| Busname | BELCH |
| Year | 1979 |
| Month | Mar |
| Info | March I think. If something makes you blind then the drugs certainly hurt the memory sorry what was that? 3 buses Katmandu to London. Tim Oliver & I, Trevor Carroll and Bloody Terry, Nick Duce and Pommy ? Great bunch of pax on the 3 buses. Nick Duce became ill in Pakistan we flew him out of Rawalpindi and The Vicar, Al Kenney flew in. Little bit of a swap around, Al went with Tim I took over driving Belch. We were the last 3 buses thru Afghanistan. By this time the Russians were in full control. Bit of a problem but nothing a smoke could not fix. Jerusalem provided the most memorable night of any trip we celebrated Trevor & Tims birthday , what went on behind closed doors stays on trip but somewhere there is a few interesting photos of 4 ladies and 4 gents. Many passengers still keep in touch. Trevor is the best although marriage did slow him down. Thank god my memory does not fail me on the more salacious parts of this journey. Dillon |
| Date Entered | 23-10-2008 |
| Author | Dillon O'Sullivan |
| Busname | Unknown |
| Year | 1992 |
| Month | Nov |
| Info | November 4, 1992. Wherever we went, people pointed and stared. We would never pass this way again—in a British double-decker bus, built in 1958, reconstructed into a camper. The top deck had been converted to bunk beds; the bottom level had a kitchenette among the seats. There was no toilet. The world was our toilet. Under a bridge, behind a bush, behind the bus. Eleven of us were on the overland journey from London to Kathmandu in the diesel double-decker hotel. On this date, we crossed the border from Turkey into Iran. Ayatollah Khomeini had been dead for three years. Four years earlier, fathers and sons had stopped dying in the Iran-Iraq war. The previous day, Bill Clinton had won the U.S. presidential election. While in Iran, I met no other Americans. I have dual citizenship and was traveling on my British passport. So “technically,” I was a Brit. There were a Canadian and two other Brits, and the others were Kiwis or Aussies. It didn’t matter. Iranian people were warm and welcoming to all nationalities. The warning from the U.S. Department of State was: “Persons who violate Iranian laws such as those concerning proper dress, may face penalties that are, at times, severe.” Iranian law dictated that only a woman’s face, hands, and feet could be exposed (atypical in the Middle East). Showing any hair was a no-no. Some women gripped the chadors in their teeth to keep them from falling off their heads. The border guards asked us to exit the bus. We women gathered up our billowing chadors and abayas in our free hands as we awkwardly descended the curving staircase from the top deck, being careful not to trip. It was our debut in Islamic dress, and while we felt incredibly silly as if going to a Halloween party, being disrespectful of our hosts’ way of life was unlikely to speed the processing of our passports. We sat in a waiting room with stale green walls and pictures of a couple of ayatollahs on the wall. What were they doing? There appeared to be no other work for the checkpoint guards to do, yet after an hour, they hadn’t begun checking our vehicle. We soon realized that we were the entertainment. Once we left, the day would dissolve into just another humdrum day of the usual Mohammads and Asads driving delivery trucks. It wasn’t every day that a double-decker bus full of Westerners landed on this lonely station. “Passports, passports,” called the Persian commander. As we walked to the passport control room, out a sliver of window we saw a group of uniformed officers entering the bus and some looking underneath. They went through our luggage, not really looking for contraband, but simply interested in what we brought with us. Underwear, books or magazines, underwear, toiletries, underwear, whatever. Our passports were handed in together, and while our visa photos were in Islamic dress, our passport photos obviously were not. The Persian fellow behind the desk lifted a corner of his mouth, and looked up, directly at me. I knew why he was looking for me. I’d made a bad decision. When I got my British passport in the 1980s, glamour photos were the rage. I’m sure you recall them. A professional makeup artist and hair stylist made you up to look like a movie star. With dangling earrings and more Cover Girl than a high-street hooker, your sultry portrait was taken against a starry backdrop. Not being photogenic, I decided to maximize the opportunity by having passport photos taking during the