Never in my wildest dreams would I have expected to pass an entire season in the Appalachian Mountains, yet here we are. The leaves do not lie. We’ve spent our summer in the Appalachians. And it was just as transformative as these leaves.

The decision to spend our summer in the Appalachians was purely practical. We were in Atlantic Canada with the goal of heading toward Mexico for the winter. The Appalachians were just sort of on the way. We could have followed the coast, but the equation of summer heat and humidity with a baby in a non-air-conditioned bus didn’t ad up.

I’d love to say the mountains were beckoning us (I could even break out in song – “the hills are alive with the sound of music”), but it wouldn’t be true. The Appalachians were simply the best option when you’ve spent a winter in Canada (who does that?) and need to head south in the heat of the summer.

As such, we had very few expectations of our summer in the mountains. We hoped to hike a bit, enjoy some nature, and stay cool. Most importantly, we wanted to get adjusted to life in our bus with a baby – no small feat.

As I shared on the blog, I was pretty anxious about moving into the bus with Phoenix. As expected, those early weeks were challenging, trying to fit life with a baby into a tiny space while dealing with the summer heat and humidity of the Northeastern US. In those moments, the Appalachians took on the lure of the promised land, and as we inched our way closer and closer (which seemed to take forever!), I could only pray they would provide us the salvation I so desperately needed.

Shenandoah National Park delivered that salvation. As we wound our way up the narrow sea of mountains, the temperature dropped to more comfortable digits. Despite being under a canopy of dense forest, we found a campsite at Big Meadows that gave our solar panels access to sunlight. There was a laundromat in the campground (yippee!) and a [meager] cell service on the edge of the cliff at the other end of the campground. We had everything we needed to set up camp.

Big Meadows Campground at Shenandoah NP.

So we set up camp we did. For a month. (I talk about this in my Vlog on Shenandoah). The only times we moved the bus were the couple of times we went to the nearest town to do groceries (each time I stuffed our bus silly with melons and squashes and potatoes to tie us over once the more perishable produce was gone) and a forced campground change fifteen days in.

It wasn’t that Shenandoah National Park was particularly amazing. Yes, the wildlife was abundant, and we thoroughly enjoyed having black bears and deer in the campground. Yes, it was great to be in nature, with fresh air, starry evenings, and the sounds of crickets rather than traffic. And yes, it was awesome to hike small sections of the epic Appalachian Trail, crossing smelly but inspiring thru-hikers (I even lent one of them my hair dryer one evening and got to hear real-life stories from the trail!)

Bears in the campground!

And these deer were our friends for, like, two whole weeks!

Getting up close with the wildlife.

Don’t worry, we kept Phoenix far away from these little babies!

The trail marking for the infamous Appalachian Trail.

But it was no Grand Canyon. Shenandoah was created with the intention of offering a national park to easterners as outstanding as all those out west. The creators purchased a narrow tract of land from mountain families (who had logged and farmed here for generations), let the land return to its wild state, and built a scenic road – called Skyline Drive – down the center of the park.

To this day, Skyline Drive is the beating heart of the park. But in our opinion, the views it offered were just average.  It’s always nice looking out from atop a mountain, but at Shenandoah, there is often a lot of haze (the park being so close to all those big coastal cities), and the view is mostly of towns and farmland rather than wilderness.

A pretty typical view from a Skyline Drive overlook.

The visibility is often poor, and the views are mostly over towns and farmland.

Also, the weather – though mercifully cooler – was still not ideal. The region had experienced its rainiest summer in years, and there were times where we were stuck in the bus all day. The rain would often come down sideways, meaning that even the space under the awning was off-limits. And between the storms, the no-see-ems were so bad they were drawing blood from my baby boy! While we were definitely grateful to have upgraded from Totoyaya (how would we have entertained Phoenix in that?), after the 6^th day of non-stop rain (and the 3^rd day of using ice to keep our perishables cold because we had no juice in the solar batteries to power our fridge anymore!), I began to wonder if Shenandoah had offered us salvation at all.

Grateful we had Big Blue instead of Totoyaya in this rain!

On a positive note, Bruno used all the rain to rig a device that refilled our water tank without having to move the bus! :)

So why did we stay an entire month, you may ask. At the time, we thought it was an issue of timing – we needed a place to park ourselves for awhile and get settled into our new home, and Shenandoah appeared at the right time. With foresight, though, I now realize it was more than that. As our Shenandoah days rolled into weeks, I felt my stress begin to ease up as we settled into our space and routine. Hiking helped. Animal-watching helped. And having the space to do nothing that only nature provides helped a lot.

And so, standing still, surrounded by nature, I was finally able to relax into motherhood. It had taken over five months.

Hiking. Sort of.

Wildlife. Sort of. :)

Relaxing into motherhood.

I think Bruno could have continued doing a whole lot of nothing for many more weeks, but eventually, my nomadic side kicked in. We’d hiked all the nearby trails, visited the Visitor’s Center exhibits, and driven up and down Skyline Drive more than once. I needed a change of neighborhoods. Plus, our list of baby-related bus tweaks was piling up. It was time to get to a city.

Bruno and I pulled out a map one evening. We can reach Asheville via the Interstate, I said, or we can take the scenic mountain view. In our pre-baby lives, this would have been a no-brainer, but now I wasn’t sure what Bruno would want to do. I wasn’t even quite sure what I wanted – to get to our destination quickly or make a trip out of the journey?

When Bruno replied that we should take the scenic route, bien sûr, I felt relief. I guess it’s what I’d wanted, too. Perhaps having a baby hadn’t changed our travel style as much as I’d been feeling since we’d hit the road?

Still, I expected our road trip down the Blue Ridge Parkway to take only a few days. I knew little about this byway apart from its name, and the minimal research I’d been able to do had come up with very few camping options.

Welcome to the Blue Ridge Parkway, one of America’s most scenic byways!

You can imagine my surprise when I realized that the Blue Ridge Parkway was a national park, too, and one that offered more infrastructure, cultural interest, and beautiful views than Shenandoah! What was meant to be a quick transit turned into a 3-week slow-travel adventure! (Bruno was grateful we had Phoenix in tow or I’d have made him stop at every overlook and every cultural or historical waypoint along the byway!)

The Blue Ridge Parkway was conceived as a scenic byway that would link Shenandoah NP to Great Smoky Mountains NP (the other National Park that was conceived for easterners to enjoy nature). While Shenandoah is one of the least-visited National Parks, the Blue Ridge Parkway is one of the most visited. But with almost 500 miles of byway, we didn’t feel the crowds (I’m told that most visit in the fall for the colorful foliage) and we had campgrounds almost entirely to ourselves

The campgrounds. Basic, yes, but I loved them. There are several of them, interspersed at perfect driving distances along the parkway. I didn’t have to think about researching our next stop or reserving something ahead – we’d just show up at the end of our day’s drive, pick an available spot, and park ourselves there as long as we wanted! We were even given travel pamphlets at the beginning of our road trip that told us what mile marker we’d find each campground and at what elevation it sat – perfect for us, since we were still trying to remain on higher grounds for little Phoenix.

Breakfast at one of the BRP’s campgrounds.

Cultural interest all along the parkway.

Each campground offered something of interest for us, whether it be a hiking trail, a waterfall, a historic mountain cabin or a lake. We stayed at five campgrounds, and I made sure to do one special thing at each of them. My favorite of all was probably the first – Peaks of Otter Campground. I hiked to the top of Sharp Top Mountain all by myself one afternoon. A solo outing, in itself, was an amazing rush, but combine that with the endorphins of an intense hike and the best views I’d seen yet that and it’s little wonder that it was my favorite mini Parkway adventure (sorry Bruno and Phoenix!).

An intense but rewarding hike up to Sharp Top Mountain.

Feeling SO good after this solo hike!

The historic Mabry Mill along the BRP.

Even better than that hike, though, was the Parkway’s cultural link to the region. I’d been missing that in Shenandoah National Park. On the Blue Ridge Parkway, there were cabins describing the ways mountain people used to live, a folk art center, a historic mill, and a music center. We were lucky to arrive at Mabry Mill on a Sunday, the day that local musicians get together for an afternoon jam session, complete with flat foot dancing (which is like tap dancing with clogs). The sun was shining, the quaint, wholesome ambience was perfect, and Phoenix was in a great mood to experience his first ever concert. I brought him right up close to the action, and he was absolutely mesmerized, especially by the dancers! It was a special moment for me as a new mom.

Mountain music and flat foot dancing – you can’t get any more Appalachian than that!

The very talented mountain musicians at Mabry Mill.

Phoenix was absolutely mesmerized by the whole thing, especially the dancers!

We got right up close, and it was so cool!

I hadn’t known how important music is to the people here. We learned about the history of mountain music (which is the original American music and influenced bluegrass, country, blues, and rock ‘n roll!) and saw another afternoon concert at the Blue Ridge Music Center. But it wasn’t until the following day at our campground, when locals camping near us invited us to their impromptu jam session, that I truly saw how music is in the bones of the Appalachian people.

Mountain music at the Blue Ridhe Music Center.

An impromptu mountain music jam session at our campground!

That’s what I loved best about the Blue Ridge Parkway – I got to learn about the Appalachian people. Yes, I was traveling with a baby and so didn’t spend as much time delving into their culture as I might have a year ago, but even scraping the surface felt like a miracle to me after spending the previous seven months in full-time motherhood.

Just as our two-night stay at the Mohonk Mountain House with my Aunt Louise back in June taught me that I can have a relaxing and fun holiday with a baby (surprise!), our summer in the Appalachians taught me a few important lessons about my new life as a mom. Shenandoah National Park gave me the space and time to unwind and settle into life in the bus with a baby, showing me that, as long as we take the time to move slowly through the world, bus life with a baby can work. And driving down the Blue Ridge Parkway showed me that I can still be a tourist – traveling, discovering, learning, and having adventures – with baby in tow, and that each little moment of discovery will be all the more precious because of that baby!

The mountains we’ve called home this summer are changing before our very eyes. As we experience a new side to these mountains, I’m noticing a new side to myself – one that feels rested, hopeful, and confident that life on the road with a baby can work. I’d come to these green mountains hoping for hikes, nature, and cool weather, and in the end received so much more. Maybe the Appalachians had been beckoning me after all.

My home town of Moncton has only a small airport.  When you arrive – on one of those tiny claustrophobic aircrafts – you debark directly onto the tarmac.  Every summer, as I’d step out of hours of recycled airplane and airport air, I’d take my first whiff of the fresh outdoors.

Cool, humid, and a delicious concoction of pine and salt water.

Home.

No other place in the world offered that particular melange of scents.  My family became so accustomed to me mentioning the smell of home that, in recent years, one of their first questions upon my arrival became, So…did you smell it?

This is me after I’ve just arrived home last summer. My parents are about to ask me, “So… did you smell it?”

This summer, during our cross-Canadian road trip, I learned something I probably would rather never have learned: my home town isn’t the only place with that scent.

I started catching whiffs of my beloved fragrance in Northern Ontario.  We were spending the vast majority of our nights boondocking in wilderness and our days driving through endless Boreal forests.  I smelled the cool fresh air mixed with pine that is exactly half of my hometown scent; each time, I stuck my nose in the air, sniffed like a hunting dog on the trail of its prey, and became totally and utterly disoriented.  I wasn’t home, so why was I smelling it?

Along Quebec’s St. Lawrence River I smelled an even more complete potpourri of my hometown scent.  This giant fresh water river juts out into the Atlantic Ocean, mixing more and more with the salty sea water the further east we drove.  At either side of the river were evergreen forests.  The days were warm and humid, and the nights refreshingly cool.  All the ingredients of the familiar aroma were there, and I greedily stole giant breaths of the familiar air.  Part of me felt indignant – how dare Quebec steal our unique combination of scents? – and the other part was conjuring such strong images of family and home that I had half a mind to make a run for home.

