camp while I relay a shortened version of the trip. I also explain about the tickets but some of the group have been before and know how things work.
I meet up with them again as the sun sets and the air begins to cool to a tolerable temperature. We stand near a bar overlooking the stage and watch a local band as they pump out familiar tracks sung with a Portuguese accent. I have to laugh as the female singer sings "I'm cowboy on stee hoss I ride, I want, dead ow awive". But to give them there due they are good. I talk with the stag do crew a while and then wander to the marquee to see what's happening, more of the same, wander back, talk a while, wander round the site people watching and talk with a few faces from the ferry and the journey down. Talking to one fella I'd met in a cafe on the first day in Spain I learn the Tuesday I was in the desert, my day of hell, was supposed to be one of the hottest in 100 years and temperatures had reached 48 centigrade in the desert. No wonder I was hot and bothered.
By midnight the stag do crew are on their way to getting drunk and so is everyone else. I retire to my tent and climb into my sleeping bag. The noise is constant. Bike engines of all kinds rev and drive past, the music from the stage thumps away in the distance, shouts and screams from the bar nearby and languages of all kinds as folks wander by. Somehow I fall asleep.
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Preparation
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 1
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 2
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 3
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 4
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 5
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 6
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 7
The Portuguese coastline is not quite what Ren was expecting. Then there's the case of the disappearing helmet.
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 8
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 9
Ren has to brave the plastic portaloos of HELL at the Faro Rally. It's also time to leave the noise and chaos and get back on the road Northbound
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 10
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 11
It's another long and hot ride across the Spanish scenery. Still, every sweaty mile is a mile closer to home.
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 12
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 13
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 14
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Aftermath
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Travel StoriesSpain And The Faro Rally 2005 - By Ren Withnell