same sitting. Minus the dangling earrings and fuchsia organza wrap, there I was with the same sultry look. Bad idea. A bad idea I’d have to live with for the next 10 years. Worse was that it was the best photo of me there was. We must have been boring, as were the contents of our luggage. Within three hours, we were on our merry way. This part of Iran was fairly desolate. Our bus driver, Rowdy (because he wasn’t), would drive for hours without seeing a town. Out of nowhere came the first police patrol car. The police stopped the bus and stepped inside saying, “Passport, passport,” with accents straight out of Saturday Night Live. We blobs hurriedly adjusted our headgear, while Rowdy handed over the stack of passports. (Our passports were always kept together since they were so often requested.) They asked us to exit the bus, while they filtered through the contents of our luggage. Underwear, books and magazines, underwear, toiletries, underwear, whatever. They stared long and hard at the pictures in the women’s passports, hair and all. Soon bored, they got in their car laughing together about who knows what. A few hours later, we were stopped again. Part of the problem was that all the bunk beds were on the same floor, which meant that unmarried women and men were sleeping in the same quarters. I’m certain they imagined that the promiscuous Westerners were having wild sex parties because we noticed that after nightfall, the double-decker was stopped more frequently. Sometimes Rowdy would drive through the night and sleep during the day when we were touring the sights. We always had to sleep in our blobwear for the periodic onslaught of uniformed visitors. At 2 a.m. on the way to Esfahan, Rowdy was pulled over again. The blobs were nestled, all snug in their sleeping bags, when out on the doorstep, there arose such a clatter, we prayed they’d be tired and just scatter. No such luck. “Passport, passport.” We all pretended not to be awakened by the commotion. We knew not to turn our faces to the window, or they’d wake us to check our identity. So we always tried to stay absolutely still with our eyes shut feigning sleep while they walked inches from us, ensuring the women were properly covered, and wondering what kind of nuts would travel across Asia in a double-decker bus (valid!). Passports in hand, they climbed the stairs, and I knew one of them was eyeing my glamour photo. I heard the name as it appeared in my passport at the bottom of the steps: “Barbara, Barbara.” (Always with an echo.) I was being singled out. Suddenly, images of trying to outrun two Iranian policemen, in my abaya, flashed through my mind. At the top of the stairs, one started to check each bunk, trying to match the face with the passport photo. “Barrrbarrra, Barrrrbarrrra,” he half whispered. I was quickly learning the advantages of being “under cover.” He was so close I could hear him breathe. His face was close. He was definitely in my personal space. “Barrrbarra.” My eyelids didn’t flutter. I didn’t flinch. Neither did my fellow blobs. My glamour photo could have been any of us. Without makeup, covered up, we blended. No one stood out. No one was different. No individuality. Like bits of mercury that collect and soak up debris then blend into a seamless mass, we were indistinguishable. We blobs, we all looked the same. The police, maybe they were all the same too. Not enough to do. Probably looking for excitement by digging through baggage or preventing others from traveling forward. |
| Date Entered | 01-10-2008 |
| Author | on web |
| Busname | TEKI |
| Year | 1983 |
| Month | Mar |
| Info | Known as the "Squat across Europe" 13 of us (Aussies, Kiwis & a Sth African) together with Brian (Driver) and Jo (?) our guide spent 8-9 weeks on Teki, touring Europe! We drank, slept, partied, slept a bit more and drank even more and managed to see a few sites. Fantastic trip great memories. |
| Date Entered | 19-05-2008 |
| Author | Burce Jewell |
| Busname | Unknown |
| Year | 1982 |
| Month | Unknown |