The scent of fresh pines along Lake Superior in Northern Ontario.

Along the St. Lawrence River, smelling home.

It probably didn’t help when Bruno said, “We can be home in two days if you’d like.”  We were now only 1000km away, after all.

In fact, I’d been battling the urge to beeline home throughout our cross-Canadian trip.  When I first caught sight of those red Adirondack chairs that are all over the Canadian National Parks, I felt a pang for home.  (I’d mistakenly thought those chairs only existed in New Brunswick cottage country.)

When I spotted a little wooden church school that could have been where my own grandmother would have been educated; when I stumbled upon a Highland Dance competition in Winnipeg that reminded me the Scottish heritage of the Maritimes; or when we overnighted in little marinas with wooden boats and little white wooden lighthouses, I wanted to race home.

Spotting the red adirondack chairs for the first time, at the very beginning of our road trip, in Saskatchewan’s Grasslands National Park.

The little church-cum-school that got my imagination wandering.

The highland dance competition we stumbled upon in Winnipeg.

When we spent a few days in Ottawa – where I had lived for a year back in 2010 – it felt sort of like home.  We visited the market where I’d purchased my fresh produce, wandered through my old neighbourhood, visited my old landlord, had dinner with old neighbours and friends, and visited tourist sites that were very familiar to me.  But Ottawa didn’t have the scent, so it wasn’t quite home.

Wandering around Ottawa’s tourist sites, which are all very familiar to me.

Buying produce at the Byward Market, where I always use to shop.

Hanging out with Bob, my old landlord!

And some of my lovely old neighbours!

When we passed through Plantagenet, the nothing town in eastern Ontario where my grandmother was born, I felt strangely connected to this place I’d never even been to.  We wandered through the cemetery, noting any tombstones that held her maiden name, and we chatted with locals about any living relatives in town.  But Plantagenet didn’t have the scent, either.

By the time we reached the Gaspé Peninsula, though, I may as well have been home.  The beaches, the humidity in the air, the fishing villages perched on the edge of the sea, the cottages.  I was seeing – and smelling – home everywhere.

Wandering past family tombstones in Plantagenet, a town I’ve never been to but am very much connected to.

The Gaspe Peninsula may as well have been home.

Cottages and fisherman homes at water’s edge, the smell of humid salty air.

It turned out that not only the smell I’d thought was unique to home wasn’t, but in fact, the charm I’d always associated with my little corner of New Brunswick wasn’t unique.  I felt disappointed, like my cross-country trip had somehow removed from me what had always been special about my own little corner of the planet.

Still, when we crossed the bridge from Quebec into New Brunswick, I felt a sort of homecoming.  I was welcomed with flat boardwalks along wetlands, scorching red sunsets over calm ocean water, and salty air giving my hair that familiar frizz.  Even the French was more familiar.

Acadian flags on white lighthouses.

Flat boardwalks along wetlands.

Sunset over the Atlantic Ocean.

When I saw my first Acadian flag, I fought the urge to race home.  When we joined the scenic Acadian route that boasts those same little red starfish signs just outside my family home, I had to stop myself from ordering Bruno to step on the gas.

See, as much as I wanted to be home, I also wanted to see my country.  I’d already learned so much from this cross-Canadian road trip – and been forced to redefine my idea of home – that I knew racing to my family wasn’t the right choice.  We would be there soon enough, but on the way, we had more places to see and so much more to enjoy.

So we did.  We watched a city parade in Bathurst, people from the floats throwing candy out to the kids as though Halloween had come early.  We spent an entire – amazing – day at the Acadian Historic Museum in Caraquet, learning about the history and culture of the Acadian people.  We drove out to the tip of New Brunswick – where there was, of course, a white wooden lighthouse – and overnighted on the wild and peaceful Miscou Island.

A parade in the northern New Brunswick town of Bathurst.

Eeeeek – we’re on the scenic coastal route that will bring us directly to my parents’ home!

The tip of New Brunswick on Ile Miscou.

I’m happy I took the time to visit a bit of New Brunswick.  I’m even happier I took the time to visit a bit of Canada.  We spent two months driving from Saskatchewan to New Brunswick, and I discovered and learned so much – that the Prairies were not the armpit of the country, that Canadian wilderness was the most wild of all, and that Quebec had so, so much variety to offer visitors.

Most of all, I learned that home isn’t home because of a certain scent or a certain charm – it’s home because of the memories it holds in my heart; because it’s my place of perpetual returning; and most of all, because it’s where I find the people I love.  Though I found similar smells and charms in other parts of my country, none of them holds that perfect recipe which makes home home.

Bruno and I have been home in New Brunswick for almost two entire months (barring a 10-day trip to Nova Scotia, which I’ll blog about soon).  Now, we’re getting ready to head out, on new adventures (which I will tell you about soon).

When we next return, I may not need to catch a big whiff off the plane to set my mind into home-mode.  The scent of my neck of the woods is nice, but arriving home at the end of a journey is even nicer.

Home, with our home-on-wheels parked out front.

Make no mistake – this bus is far from converted.  Since my last blog conversion post (where I highlighted our challenges and proudly displayed our progress on the dining room benches, composting toilet, bed frame, and shower walls) we haven’t done a whole lot.  In fact, since we no longer had any HelpX volunteers and we were busy organizing last-minute pre-departure issues, the only new bus addition to report is that our Ikea kitchen is officially up and running.  We cut and fit butcher’s block, installed the sink and faucet, and added the cabinet and drawer fittings.  The only issue we still haven’t solved is how to keep all those doors closed – we tried neodymium magnets (very strong rare earth magnets), but they don’t even manage to keep the drawers closed when we turn!  Back to the drawing board for that issue.

One afternoon I came home from running errands and Bruno had THIS to show me!

Look at those beautiful kitchen cabinets!

And that lovely butcher’s block! :)

The reason, then, that Bruno and I have moved into an unfinished big blue bus is that we’ve almost arrived at the yearly maximum stay in the United States (six months per year) and we need to save a few weeks to register the vehicle as an RV in Arizona and to hightail it up the US into Canada.

And so, on March 26^th, after staying in our lovely Air BnB home in the equally lovely city of Tucson, we moved out.  For obvious reasons, we didn’t get much chance to visit Tucson, but I am working on an upcoming post about why I loved what I did experience of Tucson.  Stay tuned, especially if you had no idea (like me) that Tucson was so cool!

Bruno and I knew that things were going to be a bit chaotic inside Big Blue.  Not only was the conversion itself not finished (no propane so no hot water or cooktop; minimal lighting installed; no toilet door; incomplete storage so many extra boxes of stuff that we couldn’t hide away; no dining table; no bike rack so bicycles would be transported inside the bus – which actually turned out to be good news since they held our kitchen drawers shut!) but we would also be transporting all our unused construction materials with us.  This included cedar planking, several white cardboard sheets, plywood, paint, insulation, tools, and a massive RV door.

I expected not even to be able to manoeuver inside the bus (I told myself to breathe, it was only four nights), but both Bruno and I were pleasantly surprised that we were able to stack stuff away fairly well.  Boxes got stacked in the toilet, shower, and between dining room benches.  Cardboard sheets slid under the mattress.  Planks and wood were fixed onto the bedroom walls.  Bicycles were tied up to the kitchen cabinets, and the RV door was placed inside the bus entrance door.  We only had about 20cm with which to slide in and out of the bus, but that was a small price to pay for finding an actual spot for that damn door!

Our bikes had to be inside the bus for the mini road trip.

And the RV door fixed on the inside of our bus entrance, leaving us only about 20cm of space to get in and out.

Well, I guess we won’t be using our toilet…

Building materials stashed wherever we could find space.

Getting the bed ready to sleep in!

Bruno and I stopped off in Phoenix to pick up some spare parts, replace a leaking O-ring on our new transmission, get an Ikea kitchen refund (for their annual kitchen sale), and buy a second solar battery before officially hitting the road.  Our first night in the bus, then, was at the local Walmart where we had spent countless nights in December and January!  For our second night, we returned to the Estrella Mountain Regional Park at the west end of the city.  It was there that we christened our shower (cold water, yes, but amazing to have a shower in our home!) and filled up our 200-liter water tank for the first time.  All went well!

The following night, we found ourselves near Yuma, just beyond the California border.  We parked at a casino and I once again noticed our bus’ qualities – we took another shower, I cooked inside, we washed dishes and didn’t have to worry about grey water disposal, and we burrowed ourselves inside once it got cool.  At one point, Bruno was sitting on his camping chair and I was in the kitchen and I realized that neither of us was in the other’s way!  It was amazing!

Our first never ever sleeping in Big Blue. Very romantic! :)

Bruno filling up our 200 liter water tank. Easy!

The following day we drove through the very southernmost part of California (sometimes you could actually see a wall that was the border with Mexico – the infamous “Mexico Wall”) and it was beautiful!  We passed the Imperial Sand Dunes and I felt like we were back in the Arabian Peninsula; then we drove past a sea of giant boulders that looked a lot like the Balancing Rocks of Zimbabwe; and lastly, we entered a terrain of rolling hills, grey rock, and arid plants that were uncannily like the Mediterranean that we could have been in Turkey or the Southwest of France.

In this moment, it felt so good to be on the road again that Bruno and I had half a mind to keep driving, never stop, and simply never finish our conversion at all!  This feeling was only reinforced when we arrived early at our stop for the night (a run-down campsite just before the Mexican border town of Tecate) and we actually sat outside under the shade of a tree and read our books.  People, we read books in the middle of the afternoon!  Nothing has ever seemed so luxurious.

Driving past the Imperial Sand Dunes of Southern California.

This landscape reminded me a lot of Zimbabwe (though not so much this particular photo).

The Mexico Wall, and a Mediterranean-like landscape.

The last morning of our road trip, Bruno and I crossed from the U.S. into Baja California, Mexico.  We chose the small border of Tecate (we always choose small borders for their ease and relative friendliness) and had a hilarious experience trying to get our passports stamped!  We actually crossed into Mexico and had to drive around, park, and walk back to the border to get our immigration stamps!  People, if you’re an illegal alien (or overstaying your visa) wanting to cross into the other country, there is no better way than to walk across this border.  F.Y.I.

Our drive from Tecate to Ensenada was pleasant.  My senses were alive in a way they only ever are when I’m in a so-called “developing” country.  There’s just so much to look at.  And I think I’d been on withdrawal – we hadn’t been to one in over a year (since Morocco), the longest period of time I’ve ever gone without visiting the “developing world” since I started traveling twelve years ago!  We took the Rota del Vino, the Wine Route, which meanders through hills of vineyards.  Who knew Mexico made so much wine?  Apparently about 80% of Mexican wine comes from this small area.  We know what we’ll be taste-testing in the coming weeks!

The US/Mexican border. Hilarious experience trying to cross it!

Rota del Vino, or the Wine Route, from Tecate to Ensenada. Lovely!

A view coming into Ensenada.  Fun to be back in a chaotic city!

We got an unpleasant surprise, however, when we arrived in Ensenada.  We’d booked another Air BnB for a month so that the bus would be free to keep working on (it would be much more difficult to progress quickly on the conversion while living in it at a campsite).  But the Air BnB was horrible!  It was in a small, run-down two-storey apartment complex with smoking, music-playing, seedy neighbours.  The “private parking” for the bus would be in the communal parking lot for the apartment with only a tiny gate to keep it [not] secure.  And the apartment itself was dirty and depressing.  The pots and pans were completely rusted, as were the bathroom handles (which also didn’t work).  There were no bedroom doors (and we’re expected another HelpX volunteer).  There were dirty towels, spilled food in the cupboards, hairy soap on the shower floor, and empty pill packages on the bedside table.  The fridge hummed as loudly as old neon hospital lights.  Electric cables ran along the ground in the middle of the floor.

There was no way I was staying there.  I may have been able to manage a night or two.  But a month or more?  No.  No way.  We took photos of what we could, contacted the host, kick-started a refund request on Air BnB, and left.  At this moment, I was so grateful for Big Blue.  To have a home – finished or not – into which to retreat gave us the confidence to refuse this Air BnB.  I’m not sure what we would have done had we had no other accommodation option for the night.  It’s good to carry one’s home with oneself!

A few of the photos we took for our Air BnB refund request.

It’s kinda hard to take photos of the dirt and grime, but dust we can do.

For the past two nights, we’ve been at a nearby resort’s RV Park.  We’ve been scrambling to figure out a plan B for ourselves because, as much as we’d like to pretend the work is over and that we can just camp by the beach and enjoy the view and the hot tub forever – especially now that we’re in a new exotic country and there are markets to explore and a language to learn – there’s work to do!

Ahhh, this is MUCH better than the dodgy Air BnB apartment!

We could get used to this!

Bus conversion? What bus conversion?

We’re just one of the pack now.

Thoughts on Big Blue after our Road Trip

It was helpful to test out Big Blue midway through our conversion.  It gave us some insight on what worked and what didn’t – though some of the things that “didn’t work” are too late to change!

So what worked?

• The size of the shower (almost 80x80cm) is luxuriously large
• The layout of the space – the bedroom is cozy and the kitchen has plenty of counter- and storage-space
• The comfort of the driving seats up front and the massive view of the windows
• The water and grey water tanks. So much capacity!  So practical!  Two thumbs up!
• The bus is easy and comfortable to drive on highways, and its gas mileage on flat roads was better than expected

What didn’t work so well?

• The size of the vehicle when driving – we feel huge (and we are, compared to Totoyaya) so it’s difficult to park and manoeuver, especially in cities
• The size of the front windows (while lovely for sightseeing) make bug splatter a big problem. Oh, and we’re also an easy target for runaway stones.  We’ve already got a crack in one windshield…
• The stainless steel kitchen sink – who knew stainless steel was so high-maintenance? Not me.  And who ever invented flat rectangular sinks obviously didn’t have to clean his.
• City and hill driving killed our gas mileage. Yikes!
• Potholed and non-paved roads seem like insurmountable challenges now, and I’ve suddenly begun noticing bad roads everywhere that we can no longer choose with ease.

Going on a mini road trip, gonna test our bus!

OOOUUUHHHH! I love all the space in here!

I LOVE my new bedroom!

Depending on the moment, I alternated between loving our new big blue bus and painfully missing Totoyaya.  The biggest thing right now is that this bus doesn’t feel like “us”.  I expect that, as with all things, there is a period of adjustment with regards to some of Big Blue’s disadvantages, but that [hopefully] we’ll arrive at a happy homeostasis with our new home-on-wheels.

This Month’s Statistics

Kilometers Driven: 900km.  Our bus now reads 125,259.5 miles.

Nights on the Road: 4, officially, with an extra two sleeping in the bus because of the bad Air BnB experience.

Countries Visited: 2. United States and Mexico.

This month’s road trip.

Notable Roads: Maybe we’ve just been starved for a good road trip, but Hwy 94 (“Old Hwy 80”) in Southern California was beautiful!  And Hwy 3 from Tecate to Ensenada, which passes through Mexico’s wine country, was pretty nice, too!

This Month’s Notable Moments

It’s obviously rather notable that Bruno and I moved into our new big blue bus this month and that we’ve been testing it out on our mini road trip.  It’s been wonderful to be back on the road again, but also somewhat frustrating because both of us are so impatient to truly get back on the road!

The most notable moment this month, by far, was selling our beloved Totoyaya.  Though this moment has been on the horizon for a year, it didn’t make the goodbye any easier.  We’re grateful to have sold her before our departure to Mexico (it would have been pretty complicated to travel here with two vehicles) and we’re happy to have an influx of cash to continue our bus conversion, but seeing her drive out of sight with her new owner was a heartbreaking  moment neither Bruno nor I will ever forget.  This wasn’t just a notable March moment – this was a notable life moment.

On the Cards Next Month

We plan to be near Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico, throughout April, continuing our bus conversion project.  We hope to find someone in town that can do a bit of welding work for us and to welcome another HelpX volunteer.  Maybe with all the extra hands, we’ll manage to make some major conversion progress this month!

Welcome to Ensenada!

This is Part II of our road trip down Route 66.  To check out Part I – which includes our preparation, first impressions, and experiences in Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, and Oklahoma – click here.

We’d been on Route 66 for almost a week now, and the route’s quintessential motels, cafés, and neon signs were starting to get old.  Thankfully, Oklahoma offered us a few new quirky sites along its chunk of Route 66.  We visited a restored giant round barn, a massive totem pole, a giant modern statue of a pop bottle (to advertise Pop’s Soda Ranch, a shop selling, well, pop – 700 types!), and an old swimming pool with a huge plaster whale.

The old round red barn in Arcadia, OK.

The world’s largest concrete totem pole.

The giant whale swimming hole.

The giant rocking chair we’d seen earlier on Route 66 – the second largest in the world.

For some strange reason, giant objects are a frequent theme along Route 66.  So are antiques, bridges, vintage cars, farms, trading posts and churches.  Route 66 is much more than neon signs!

There are also darker themes associated with Route 66, unfortunately, and one of them is specifically associated with Oklahoma.  It is the Dust Bowl.  In the 1930s, several states in the southern U.S. were met with a double-whammy of tough times – not only was in the Great Depression, but severe drought and unsustainable agricultural practices devastated crops.  Families – surrounded by dust – couldn’t survive, and so most headed west, to California, where they’d heard the soil was rich and moist.  These “Okies” – for most of the migrants came from Oklahoma – traveled to California via none other than Route 66.

An even darker theme in the history of Route 66 is the story of the Negro Motorist Green Book.  The decades in which Route 66 was in use were also the decades when it was still difficult – even dangerous – for African Americans to travel.  Even once the U.S. was officially desegregated and Blacks technically had the same rights as Whites – including the ability to travel interstate – the reality along Route 66 was a little slow to follow suit.  Many cafés and motels refused to serve Black clients, and there were even “sundown towns,” entire towns that were prohibited to Blacks after nightfall.  Edmond, Oklahoma, adjacent to the state capital, was one such town (an old postcards of the town reads, A good place to live; 6,000 live citizens, no negroes), but there were dozens others along the route.

The Negro Motorist Green Book was like a Route 66 Lonely Planet for African Americans.  It detailed cafés, motels, service stations, and other businesses that would accept their patronage.  While White American families were enjoying happy family road trips down the Road of Dreams, Blacks were just trying to make it in once piece to their final destination.  I even read that businesses along the route often had names with triple K’s – like Kosy Kottage Kamp and Klean Kountry Kottages – that were code for the Ku Klux Klan.

I saw a few signs along Route 66 with double-K names, but nothing with triple-Ks. Is this hamburger shop a remnant of the KKK? Who knows…

Route 66 might bring nostalgia into the hearts of many Americans, but I’m guessing it doesn’t bring quite the same sentiments to older African Americans.  Diving through Edmond reminded me of my privilege in being able to travel problem-free down the old Mother Road.

Kicks in the Deep South in Texas

I was again reminded of my privilege at Shamrock, our first stop in Texas, and home of a sizeable Irish population.  The lady working at the U-Drop Inn gave us such a warm welcome, showing us her renovated diner – Bruno got excited about the booth where Elvis Presley had once sat – and giving us tons of local information.  She was so interested in our lives that she even took a photo of Totoyaya in front of the restored Tower Service station – which features in a scene in Cars.  Southern hospitality was in full swing here in Shamrock.

Welcome to Texas! We’ll be driving through the panhandle, the square section just left of my arm.

Shamrock, Texas’ Irishtown, and its infamous U-Drop-Inn.

And now, Totoyaya in front of the real U-Drop-Inn.

Texas marked the beginning of the wild, wild west.  We saw our first neon cactus signs, cowboy-themed motels, and actual tumbleweeds blowing past the flat, windy fields.  We drove on several long, straight dirt stretches past ranches and cotton fields and wind turbines.  We almost hit the birds that kept flying up from their nests in the tall grasses on the edge of the road.  We got caught in a traffic jam with cows.

The “Western Motel”. Must be in the wild west!

The Cactus Inn.

The long, flat, dusty Route 66 past cotton fields and cows.

What a traffic jam in Texas looks like! :)

Indeed, there are more cows in the northern Panhandle of Texas than people.  Amarillo, the region’s capital, is also the world’s capital of beef production.  There are 130 feedlots in the surrounding area producing 2.5 million heads of cattle a year.  You can smell the cattle everywhere, even though you can’t always see them.  Locals declare, “Smells like money!” but I say it smells like gluttony.

An infamous historical marker along Route 66 is Amarillo’s Big Texan Steak Ranch.  Here, you are encouraged to try their 72oz. steak-eating contest.  If you can eat that giant steak (plus four side dishes of shrimp cocktail, baked potato, salad, bread and butter) in one hour or less, the meal is free.  Several people try this feat every day, and about 1 out of 6 succeeds.  Each “champion” is commemorated on the Wall of Fame inside the bar, which also proudly displays articles of the beef industry’s attack on Oprah and other lobbying successes.

Molly Shuyler, the woman who ate three 72oz. steaks in twenty minutes last year, holds a place of special honour on the restaurant’s Wall of Fame.  If you can stomach it, you can watch the video of this “feat” here.

Needless to say, I didn’t give the Big Texan Steak Ranch the honour of my patronage.

The infamous – and gluttonous – Big Texan Steak Ranch.

I’m pretending to have fun here, but I’m actually horrified. Does anyone else feel disgusted by this steak challenge??

The 72oz. steak challenge – this is what you must eat to get the meal for free. The plate holding the steak is not a mini plate…

Thankfully, a little further on was a more pleasant historical marker – the equally infamous Cadillac Ranch.  Ten old Cadillacs are half-buried, face-down, in the dirt on a flat field near Route 66.  This public art installation is participatory, and thus ever-changing.  If you bring your own cans of spray paint, you can paint a few words or symbols on the vehicles – just know that by the next day, they will most certainly have been painted over.  Bruno was super-excited to visit this site, but he contented himself with photographing the art exhibit while I took in the thick caked-on layers of paint from close-up.

Near the end of Texas, we reached the official Midpoint of Route 66.  We were exactly 1,139 from both Chicago and Los Angeles.  It wasn’t our own personal midpoint of Route 66, however.  We were nearing the end of our road trip.

Approaching the equally infamous Cadillac Ranch.

Ten old Cadillacs buried, nose-first, into the earth as a participatory and ever-changing art installation.

NOT caught in the act – spraypainting these vehicles is allowed, and encouraged. Just don’t expect your mark to be there the next morning.

The official midpoint of Route 66 – 1,139 miles to Chicago and LA. Which way should we go?

Final Few Kicks in New Mexico and Arizona

By now, Route 66 was more highway driving than anything else.  Towns were farther between, which meant that interesting sites were fewer.

Instead, it was the interesting landscapes that took over our attention.  Red mesas, or tabletop mountains, began popping up along the horizon.  Short cacti started to appear.  Antelope grazed along the roadside.

The stunning red mesas of New Mexico.

The Southwest of the U.S. was exactly what I’d pictured in my mind, and I was thrilled to finally be here.  But, man, was it cold!  We were on a high plateau, and our first night in New Mexico was our coldest night yet (-3 degrees celcius!).  We could see snow in the distant northern mountains, so we decided not to take the older route through Santa Fe.  The straight route through Albuquerque is the less interesting of the two, as it involves a lot of highway driving, but Albuquerque itself seemed like a worthy place to visit.  The terracotta architecture was charming and there was tons of evidence of Mexican and Native American culture.  Taquerias, Spanish-speaking radio stations, Indian trading posts added an enticing multicultural flair to the city.

Native-American themed trading posts and gift shops.

Mexican food. Not sure if I’d eat here, though…

I’d eat at this New Mexican restaurant though, since it’s named after us and all..!