| Info | During the Iran border closures, a period of time had to be spent by many of our mates in a well known camp ground just outside Damascus. It was here that two gentleman we all know and care about - A Mr. Unmentionable and a Mr. Animal perchanced to meet up with a Pommy bloke and a French Lass. Now, this bloke had built himself a trailer that was towable by his Honda Goldwing motorcycle and he had ambitions to ride around the world. He had started in 1975 - so it said on his business card - from England, and had achieved transits of Central America, South America, Africa and Europe and was now on his way across Asia to Nepal. He had an ability that could be likened to that of a Top Class Car Salesman. He sort opportunities to exercise his abundant charm to exploit certain favours from the opposite gender - whenever he could. His modus operandi was to ensure he attended any and all 'Official' gatherings i.e. talk his way into foreign embassies and official-type places for a free feed and a drink. There he would meander around the female contingent, use his guile, and pounce on the suspecting and whisk them away for continued private entertainment. At some stage during these exploits he met up with a like-minded companion - the French Lass. Now she was a typical, exceedingly attractive, well shaped, dark haired French lady of slight build and had an appetite that would not go unrecognized on some of the streets of Gay Paris where only drivers knew where to go to park deckers to enjoy the sights and sounds of the Parisian night-life but never recorded on film - unless you wanted your tyres to be slashed. She soon was ensnared by with the Pom's ability, decided to join in the fun and teamed up with him on the spur of the moment to join him on his quest. Now these two had slightly differing objectives. He wanted to ride into the Guinness Book of Records as having traveled the most distance around the world and transit the most countries by Motorcycle whereas, well - she just wanted to ride.......anything! The modus operandi slightly changed. The happy couple would somehow be invited to a 'Foreign Function' and after a suitable amount of time perusing the scene would each pick out the others target, lay the usual bet, and split, one would head off to the chosen Embassy wife and the other off to the chosen Embassy husband and - for they have both personally told me - fraternize accordingly. The success rate was something to be absolutely impressed with - indeed! So it was in this sort of mood that the Pom and the French Lass encountered the likes of our dear friends The Unmentionable and Animal - in the mists of the Iran confrontations and stuck in the Damascus campsite for a week or so. Because the motorcycle trailer structure allowed for cramped accommodation ( it was long and narrow), and the results of a rather large evening sojourn in the campsite bar combined with the tall tales and frivolity, our two friends INSISTED (of course) that these two worldly travelers would join them on the decker for a nightcap. Now what carried on from this point - I mean who can say? Just suffice to state that breakfast was served next morning, and a few mornings that followed - along with some interesting entertainment that shall we say remains in the annuals of not-so-good-taste. Breakfast was certainly hot! Oh by the way - one other point to note - that both of them achieved their ambition of at least attempting to be recognized in the Guinness Book of Records and I guess that all that needs to be said at this point is that Animal may be able to claim some part of this being achieved?I swear on the Gardner Workshop Manual that this is true - to the best of my knowledge! - Just ask Hewitt! |
| Date Entered | 19-04-2008 |
| Author | Mike Gaudin |
| Busname | GORDON |
| Year | 1985 |
| Month | Apr |
| Info | Email johan.verhagen@sydneywater.com.au Comment I was a passenger on GORDON in 1985 for the CEG3 Central Europe + Turkey Trip. Courier was Scruff and our Driver was Gazza - Gary. That 7 weeks trip was just fantastic! Punters included: Bernie, Effol, Hoges, Terri, Judes,Mandy, Clarke, Tracy, Ian Kiwi, Yo, Joanne & Ian -Mum & Dad, Silver, Bruuster, Flash, Chubbs, Tall Michelle and Short Michelle, Kerrie, Jenny Bikie Chick and Pam. What a top bunch! I remember Gazza driving GORDON - a 1958 Bristol - for hours and holding that huge vibrating steering wheel in the noisy driving cabin. Too many fun stories from that trip - but one story was when we 're-stocked' GORDON with 40 dozen bottles of Effes Pilsen beers in Turkey and then started drinking them whilst on the drive up the coast and mountains of Yugoslavia. We were all crying-out for a piss-stop and Gazza finally stopped the Bus beside the road where there was a dirt turning bay. All around there was dry ground, except in the middle of the turning bay where there was a mud hole about a metre across. In the process of turning GORDON around to get back onto the road, Gazza put GORDON'S rear wheel into the mud hole and we were bogged. Just amazing that there was a solitary mud hole in the middle of nowhere surrounded with dry ground for hundreds of metres, and GORDON went into that only mud hole. Poor Gary was furious, blaming our drinking and us asking for a piss-stop. I took a photo of GORDON in the mud hole with Gary on his knees, bum crack showing above his jeans, Scruff trying her best to help, both trying to place rocks under GORDON'S rear wheel, all the time we were all just standing by, still drinking Effes Pilsen. Just a classic piece of work! I did a photocopy of the GORDON trip log book of that trip and it still brings back fond memories to this day..... |