Route 66 climbed up to its supposed highest point, the Continental Divide.  This mountain range distinguishes the watersheds that drain into the Pacific Ocean from those than drain into the Gulf of Mexico.  I couldn’t help but think of my friend Justin, whose Grammy-award-winning children’s band, the Okeedokee Brothers, had just traveled the Continental Divide on horseback for a month to write their third adventure album, Saddle Up (which has also just been nominated for a Grammy).

And then we were in Arizona, our final destination.  Our Route 66 road trip was coming to an end.  And, honestly, I was ok with that.  Following the historical Route 66 had been a fun and enlightening means of getting south, but Arizona had more interesting things to offer us than the old Mother Road.  It had warm southern cities and gorgeous national parks, and these lures won out.  As Route 66 cut through Petrified Forest National Park, we turned right, got off the old Main Street of America, and entered my first U.S. National Park (which is a story for a later time).

The Continental Divide!

The division of North America’s watersheds. Cool!

An old car along Route 66 in Petrified Forest National Park. It’s the last Route 66-themed artefact we’ll encounter, as we’re getting off the road here.

Final Thoughts on the Kicks of Route 66

Driving down the old Highway of America had never been on my bucket list.  Americana isn’t particularly my thing.  But if you get into the spirit of kitsch, of being unabashedly a tourist, and of buying into the stereotypes and symbols, Route 66 offers up some rewards.

For example, it’s amazing to see the changing landscapes and cultures as you drive south and west.  Each state had something new to offer, and I happily acknowledged that there is incredible geographical and cultural variety within the United States.  (This bodes well for our extended visit in the U.S., then, doesn’t it?)

Also, it’s fascinating to learn about American history through the lens of Route 66.  The route really does tell the story of the last hundred years – of economic development, war, famine, race issues, transportation and technology – fabulously well.  I hadn’t expected this.

This museum helped me understand the history of America through the lens of Route 66.

The murals all along Route 66 paint important historical events that have occurred in the towns along the route.

Lastly, by placing such things as neon signs, motels, service stations, old cars, and diners on pedestals, I was able to see these things, not as mundane (for a North American, this is what they are), but as cultural artefacts.  This allowed me to view a culture so closely-related to my own from an anthropological perspective, which was enlightening.

Ultimately, I do not think it is necessary to drive the entirety of Route 66, and there is no part of me that wishes to complete the road trip all the way to Los Angeles.  I’ve gotten all I need to get from Route 66.

But I am really happy that our Route 66 road trip kicked off our American tour.  It was a great way to frame American culture and history, and a fantastic way to connect us to a long history of tourists getting their kicks on Route 66.

The Sinclair service station is a great example of a typical roadside attraction along Route 66.

I will never look at neon signs the same way again!

And I have a strange desire to stay at a motel all of a sudden…

We’re not the only ones road-trippin’ down Route 66.

***

Tips for those planning their own Route 66 road trip:

1. When planning your Route 66 road trip, take a passenger along! It’s so difficult to navigate Route 66 alone (even with a good GPS), so having a passenger who’s a good map-reader makes the trip a lot less stressful.

2. We definitely recommend getting the EZ Guide for Travelers to help navigate the route. It was an absolute lifesaver for us, not only in order to point out interesting sites along the way, but to help us from getting lost!  Plus, the author is so passionate about Route 66 (even pointing out original pieces of cement and other random things) that his enthusiasm becomes infectious.

3. We recommend driving the route from East to West. It adds to the sense of adventure and fun if you’re driving in the same direction that most families and tourists have driven it – toward the sun, warmth, and sea of California!

4. When Route 66 divides into 2 or 3 sections, we recommend always taking the oldest section available. It will likely be further from the highway and bring you into more towns.

Don’t worry, the route will never be this bad.

But it might take you down old brick roads!

5. Get out to walk often. It’s so easy to begin a bad habit of staying in the car and snapping photos of sites while driving by (this is especially true once the initial enthusiasm wears off because there are just so many site to see that you begin to feel you’re getting out of the car every 5 minutes!).  Our most memorable moments always happened when we left the lazy comfort of our vehicle.

6. I think driving Route 66 in an RV is a bit of a shame (even though this is what we did). You miss out on the essence of the road trip – the diners, cafés and motels!  Of course, sleeping in your RV is more practical and cheaper, so a good compromise in this case would be to dine out.

We didn’t eat out much, but we did make an effort to try some of the typical foods and beverages along the way.

7. If doing the trip from east to west, plan to stop driving an hour or more before sunset. The last 90 minutes of daylight, the sun is directly in front of you, and it’s truly blinding.  Not at all comfortable or pleasant.

8. If you’re tight on time, we’d recommend doing less of the route but taking the time to do it right. Unless you need to get south for other reasons (like us), we’d recommend taking the time to savour the people, food, culture, and museums.  My favourite section – and therefore the one I’d recommend for those not doing the whole thing – was Illinois.  The route is well-marked and has great interpretive signs. There are loads of cute towns, well-preserved sites, and typically charming farmland scenery.  Two notable cities bookend the trip (Chicago and St. Louis), there’s a funky bridge to visit (the Chain of Rocks Bridge), and you can get far away from the highway by taking older versions of the route.  Basically the Illinois section of Route 66 contains all essential elements of Route 66 in an easy and doable mini-trip.

In Illinois there are excellent interpretive signs of historical markers along Route 66.

We road tripped down Route 66!

And so did Totoyaya! :)

Diners, motels, neon signs, vintage cars, old service stations.

Route 66 calls to mind many nicknames, symbols, and themes and is etched in the minds and hearts of many Americans.  For the rest of us, Route 66 is simply a chance to travel down 2,278 miles and eight states of the United States in order to experience a time-capsule of American culture and history.

Route 66 may have been designed with truck drivers and American soldiers in mind, but it quickly became the ultimate American road trip.  As Nat King Cole sang, If you ever plan to motor west, travel my way, take the highway that’s best; get your kicks on Route 66.

Get your kicks on Route 66.

Well, our plan was to head west (to base ourselves in a warmer climate while searching for our new camper van).  And so, even though Route 66 had never been on either of our bucket lists, Bruno and I decided to listen to Nat King Cole.  We would, like so many before us, get our kicks on Route 66.

Here is the story of our journey down the Main Street of America.

Planning Our Road Trip

A bit of research taught me that following Route 66 is not as easy as you’d expect.  The route had never been static – as larger bypass roads were created, the route was slowly diverted around town after town, made straighter and wider, until eventually the interstate highway system made Route 66 redundant.  Many parts of this infamous road have been left to deteriorate, and other parts have been renamed or incorporated into highway frontage roads.

Without a good map or GPS, it is impossible to follow Route 66 from its starting point in Chicago all the way to Los Angeles, on the U.S. west coast.

Without a guidebook or GPS, good luck getting your kicks on Route 66!

Once I learned this, I dug around online for GPS data I could download and use to guide us on our road trip.  I wasn’t able to find anything.  I did find a website that provided a detailed turn-by-turn description of the Route, so I manually plotted each turn into my GPS (you can download my waypoints here – you’re welcome!).  It was gruelling, long work, but it was also pretty fun – probably because it had been a while since I’d gone on a road trip.  I spent my time imagining each place we would soon encounter which stoked the fire of anticipation within me.

Funny enough, the first day of our road trip, I ended up purchasing the EZ Guide for Travelers, by Jerry McClanahan, from a tourist center at the old gas station in Odell.  I bought it as a travel companion, to learn about the history and the notable not-to-miss sites along the way.  In the end, though, we ended up also using it to guide us along the route, making my GPS points essentially unnecessary.  The book has loads of maps and detailed directions that were spot-on and very helpful, although occasionally time-consuming to decipher and follow.  I highly recommend it.

Let the Kicks Begin in Illinois

We hopped onto Route 66 fifty miles south of its starting point in Chicago.  I tried to put the news of the recent presidential election out of my mind and get excited about the road trip before us – it would be a long 2,000 miles otherwise!

It worked.  Within minutes, I was excitedly pointing out our first evidence of Route 66 to Bruno – roadside signs!  Minutes later, we were eagerly pulling over to visit our first old service station, where I snapped photos and read the interpretive signs.

We would see a lot of old service stations along Route 66, and they would be my first example of how this route mirrored the development of America.  See, in the 1920s, when the idea for a route cutting across the heart of America was born, the car industry was just beginning its boom.  Fuel was generally purchased from general stores.  With the new accessibility of cars and the ease of interstate travel came a growing demand for fuel, so entrepreneurial people in the little towns along Route 66 started opening shops offering quick and easy roadside access to fuel – thus the service station was born.

Welcome to the Historic Route 66, Totoyaya!

Our first old service station along Route 66, in Illinois.

We would see many old service stations during our road trip, most notably the Phillips 66 stations, a gas station company named after Route 66!

Route 66 took us past flat farmland and into charming little towns – a few of which had populations of 600, 500, or only 200 people!  Despite the excellent signposting in Illinois, I frequently had my head in the guidebook.  There were often two or three different choices we could make in our route, depending on whether we wanted to follow the oldest route available or more recent versions.  We always followed the oldest, but as we wound left and right and into the center of each town, I began to understand why the original route had been quickly bypassed with straighter 4-lane roads.

Farmland scenery along Illinois’ section of Route 66.

Charming little town squares in charming little towns.

This town is small enough to get away with that very impractical stop sign in the intersection.

Great signposting in Illinois, and often more than one choice of route.

Driving down Route 66 felt like being on an epic scavenger hunt.  There were so many historical artefacts to see – restored neon signs, old motels, famous diners, segments of original route.  Some of them – like the giant astronaut Muffler Man – were easy to spot, but many weren’t so easy, and I wound up missing quite a few that our guidebook pointed out.

The most memorable find in Illinois occurred on day one, just past nightfall.  We were winding our way along a narrow country road.   The guidebook mentioned “turkey tracks” up ahead.  I had no idea what they were and didn’t expect to see them in the dark, but there they were, bordered in white paint and with a giant turkey poster pointing them out (so that you couldn’t miss them, like I’d done so many times that day).  The “turkey tracks” were, well, actual footprints of turkeys imprinted into the cement road!  Those footprints must have been almost a hundred years old!

A series of giant Muffler Men along Route 66, each with a different costume. This one’s the astronaut called the Gemini Man.

Not quite so easy to spot, but just as fun to discover.

This diner/service station, with a bit of neon, is a quintessential site along Route 66.

This tract of original route is undriveable, but we were able to follow just beside it for a good while.

The turkey tracks! Really, they were old turkey tracks!

While almost every Route 66 site is right on the road, there are a few worthy detours.  We took one just before the Missouri state border to visit the Chain of Rocks Bridge.  The bridge, once part of Route 66, is unique because it’s not straight.  About two-thirds of the way along, the bridge turns at a 30 degree angle!  We thought it was perhaps an engineering error, but in fact, the truth is in the bridge’s name – it makes use of a chain of rocks under the water for its foundation.  Walking down this funky bridge allowed us to stretch our legs and get a glimpse – my first! – of the Mississippi River.

The crooked Chain of Rocks bridge.

See how the bridge isn’t straight? See the Mississippi River? Cool!

The Kicks Continue in Missouri

Right after the Missouri border is the city of St. Louis.  It’s famous for its giant arch, which is a symbol of the gateway to the West.  The city seemed like a cool, vibrant, and funky town with a noticeable bicultural population.  Right outside the city the Ozark Mountains began and flat Illinois gave way to rocky, green hills and vineyards.  Missouri didn’t look the part of a typical Midwestern state.

Signs for the Meramec Caverns began popping up with increasing frequency.  These caves are infamous along Route 66.  The story goes that in the 1930s, a man discovered these caves and began to exploit them as a tourist destination.  By then, Route 66 had been seeing increasing traffic from vacationers on big family road trips.  The man offered to paint dozens of old barns situated along the route America for free – the only catch was that the paint job would include a mural advertising the Meramec Caverns.

The St. Louis Arch, the gateway to the West.

See the Meramec Caverns sign on the barn? This one is new, but back in the day there were hundreds of this painted barn-side billboards.

This man, of course, was not the only one using roadside advertising to entice business along the Main Street of America.  Increasingly, motels, diners, cafés, and drive-ins popped up along Route 66, and with each of them came a beautiful, bright, giant neon sign.  Interesting, it is along Route 66 that so many American business models began – fast-food restaurants, drive-in theaters, motels, roadside advertising – and all were designed to be appreciated from the comfort of your automobile.

The restored neon sign at the Luna Café.

The Munger Moss Motel and it’s amazing restored neon sign.

The Circle Inn and Cafe and its neon sign.

Nowadays, one of the most quintessential elements of driving down Route 66 is spotting old renovated neon signs.  I saw tons.  I also saw tons of Trump/Pence signs.  We were officially in Republican territory here in Missouri, and would be until the end of our road trip.  I would see dozens of Trump signs, but the only Hillary sign I would see the entire time was a very unflattering piece of negative advertising.

Trump/Pence signs everywhere.

A lot of Trump love down here…

A very flattering sign – the only sign Route 66 – of Hillary Clinton.

Indeed, the conservative Missouri culture made me at times uncomfortable.  In addition to offering typical kitsch Route 66 memorabilia, one trading post we visited displayed guns, knives, hunting gear, animal fur, and patriotic posters.  I was taken aback by two:

If you can’t stand behind our troops, stand in front of them.

And: If you can read this thank a teacher, but if you can read this in English than your troops.

Admittedly, I was no less shocked by another poster reading I didn’t climb to the top of the food chain to become a vegetarian, so I guess I just didn’t fit in here.

This sign is a joke, but it does reflect a true feeling in the region.

Ultra-conservative Rush Limbaugh has a strong voice down here.

But I was also intimidated by more than one café the guidebook encouraged us to visit.  The cafés were almost solely patroned by men – biker men, men wearing camouflage print, big men with long beards.  I did muster up the courage to visit a café in the little town of Cuba – famous for its lovely murals, also a frequent sighting along Route 66.  Shelly’s Route 66 Café was a typical little breakfast diner, serving biscuits and gravy, breakfast meats, and unlimited watered-down coffee.

We’d barely opened our mouths and our server already knew we weren’t from around here.  “Where y’all from?” was her reply when we asked for tea.  We hadn’t gotten this in Illinois, but it would be a frequent question – sometimes even before we’d opened our mouths – the further west and south we went.  I started to grasp the deep cultural divide that exists between America’s north and south.

I was way too intimidated to go in there, despite the guidebook recommendation.

We did make it into Shelly’s Café.

We had tea and plain biscuits – nothing else was vegan!

13 Miles of Kicks in Kansas

Route 66 passes through a tiny chunk of Kansas’ south-eastern corner.  Yet, in Kansas’ 13 miles of route came the greatest inspiration for the Disney movie, Cars.  Indeed, Cars is entirely based on Route 66, from its plot and setting to its quirky cast of characters.  The writers traveled up and down the route many times drawing inspiration for the film, and in the dusty little town of Galena, Kansas, they found their inspiration for one of the main characters, the old red tow truck called Tow Mater.  Along the route we would pass several motels, trading posts, and cafés also used in the movie, but Kansas gave us our first Cars on the Route experience.

Self-explanatory photo. Bruno didn’t know who Toto or Dorothy were, which I think is the most surprising aspect of this photo.

The inspiration for Route 66-inspired Disney film, Cars, came in little Galena, Kansas!

Our first glimpse of the Disney film, Cars, happened in Kansas’ tiny stretch of Route 66.

The Most Kicks of All in Oklahoma

From the state with the fewest miles along Route 66, we entered the state with the most – Oklahoma.  Oklahoma would also mark new territory for me in the United States, and for the rest of our road trip, I would be visiting states I’d never before stepped foot in.

Oklahoma greeted us with buffalo!  We stopped at the Buffalo Ranch to take a look, and a half-dozen buffalo walked right up to the edge of the fencing to greet us.  The largest one came right up to me and started rubbing his head against the fence like he wanted me to pet him. I did, he sniffed me, and we totally bonded.  I had no idea buffalo could be so friendly, and I pitied their inevitable fate.

For I knew their fate, no question.  We were definitely in the South now.  We saw our first cowboys.  Drove past our first ranches.  Saw more barbecue joints and steakhouses than any other type of restaurant.  Came face to face with giant animal trophy heads each time we went to a gas station toilet.  Yes, I knew the fate of those poor buffalo.

Hello friendly buffalo! What an Oklahoman greeting!

Our first cowboys, yeehaw!

East meets West in Oklahoma.

Unlike Kansas, which made a rather large fuss of their tiny Route 66 section, Oklahoma seemed to take their 400 miles for granted.  Roadside signs all but disappeared, and if it had been possible before to follow the route without a guide book, it was now totally and utterly impossible (and would be until the end of our road trip).

Also, the oldest sections of the route were often undriveable because they had disappeared, were in poor condition, or were now on private property.  We spent most of Oklahoma along 4-lane- and frontage roads.  We also got our first chunk of dirt road, but that part was a welcome change.  We drove every single old loop we could, the most notable past several defunct oil tanks.

Defunct oil rigs on an old Route 66 loop.

Oklahoma is a major producer of oil, in case you didn’t know.  The state has made its fortune off it, and the capital, Oklahoma City, is evidence of that.  It’s a new city, modern, wealthy, and sprawling.  It’s also the only state capitol building that has working oil tanks on its property!  I would have loved to check them out, but the city was so pedestrian-unfriendly that we got caught in the flow of traffic and couldn’t get to the capitol.

And so we continued on our road trip.  Over the coming days we would see a string of giants, learn about the darker sides of Route 66, experience first-rate Southern hospitality, take part in a public art installation, and witness jaw-dropping scenery.  Stay tuned for those stories and more, through Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona in our upcoming post!

I’m here today to tell you that that was my first misconception.  In the three weeks that Bruno and I have been on the road in Canada, I’ve experienced just as many revelations as if I were traveling in the deepest depths of Africa.

My first revelation happened six hours after our departure from my family home in New Brunswick.  Bruno and I had driven along New Brunswick’s coastline and experienced how it was truly the province of water – its inlets, seaside, marshes, and rivers gave a holiday-feel to the quaint Acadian villages.  We were in the cottage country I knew so well.

New Brunswick, the province of water.

Cottage country in New Brunswick.

Our first picnic on the road again.

But then, we turned inland, and immediately the dense evergreen forests of northern New Brunswick crowded our view from Totoyaya’s window.  A few hours before dark, we found a dirt track that led to a small opening in the forest, just off the highway.  There were wild blueberries for the picking and more types of wild mushrooms than I’ve ever seen.  We wandered through the forest down to the nearby creek to wash in its cool clear waters.  We were having a grand old time.

And then I stopped.  I listened to a sound in the nearby brush.  And I pictured a wolf or bear or – more likely – a moose behind the bush, ready to pounce on us and eat us up for dinner.

“Bruno, what do we do if we run into a bear here?” I asked, concerned.

“Make yourself big and back away slowly, I think.”

“And, what if it’s a wolf?”

“Back away slowly… I think.”

“And… what if it’s a moose?”

Silence.

The revelation came them.  We were not only traveling in a new country but on a brand new continent with a totally new set of flora and fauna and therefore a totally new set of rules.  I didn’t know anything about the animals of North America – even though they were “my own” fauna.  I couldn’t recognize their scat or footprints.  I didn’t know their territory.  And, more eye-opening, I didn’t know how to react if I encountered them in the wild.

There was a lot to learn on the road in Canada.

We’d seen a moose for a moment from a far distance earlier in the afternoon.

And now we were seeing their scat… or at least SOME animal’s scat.

The clearing in the forest of northern New Brunswick where we camped for the night.

Spot the mushrooms!

So cute!

We spotted (and photographed) at least a dozen different types of mushrooms in the forest that day.

Wild blueberry picking!

The creek near our bush campsite where we bathed that afternoon.

After a quiet but near-freezing early September night in the forest, we continued driving toward the province of Quebec.  We passed highway signs displaying images of snow-mobile and four-wheeler lanes and moose crossings.  In the towns, we saw snow-ploughs parked in driveways and more signs for garage sales than I ever thought possible.

“Why are so many people selling their garages?” Bruno asked me in French.

And revelation two hit me.  These things – these moose-signs and four-wheeler signs, these snow-ploughs and garage sales – were not universally normal things, they were Canadian things.  Once again, Bruno was showing me the Canadian culture that was all around me and that I’d always taken for granted.

Moose crossing!

Snow-mobile and four-wheeler lane!

Though I’ve camped in forty-odd countries around the world, I’d never before camped at an official campsite in Canada.  Just before the Quebec border, along a charming little lake in the hills, we stopped to inquire at our first Canadian campsite.  Seeing us arrive in our little Toyota, the manager stepped outside and beckoned us to follow him.  We walked past motorhome after giant motorhome, greeting the retirees watering their plants and barbecuing hamburgers and corn on the cob under the shade of their giant gazebos.

The manager stopped in front of a large trailer.

“This is my trailer, but I hardly ever stay in it.  You’re welcome to stay here, or in one of our cabins, for the night.”

Bruno and I stared at one another, perplexed.  We had a place to stay, we explained to the man, in our Toyota camper van.

“I didn’t think you could sleep in there,” the manager replied.  “It’s so tiny!”

It occurred to me, in that moment, that camping in Canada – or indeed, in all of North America – would be an entirely different experience than camping anywhere else in the world.  With their giant motorhomes with water, electric, and sewage hook-ups, not only would we be looked at with a mix of indulgence and pity, but we would be forced to pay for services that our vehicle was not even designed for.  Revelation three was upon me.

Indeed, camping at a campsite in Canada has proven to be more expensive than in any other country Bruno has ever camped in – and there have been over 130 of them!  Were we to camp every night of the month here, we would have to spend more than the rent on a sizeable apartment, utilities included!  To my utter shock and shame, camping in my own country’s campsites was going to be out of our reach.

For now, I suppose that was fine.  After five months of daily hot reliable showers, I felt ok about bathing in creeks, with a bucket of cold water or a few wet wipes.  It was just the rules of bush camping – called boondocking, dry camping, or dispersed camping in North America – that Bruno and I needed to learn.

We arrived in Quebec with no idea about any of this.  After checking out yet another prohibitive campsite – where we were scolded for parking on the grass outside the campsite entrance because it belonged to a neighbour – we began searching for a discreet place to park for the night.  We found a dirt track that led up a forested hill, so we decided to explore on foot.  We hadn’t walked fifty meters before a lady was calling out to us from below.  It turned out we were on her property and she’d seen us from her security cameras.  Once she saw we weren’t hunters or thieves, she calmly explained that most of these forest tracks cut through private lands, and that, even if there were no signs or barriers, trespassing on these lands was illegal.

Well, I guess we’d learned one rule of boondocking.  There seemed to be a lot of rules in Canada (which would have been another revelation except I’d experienced this reality every time I’d returned to Canada from abroad for the past decade).

As we drove on, past a halte municipale (a municipal rest stop), we wondered if there were rules against camping there.  Again, we got out on foot to explore.  We found a quiet, hidden spot behind some trees that looked almost like a certifiable campsite, and even a few ashes from old fires.  It was getting late, there were toilets nearby, and we were tired and cold, so we decided to stay.  At least we would learn one way or another whether camping in municipal rest areas was allowed in Quebec.

Our “campsite” at the halte municipale in Quebec.

Doing a bit of late-afternoon yoga at our makeshift stop for the night.

We managed a cold but quiet overnight stay, and set out again the next morning.  The forests turned into lakes and then down into a fertile river valley and the mighty Fleuve du St-Laurent was upon us.  This fleuve would guide our path all the way to Montreal and beyond.