| Date Entered | 15-11-2007 |
| Author | Johan |
| Busname | GORDON |
| Year | 1982 |
| Month | Aug |
| Info | I drove Gordon from Aug 81 through to September 82 when I switched to Woftam to do an overland. With Gordon i did a couple of SPM's various length Europe trips and several Charters. The Korean charters were quite a challenge as at that time I was not a real fan of rice. I was on one of the first charters where the koreans were expected to sleep on the bus and cook their own food but they had other ideas. We ended up in cheap hotels and eventually TDT bought in cooks to put on the buses. Our first Korean charter the main food supply was huge sacks of rice which we were told they ate 3 times a day, these huge sacks were under all the seats, not a lot of space for much else. I did 2 charters with South African kids 10-16 year olds. They were a great bunch and a real pleasure to show around. All was great so long as you never brought up the subject of politics or Rugby. |
| Date Entered | 07-05-2007 |
| Author | Butch |
| Busname | GORDON |
| Year | 1981 |
| Month | Aug |
| Info | Gordon's maiden voyage. Myself as driver and Max as courier we set out on a 7 Weeker. I had just finished my training trip with Ray & Tim Fitz, which was a 6 week SPM. My courier for this trip, Max had also been a passenger on the same SPM. We both ventured off around Europe and had a habit of getting lost everywhere we went. We had a trip T-shirt made up "Been There, Done That, Got Lost" the punters seemed to enjoy the trip inspite of all the hours searching for places. I got back to the Farm and was lucky enough that a bloke just leaving TDT gave me a huge box of maps, I learned real quickly how to read a map after that. After 13 weeks all up with Max I still don't know his last name:-( All I know was that he was a Kiwi from Ohope somewhere. |
| Date Entered | 07-05-2007 |
| Author | Butch |
| Busname | GORDON |
| Year | 1990 |
| Month | Jun |
| Info | driver-Marty, courier-Malcolm J.50 days and 50 nights to Turkey and back. I was a punter but put in some serious hours keeping the cassette deck going, along with all the other electrical fuses that kept blowing. Armed with a roll of figure 8, some nails and a pair of scissors(and new speakers we bought in Germany)we made it home. Marty had his own cassette deck in the drivers cab that was powered from the headlight fuse, I'm sure that this and Public Enemy played at ear bleeding volume was the problem. Mal used the intro to Good Morning Vietnam to get punters out of bed every morning at extreme volume. I think around day 30 we had trained ourselves to hold out until Martha and the Mandellas, 'YES' and sleep through it. Aaron convinced me to 'fix the stereo' to get a sleep in in salzburg, sorry Mal!. Simon got left sleeping in a tent at Istanbul. Overheated somewhere in Italy and did a clutch getting out of a camp ground (steep turn), I think in Greece. Had a ball as did all punters, still get Raki flashbacks! Roger (kiwi cheesemaker) drank 50 beers in the first 24 hours, is this a record? A great group of punters, I know Arko and Pig Pen loved our girls. _dk@exemail.com.au |
| Date Entered | |
| Author | Darren Kent |
| Busname | PHOENIX |
| Year | 1995 |
| Month | May |
| Info | 7 week European Tour, London to Turkey and back. Courier = Michelle (Kiwi), Driver = Rick (Aussie). Great tour with awesome sailing trip off Corfu, watched rugby world cup final in Athens. Phoenix stuck under bridge in Istanbul. Good mix of Kiwis & Aussies on board, Elissa, Kylie, Lisa, Kelvin, Danny, Jonno, Sasha, Justine etc... |
| Date Entered | |
| Author | Mike (passenger) |
| Busname | SLIPPERS |
| Year | 1988 |
| Month | Unknown |
| Info | Up to this moment, I still can't forget that journey in India. Dobby was the courier and Tim was the driver. Dobby, do you still remember that girl from Hong Kong, who you always yelled at her 'You're a dragon!' |
| Date Entered | |
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