But first, we stopped in the highly-recommended Kamouraska for a bit of tourism.  The town had a cozy holiday-feel with stunningly restored century homes and cottages.  The colourful flourishes and attention to detail gave the village an old charm reminiscent of its days as Canada’s number one holiday getaway for European settlers.

After wandering around the town admiring the views of the water, the marshlands, the birds, and the homes, we settled for the night a few kilometers outside of town at a public beach along the St-Laurent.  We’d spotted a few camper vans at the end of this country road when driving into town that morning and popped by to enquire as to camping regulations in the area.  We learned we could camp overnight here without any problems, and that evening we saw that we were far from the only ones to have this idea on a beautiful late summer long weekend.  We witnessed a deeply relaxing sunset over North America’s most historically important waterway and I felt, for the first time, that Bruno and I were back to our normal nomadic life.

Welcome to the Fleuve du Saint-Laurent at Kamouraska, Quebec!

Cute old restored century homes in Kamouraska.

We’re not the only ones camped along the Fleuve du St-Laurent outside Kamouraska!

A lovely sunset along the St-Laurent from our boondock.

And an equally lovely early-morning breakfast.

The following day we followed the St-Laurent toward Quebec City.  Massive plots of farmland lay along the river’s edge, as roadside stands sold their fruit and vegetables and local cheeses.  There were you-pick signs for blueberries, strawberries, and apples (now at the height of their season), and bars laitiers (“dairy bars”) offering varieties of ice cream and milkshakes.  All along the way, the Fleuve du St-Laurent scintillated in the sun, its rugged green islands calling to mind the First Nations people that had lived off the land and water here.

We arrived in Quebec City, the provincial capital and a city I’d never visited before.  I gathered reading material to plan my impending visit.  In all the literature, Quebec City was referred to as la capital nationale, or the national capital.  I’d spent little time in the province of Quebec, and knew only from a distance of its French nationalism and desire for independence.   To see Quebec City referred to as the capital of the nation of Quebec was yet another revelation of how alive and engrained is the separatist movement in Quebec.

Bruno and I spent an afternoon wandering the streets of Vieux Québec, the historical part of the city.  As one of the oldest cities in North America, history seemed alive around each corner.  Even more interesting was the clear European influence around the entire historical district.  The narrow cobblestones lanes, the Victorian architecture, the café culture.  References to Paris and France were everywhere.  When Bruno and I stumbled upon Le Café de Paris, it all came together for me.  The Québécois seem profoundly proud of their French heritage, to a degree I’ve never seen by a formerly colonized people.

The infamous Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City.

Arriving into Vieux Quebec by bike, and about to enter its European-inspired streets.

Bagages de France shop in le Vieux Quebec.

Le Cafe de Paris, Vieux Quebec.

Two tourists in Quebec City for the day!

We’d experienced this French pride all week, as we were accosted multiple times each day by locals drawn to our French license plates or Le Petit Prince sayings inscribed on the side of our vehicle.  (We’d received so much attention and I’d been asked so many times if I were French that I was seriously considering adding a Canadian flag sticker onto the bumper of our vehicle!)  The Québécois affinity for the French makes sense – they’ve long been an independent nation, they’re surrounded by Anglophones, and their people are ethnically European themselves – but I’d never truly grasped this francophilia until traveling through this unique Canadian province.

I was born and raised in Canada.  Though I have spent little of my adult life in my home nation, I assumed travel here would be less eye-opening, less illuminating, less educational.

Instead, traveling in Canada has been just as – and perhaps more – revealing than travel abroad.  With my traveler eyes set on myself and my own culture, these last few weeks have been a thoroughly unique travel experience.

I can’t wait to see what else traveling through my home country with illuminate for me.

Actually, let me rephrase that: You can absolutely depend upon us to make – and then change – our plans (the Travel Plans section of our blog can attest to this).  Here, on the Mediterranean Coast of Spain, is yet another example of our reliable unreliability.

The guilty parties.

The Mediterranean Coast of Spain, the scene of the crime.

Original plan: Spend two slow-travel months on the coast of Spain, then take a ferry on April 29^th from Barcelona to Italy, zoom up to Switzerland, leave our vehicle there, and spend three weeks in May visiting family and friends in France.

What actually happened: We relaxed on the coast of Spain for exactly two weeks before hightailing it toward France, reaching our family and our house ten days later, on March 25^th.

In order to understand another total upheaval of our plan, it is necessary to explain the unfolding of a series of events and trains of thought over the course of our final weeks in Morocco and our first few weeks in Spain.

You already know that we’d originally planned to stay in Morocco a month longer, but that, at the last minute, we’d opted to head back to Spain because the Moroccan tourist visa renewal process proved more complicated than we felt like dealing with.  So, with our sights set on two months in Spain, we booked a ferry ticket from Barcelona to Genoa for Totoyaya and ourselves.  The logic behind this was that Bruno didn’t want to risk driving our vehicle through France because his papers are severely out-of-date.  We’d squeaked through France the year before without being noticed, but he didn’t want to repeat that stressful drive.

We’d chosen April 29^th because we wanted to arrive at Bruno’s brother’s place near Geneva before the first weekend in May, drive down to the south of France with him to celebrate their mother’s 80^th birthday, spend a bit of time with family, and then head north to Germany where we plan to put Totoyaya on a ferry to Canada in time for summer.

Yet, over the course of our first few weeks in southern Spain, we began to silently ponder the virtue of this plan.  I was thinking it and Bruno was thinking it but neither of us were talking about it.  Our ticket was booked and paid for – the plan was seemingly set in stone.  I was even talking to a few friends in Europe about meeting up with them along the Spanish coast.

The reasons we were silently second-guessing our plan were threefold.  Let me list them from least to most important:

1. We were feeling totally out-of-place in the camping culture of Spain.  I’ve talked about the campsites full of retirees before so I’m not going to rehash this topic again, but suffice to say the feeling like outsiders in our supposed community was beginning to really get to us.
2. Bad weather.  It was unseasonably cold in southern Spain for March.  Sometimes the sun managed to defrost the chill accumulated during the 6°C nights, but often the daytime wind and clouds kept that chill deeply embedded within us.  Yes, I know my Canadian family members are rolling their eyes right now, but let me just say that when you live in a camper van, you feel the weather so much more. You don’t have proper heating, you don’t have sufficient space indoors to seek refuge when it’s cold.  You eat outside, you shower in faraway public unheated bathrooms, you wash your dishes in cold water outdoors.  If it’s wet, cloudy, or windy, you don’t have the option to cocoon yourself in a toasty warm house.  You just have to face the cold.  And the cold was becoming a pain in our sides.
3. We felt the weight of responsibility at home.  This was the big one.  And the one I should probably explain a bit more in-depth.

Check out that storm (and the proximity of the next camper van)!

Curled under my heavy-duty winter duvet in the middle of the afternoon!!

Remember the post I made a couple months ago? The one about us selling our beloved Totoyaya?  That may have come out of thin air for most of you, but for us it was the result of a long-time conversation that really came to a head in southern Spain.

In Africa, traveling in a tiny vehicle without a toilet or shower was no big thing.  The weather was great and there were amazing, empty, cheap campsites in beautifully-located scenic chunks of nature.  It was totally awesome!

In the Middle East, I started to feel the challenges of our lack of facilities-on-board.  On the Arabian Peninsula there were no campsites, and we started having to think of creative ways of taking care of our daily needs, like showering with the bum guns of squat toilets in gas stations and bike riding to the nearest mosque for our morning, um, toilet needs.  In Dubai, I took out a yoga membership and used their shower, and in Oman we camped on beaches so we could grab sand in our plastic bucket and turn that into a porto-potty.  We used a lot of incense on the Arabian Peninsula.

In Turkey, things were better because there were campsites again, but the culture of those campsites started to change the closer we got to Europe.  By the time we got to Italy, I’d come to loathe the mega-campsites that were more like pricey mini-retirement-cities.  When I have to pay $30 to squeeze Totoyaya between two giant motorhomes on the edge of a busy road and then insert 1 euro coins into the shower for 2 minutes of water, I’ve lost the joy of camping.

The south of Spain offers four types of sleeping scenarios for camper vanners:

1. Free parking, widely available.  You can find a list of many of them online, and you will often see more when driving along (look for the agglomeration of parked camper vans).  We tried this a few times, but it was so complicated for us to find a place for our morning needs (cough) that it wasn’t a practical option for us.
2. Bush camping, technically illegal (we think).  We did this a few times in northern Spain, when we were sure we wouldn’t get noticed or hassled, but southern Spain is much more populated and “dangerous” so Bruno didn’t feel safe using this option.
3. Campsites, widely available year-long along the Mediterranean Coast.  But as mentioned previously, they weren’t at all our scene.  We occasionally found a few decent ones with a bit of space and at “decent” prices, but most of the time the campsites simply incited us to move on the next day.
4. Camper Areas, sometimes available, and an interesting concept.  They are essentially parking areas fitted out with some luxuries like basic toilets, showers, and facilities to fill and empty water.  The prices are better than for campsites (usually between 7-12 euros), but you are still usually stuck between motorhomes and busy roads.  This was our preferred accommodation option in southern Spain, but it still didn’t satisfy my soul.  I missed what camping had meant to me in Africa – peace, solitude, and communion with nature.

We occasionally hit-up bush camps that gave us views like this one, but the cops forced us on the following day.

This free parking gave us this view from the window! (But there was no toilet…)

You see the few camper vans parked along the water? It’s a free parking/sleeping spot.

As Bruno and I passed through southern Spain, the long-time theoretical conversation of selling Totoyaya became more concrete.  It felt like now was the time.  The time to create a more comfortable living situation, certainly, but even more importantly, the time to regain the freedom that this lifestyle had meant for us and that now we felt we had lost.

We began to seriously look at replacement vehicles.  We discussed our lifestyle priorities and realized that we wouldn’t find what we were looking for in a lightweight vehicle.  In France, Bruno’s regular driver’s license only authorizes him to drive a vehicle lighter than 3.5 tons – anything heavier and you need a truck driver’s license (C).  This C license is a very long, and very strenuous process in France.  To top all the vehicle stuff off, we’re trying to rent Bruno’s house on the beach by ourselves this year because we had had negative, unsuccessful experiences with rental agencies the previous two seasons.

So, here we were biding our time on the coast of Spain when we really needed to be focused on selling Totoyaya, passing the truck driver’s license, trying to find a new French-matriculated vehicle, and getting our house rental-ready.

All of these things would be easier to do from France.

Once our minds were made up and our plan had been turned on its head, we hit the road, fast.  On the map, we’d only covered four fingers in two weeks.  Now we would cover thirty in ten days.

If you’re going to do a road-trip, you could choose a worse place than the southern coast of Spain.  The road is good (memories of harrowing African road trips come to mind), there’s accommodation and food everywhere, and if you stay away from the highways you can almost always drive along a road that literally skirts the coast.  It’s the views that make this road trip worth it (though if you have time and inclination, there are tons of worthy town stops).

Some of the views along the roadside during our road trip up the Mediterranean Coast of Spain.

Cool chunk of road!

Pure rock.

Plastic greenhouses for miles.

My memories of this road trip are almost all a blur of arid cliffs, whitewashed towns, and sandy coves, but I was smart enough to write down my impressions of different chunks of coastline as we drove past.

From Algeciras to Nerja: highly developed coastline, not very beautiful

From Nerja to Motril: lovely section, with a small parque natural, fairly lush flora, and quaint villages

From Adra to Almeria: not so nice, a lot of agriculture and plastic greenhouses

From Almeria to Aguilas: perhaps my favourite section of coastline, very rugged and arid, empty of human development, a large parque natural

From Aguilas to Benidorm: nothing special of note, more developed and more agricultural

From Benidorm to Gandia: less sea views but lovely rocks, fields, and traditional agricultural towns

From Gandia to Peníscola: nothing special of note, less coastal views and more towns and agriculture

Most of our tourism was of the drive-by variety, but we always did some exercise-tourism in the evenings.  The Spanish believe the coastline belongs to all Spaniards; as such, almost all of Spain’s 5,000km of coastline is public.  Restaurants and cafés line the coast, but even more wonderful are the seemingly-continuous promenades.  Since Bruno and I were spending a lot of time sitting in the car, our evening routine consisted of finding the coastal promenade and going for a bike ride or speed walk.

Nice bike path, right?

Another bike path.

Amazing bike paths, right?

An afternoon walk on a random beachside promenade.

When we hit-up Peníscola’s promenade, the first thing I saw was a fairy-tale-like fortified castle seemingly floating on the water.  I’d been good so far and hadn’t asked Bruno to allow me any tourism stops during our road trip, but old Peníscola was calling to me.  I had to see it.

Thus, we granted ourselves one final day of tourism before our arrival in France and the beginning of a non-nomadic period of our life.  We did what we’d become accustomed to do in Europe: grab our backpacks and cameras, walk to the historical area of town, grab a map from the tourist office, and then wander the cobblestone streets.  We gazed out at the sea and the coastline from the little fortified islet, we admired the old buildings (especially the one made entirely out of seashells), and we looked at a ton of restaurant menus.  But the town was filled with tourists, the menus were expensive, and I was quickly over it.  I was ready to head “home.”

Peníscola beckons from the promenade.

Visiting Peníscola – our final day our tourism.

The seashell house.

View of Peníscola’s city beach and promenade from its castle-like old town.

As we drove past Barcelona, I felt a slight pang – it’s a city I keep planning to visit and keep missing – but I was too busy navigating Bruno on and off ramps and exits to dwell on it.  It wasn’t until we reached that night’s campsite near Figueres and the border of France that it hit me.  This was it: our final night in Totoyaya, maybe forever.

As Bruno and I wandered around the farm on which we were camped, a deep sadness washed over us.  We visited the flower trees, vegetable garden, and small hot-spring waterfall nearby, and I felt like we’d reconnected with what camping had meant to us back in Africa, when I started this overland journey.  Bruno and I had come so far – both literally and figuratively – since then, and now we were ending an era.  We were moving onto a brand new chapter of our lives, one that would involve houses and driving tests instead of our trusty Totoyaya, the only constant since the very beginning.

Before you get too sad, dear readers, let me remind you of one thing: Bruno and I are reliable plan-makers in only one way – our unreliability.  You’ll have to stay tuned of Wandering Footsteps for the continuing details.

As close to Barcelona as I may ever get.

Our final campsite with Totoyaya, perhaps forever.

The nature, the peace, the solitude – the way camping should be.

In other words, she was the ideal travel partner.  And I took advantage.  Though our lives have taken place in different corners of the globe – she in North and South America, me in Asia and Africa – we’ve connected every few years for a trip.  Mauritania, Cambodia, Thailand, India.

And now, Morocco!

An oasis near the desert in southern Morocco.

La Plage Blanche.

Taking in the view long the southern Atlantic Coast of Morocco.

Part I: Backpacking in Marrakech

We met up in Marrakech, a city I’d visited five weeks earlier with my parents.  Unlike most travelers, I love returning to a place– I always have a different experience and gain a new perspective.

Marrakech didn’t disappoint.  With my parents, I’d visited sites like the Bahia Palace, the Saadian Tombs, and the Ben Youssef Medersa; we’d eaten at nice Moroccan restaurants; we’d watched the action on the Djemaa el Fna.

With Sahnah, well, we “did” almost nothing.  We wandered around a few alleys in the north section of the medina, where Sahnah oohed, aahhed, and snapped loads of photos.  We visited a souq or two, bought a thing or two.  And we sat at cafés for hours, sampling Moroccan dishes and keeping ourselves warm with glasses of mint tea.

An alley arch between our riad at the souqs and square of Marrakech.

Wandering around the alleys, snapping photos of beautiful things.

Spices for sale in the souq!

Sat at a café off the Djemaa el Fna watching the sunset.

Our second full day in Marrakech illustrates our rhythm perfectly: we took a slow breakfast in the courtyard of our dar (a small riad) then emerged into our alley and headed toward the souqs and square.  We passed one shop that had chameleons; Sahnah got excited and snapped photos.  That led to a one-hour chat with Aziz, the shop keeper, who was the most philosophical, insightful, and silly Moroccan I’ve met yet.

By this point it was 1:30pm, and we had a lunch date with two shop-keepers Sahnah had purchased spices and perfume from the day before.  We raced to the market to buy strawberries for dessert so as not to show up empty-handed.

For the next four hours, we chatted with Mohammed and Younes about everything – marriage, shop life, food and tea, medicinal herbs they sold, the different regions of Morocco and their languages, the process of purification before prayer, the king and his family, and views on women.  By the time we emerged from our new friends’ shop at dusk, we’d traveled less than a single kilometer from our dar all day.

Breakfast at our dar.

The chameleon that prompted a one-hour chat with Aziz the shopkeeper.

Mohammed and Younes, the shopkeepers we ate lunch.

Getting really excited over our tagine lunch!

Sahnah and I are both obsessed with food – especially of the cheap street variety – but we’d been so busy wandering down alleys, talking for hours, and hanging out with shop-keepers, that we hadn’t actually tried that much food yet.  That became the sole goal of our last evening.  I tried a sort of pita stuffed with a potato and cheese patty, harissa spice, vache qui rit cheese spread, mashed potato, and cumin.  Later, we wandered through the infamous food stalls of the Djemaa el Fna and sat ourselves down at a stall displaying an incredible variety of grilled vegetables and salads.  For fifty cents a plate, we feasted on grilled aubergine, grilled pepper, tomato salad, spinach salad, beetroot salad, and grilled chicken with harissa.  Not only was it delicious, but sitting on a bench in the middle of the smoke and crowds was an atmosphere just like we like it.

My potato pita snack!

The food stalls in the Djemaa el Fna are bustling every night of the year!

The stall we chose.

Fifty cents a plate!

Part II: A Homestay in Taroudant

After three nights in Marrakech, we took a 6-place grand taxi to Taroudant, my “hometown” in Morocco.  We were welcomed with open arms into the home of my Moroccan friend, Hafida (the one who taught me a lot of what I now know about Moroccan food).

Loads of visitors came to meet Hafida’s curious guests, and we became favorites among the neighborhood kids.  Sometimes, we did like the women, who would lie around on the sofas and watch TV after our big, long meals.  The TV, tablets, and phones were out a lot, and I was a bit shocked by this, but Sahnah confirmed that Hafida’s family’s usage was still far less than that of a typical American family.

Other times, we headed onto the street to play games with the kids, who were on school holiday.  I was subjected to loads of Moroccan games and songs, and, even though I couldn’t understand the language, I was able to grasp the concepts because the games were not that dissimilar to those I grew up playing.  Neighbors looked on from windows, intrigued, perhaps, that two adults would play with children.

Sahnah with Atika (left), Hafida (right) and Hafida’s mom.

Playing with the kids outside. The ones on the left and right are Hafida’s.

Cuddling with Titima, Hafida’s cute niece.

On my first evening, I asked to take a shower, and was directed to the forth storey of the home.  We’d hung out on the first and slept on the second, where I’d noticed a shower.  It turned out to not yet be connected.  The third storey, where the boys slept (as well as Hafida’s hundred year-old father-in-law, who had his meals brought to him in bed), was totally unfinished.  On the fourth floor, which was also unfinished, was the rooftop veranda and a hammam.

I was told that the house was being finished floor by floor, as money came in.  This may be common, since my other friend, Atika, had told me workers were currently finishing her family’s second floor with paint and mosaic tiles.

Anyway, in a bucket, I mixed hot water from one tap with cold water from another, then scooped the water over me and washed and scrubbed myself.  It was very enjoyable, and I was looking forward to doing it again the following evening.

But when Atika, came over, I learned that they have neither a hammam nor a shower in their family home, and must go to the public hammam once a week.  Nadia, Hafida’s sister, told me that she goes to her mom or sister’s home for her own once-a-week-wash.  I’d thought those public hammams were for the rare villagers or poor people that didn’t have running water at home; it seemed, in fact, that the lower middle class used them, too.  When Hafida talked about having done her hammam upstairs the previous Sunday with the family, I realized that bathing in Morocco is both a luxury and a rarity.  I certainly didn’t want to be that white girl who needed the hammam every day, so I refrained from hammaming it again.

Produce shopping in Taroundant’s medina with Atika and Hafida’s mom.

Playing chess on the tablet with Hafida’s eldest, Hicham.

Learning how to wrap our heads.

After two days and nights of eating and playing games and lying on sofas, it was time to go – we didn’t want to overstay our welcome.  However, everyone in the family seemed so genuinely sad to see us go – showing us with gifts and heartfelt hugs – that I wished we could have stayed longer.  But we had other plans.

Part III: Tenting it in Southern Morocco

In Sahnah’s backpack, she managed to fit a tent and sleeping bag so that she could camp along with Bruno, me and Totoyaya for eight nights.  Bruno and I wanted to head south, so the plan was that she’d follow us as far as she could and then travel back to Marrakech by bus on her final day.

Sahnah is my first friend to come and camp with Bruno and I – and only the second person since I’ve been with Bruno.  Though Bruno’s niece had the fortune to be visiting us in hot, animal-filled Kenya, Sahnah, ever easy-going, seemed quite happy just to meet Bruno and experience our lifestyle.

Sahnah getting settled in her tent for the first time.

Our campsite at Sidi Ifni.

Our bush campsite in the dunes behind La Plage Blanche.

Cooking dinner outside at our campsite.

Of course, Morocco isn’t the best sample of our regular lifestyle because, at this time of year, campsites are chock-a-block with retirees from Europe and their massive, generic camper vans (like the one my own parents rented for three weeks for their adventure around Morocco).  Bruno and I find it entirely unappealing to camp this way, but Sahnah took the retirement communities in stride.

We drove from Agadir down to Tiznit, where we shopped for fresh produce in the open-air market and ate ‘addis and khoobz at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant.  The medina was filled with dust and cars, so after taking a hundred photos of a hundred different doors, we headed for the coast.  Wedged between two motorhomes at the campsite, the three of us escaped to the beach, where we pointed out colorful rocks to one another and observed the Moroccan families out for their Sunday afternoon at the beach.

We’re going on a road trip!!

Checking out the coastal views on our road trip south.

Buying produce in the market.

At Aglou beach, checking out rocks.

Further down the coastline, we admired rocky cliffs encircling the occasional cove or white sand beach.  We picnicked on one of those cliffs – Sahnah making some amazing salad dressings – and walked some more beaches.

In Sidi Ifni, we found a campsite we liked, along the corniche of the town’s beach, so we stayed a couple nights.  Above us, on the top of the cliff, perched the old Spanish city; Sahnah and I went to explore.  We wandered past a ghost-town of ocean-blue paint on whitewashed colonial buildings then stumbled upon the region’s bustling weekly souq.  We did yoga in the campsite, cycled to the town’s distant port, walked along the beach, and ate fish tagine.  With no sights per se, it was nice to slow down and show Sahnah the flow of our daily life.

One of many Cliffside picnics!

View of the beach where we camped from old Sidi Ifni town above.

Sidi Ifni’s weekly souq.

Going for a bike ride along the coast.

Next we headed to Fort Bou Jerif, the ruins of an old French protectorate fort in the middle of the hammada (rock desert).  I’d read that the campsite here would give people a taste of the desert – and it did, just not the type of desert Sahnah had in mind.  Still, we visited the fort, stumbled upon a nearby mini-oasis, and soaked up the solitude and silence.

Walking to Fort Bou Jerif.

Fort Bou Jerif, a French protectorate in the middle of the hammada.

Yoga poses at the mini-oasis.

The following morning, we headed off-road to La Plage Blanche, a 40km-long beach that was used in the time of the French Aeropostale as both a reference point and possible landing strip on the flight from Toulouse to Dakar.  The three of us squeezed up front and bumped along for an entire day on the 50km piste to the beach.  We could have taken the tarmac from Guelmine, I suppose, but we wanted to offer Sahnah an off-road experience.

We bush-camped high over the beach, behind giant sand dunes that gave Sahnah the taste of the desert she’d not gotten the day before.  It was gorgeous, but – as is the case in the desert – totally inhospitable.  It had been windy the last few days, but here it was awful.  We tried parking our vehicle so as to give us a breaker, but the sand started flying under the vehicle.  Bruno blocked the hole with plexi glass, cardboard boxes, and an umbrella.  Sahnah and I were only able to explore the dunes and beach with clothing layered from head-to-toe, headscarves, and sunglasses.  It was totally crazy, but the dunes were mesmerizing, even in a storm.

Fording a river during our 50km off-road drive to La Plage Blanche.

Amazing view, right? Too bad it’s cold enough to make me dress up like an Inuit!!

Our campsite, and our makeshift wind-blocker.  Sahnah’s tent is behind the car, for obvious wind-blocking reasons.

We dropped Sahnah off in Guelmine, the supposed gateway to the Western Sahara, a contested region that most maps invalidate with a dotted line between its northern border and southern Morocco.  In Guelmine, 50% of people are Saharawis, and you could see their long, loose pale blue robes with gold-embroidered borders everywhere.

These same Saharawis inhabit most of Mauritania, where Sahnah and I first traveled over a decade ago.  It was a fitting place, then, for us to bid her farewell.

It was awesome to reconnect with Sahnah after having not seen each other in almost 3 years (and not traveling together in four – wow, does time ever pass quickly!).  I loved getting to re-explore Marrakech, and to introduce her to my Moroccan friends and their family life.

I especially loved getting to share my daily life with Sahnah – a life that is difficult for most people that are dear to me to grasp.  After eight nights tenting it with us in southern Morocco, I think she gets it.

So… who’s next?

It’d be really nice here in the summer.  This is a phrase I’ve uttered all-too-often over the last few days, as we whizz past fortified cities, national parks, and monasteries.  I’d really like to spend more time here, if only it were warmer.

We’re in transit right now, which means we’re driving a large chunk of road to get from one destination – northern Spain – to another destination – coastal Portugal – in a short period of time.  We’ve been told by local friends that we’ve been incredibly lucky with the weather these past few weeks – our pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago was almost rain-free, our time with Josu and Ana was spent in t-shirts – but that our luck will run out soon.  The good weather simply cannot last.

So we’re cashing in our chips and hitting the road toward balmier climates.  Yep, the time has come for us to head south for the winter.

We’re heading south for the winter! It’s after 12pm and that fog is just lifting now. Soon, those red and white bars on the side of the road will serve to show the depth of snow fallen on the roadside.

Bruno and I have done transits a few times before – notably through Saudi Arabia and between Turkey and France – but we try to limit them.  For Bruno, transits are really tiring.  For me, they are a test of will-power.  I really struggle with transits because I always want to stop everywhere and see everything; I haven’t quite learned to drive with my eyes closed, you see.

But I don’t want to push our luck.  I know what it’s like to travel by camping car when it’s freezing cold out.  I got a recent taste of that when we walked in the Pyrenees Mountains with our friends, Frank and Sharon.  You try wearing every layer of clothing you have, but it’s not enough to keep out the biting outdoor chill.  So you end up spending a lot of time inside, sitting on the bed because there’s nowhere else to sit.  You bang your head on the low part of the ceiling when manoeuvring past the other person who lives in the two-meter-square space with you.  If the shower isn’t hot enough – that is, if there is a shower, at all – you give yourself a three-day cold.  And forget about cooking outside, or cooking at all, really.  So you just go to sleep – there are less than ten hours of sunlight now, anyway.

Wearing everything we own, yet still frozen with Frank and Sharon in the Pyrenees.

Look how cold Bruno looks – and this is in the middle of our day hike!

The cold weather already propelled us quickly forward once in Spain.  See, after our walk in the Pyrenees, we drove down to lower altitude thinking it would solve our temperature problem – and we spent the next week traveling through rain and sub-zero temperatures.  In Ainsa, a medieval town of great importance in the ancient kingdom of Aragon, we wandered through the clean, tastefully-renovated streets, but the ominous clouds pushed us on by lunchtime.  In Jaca, we visited a sports store, instead of the historical center of town, so I could buy thermal leggings.  And at the Monastery of Leyre – the ancient royal pantheon of the early Basque monarchs and center of spiritual, political, and cultural life of Navarra province – we poked around for an hour before driving down from its windy perch.

At last, we arrived in Pamplona, capital of Navarra and a supposedly really cool (as in awesome, not cold) place.  We planned to stay several days; we managed two nights.  On the first night, we caught up with Frank and Sharon again and tried having tapas and drinks outside.  That lasted an hour before all of us were racing for the refuge of our heated camper vans.  The following morning, we visited Pamplona, ate some pintxos (which I promise to write about another time!), saw the bright and funky facades, and moved on.

It was the same pattern in Estella.  The town had only been a hamlet before the Camino de Santiago started passing through its streets in the 11^th century.  We spent a pleasant afternoon wandering down its alleys, soaking up the tiny bit of available sun in its central square, and excitedly counting pelegrinos in preparation for our own upcoming pilgrimage.  But, the cold got to us in Estella too, and we left almost as quickly as we arrived.  And don’t even get me started on the weather in coastal Basque Country.

A quick wander through medieval Ainsa before rain clouds force us on.

The beautiful locale of the Monastery of Leyre was way too windy to stay for the night.

Colorful and funky Pamplona was absolutely freezing, and therefore a challenge to enjoy.

We soaked up as much sun as possible in chilly Estella before heading on.

Both Bruno and I found it rather challenging to be forced on by the cold weather.  It wasn’t the travel rhythm we were used to – nor the temperatures, of course.  There were times that we wondered if we shouldn’t just head south then and there.  Images of Mediterranean beaches lined with bronzed near-naked bodies, of arid deserts teeming with migrating birds, of Andalucian mosques and sunny Sevilla filled our minds.

I’m glad we persevered north and west.  We got to walk the Camino, and we got to meet up with Josu and Ana.  But now it’s time.  Time to head south.

Over the past few days, we’ve breezed past a bunch of really interesting places.  There was the Picos de Europa, a national park of very high repute.  But we’re not masochistic enough to go mountain-climbing in November.  There was Potes, an exceedingly cute town built of old rock, with a river running through it, old granaries, and tons of cafés offering cider and artisanal cheese.

And there was the Monastery of Saint Toribio, containing the largest piece of the True Cross and the fourth most-important pilgrimage for a Christian (indeed, we had even seen signs for the Camino de Santo Toribio while walking the Camino del Norte).

There was Léon, which we passed right through, missing its famous cathedral.  There was Puebla de Sanabria, with its lovely hilltop citadel and riverside walking path.  There was the Parque Nacional Montesinha, where Phil and Angie had spotted wolves last fall – but we couldn’t expect to encounter one in the two hours we spent driving through the park on the way to the Portuguese border.

A view of the majestic Picos de Europa.

Pure charm is Potes.

The Monastery of Santo Toribio, at the top of another windy hill.

Puebla de Sanabria and its photo-friendly citadel.

Sporting my new – and already much-beloved – thermal leggings in the Parque Nacional Montesinha.

And there was Bragança, our first town in Portugal.  Another citadel sat overlooking the modern town.  I spent an afternoon walking around its fortified wall, looking at the white houses with orange Roman-tiled roofs, and listening to the nasal, sing-songy Portuguese of the locals.  It was warmer in the daytime here, but we still needed our winter duvet at night, so the next morning, we left Bragança, too.

I keep telling myself that I’ll get to properly visit all these places one day.  That Bruno and I will be able to experience this part of Europe in better weather.  Or at least with a more well-equipped camping car (Europe has always been Bruno’s retirement plan, you see).  I tell myself how lucky I am to get to visit Europe at all, to get to be a full-time nomad, to get to taste so many places, even if my thirst isn’t always quenched.

And I tell myself that this is the gamble you make when you travel in Europe at this time of year, or when you travel anywhere, anytime, really.  You might be able to book plane tickets and hotel rooms, but you can’t book good weather.

Bragança, our first Portuguese stop.

View of our campsite for the night from Bragança’s hilltop citadel.

It was warm enough here in the middle of the day, but by nightfall we were ready to race south.

We’re almost at the end of this six-day transit.  We’ll be on the coast of Portugal soon.  The sun has continued to follow us on our southern migration, but we have many more kilometers to go before we reach our final wintering spot in southern Morocco.

So the question is: should we carry quickly on south, or tempt fate by slowing our transit down once we reach the Portuguese coast?

So what is overland travel, anyway?

Well, if you’re a regular follower of Wandering Footsteps, you’ve probably seen this word come up a lot in the last year. I defined overland travel here and I even have a blog topic tag on overlanding.

Over the years, I’ve met all sorts of overlanders – families completing a short around-the-world trip in a camping car, couples cycling across Africa or Europe over the course of several months, guys on cross-continental motorbike trips. What makes all these people overlanders is that they travel independently, long-term (more than just a quick holiday), by road, and with their own set of mechanized transportation.

Bruno and I are overlanders, too. But we’re a special breed of overlanders who’ve made the trip a lifestyle, who have no other house but this home-on-wheels, and who travel really, really slowly. I guess you could call us turtle-style overlanders!

Overlanders parked along a public beach in Dubai.

Bruno and I with fellow overlanders, Josu and Ana.

Traveling overland is a peculiar type of travel that raises a specific set of questions: namely, those around driving in foreign countries, crossing borders, and traveling across continents. That, then, is what this post will be dedicated to – answering the typical transportation questions (using motorized vehicles) we get based on our experiences.

Driving in Foreign Countries

Driving legally in foreign countries is fairly similar to driving in your home country. You need the following:

1. A valid driver’s license. It’s a good idea to get an international driver’s license for extended travel, because some countries limit the validity of a regular driver’s license to a few weeks.
2. Registration. Self-explanatory, I think.
3. Insurance. Actually you don’t always legally require insurance, but we do recommend it. We learned this the hard way when we hit a security camera in Oman and didn’t have insurance coverage to pay for the repair. Since then, we’ve always purchased insurance at the land border crossing. It’s almost always possible to purchase insurance at a land entry point.

When you’re surrounded by cars like these, you definitely want to take out insurance!!

Certain countries also require a vignette, a sticker that allows you to use the country’s roads. In some countries, like Switzerland, you only need the vignette for its highways, but in other countries, like Bulgaria, you need it to drive, period. We never encountered vignettes in Africa or the Middle East, so it seems to be more of a European thing.

A lot of countries require your vehicle to contain a safety kit that includes things like neon vests, fire extinguishers and accident triangles. Some countries also require certain neon tape strips or striped plates on the front, back, and/or sides of the vehicle. It’s somewhat frustrating that these requirements are not standardized. For instance, in all of southern Africa you only needed one fire extinguisher, except in Zimbabwe, where you needed two. It was in Zimbabwe, too, that we were told we didn’t have a red stripe on the front of the vehicle, so Bruno had to cut out a part of the red stripe on the side of our vehicle and stick in on the front before driving on. The only country in all of Africa where you needed red and white striped plates behind the vehicle was Uganda. And we’re going to need to buy an extra triangle for our upcoming winter in Morocco.

The striped plates we needed for Uganda.

Each country requires a slightly different version of this safety kit.

Our advice is to check on requirements with customs officials as you enter the land border of each country, and make any necessary changes or purchases at the border town. In Europe, you can buy fancy Atlases that include this country-specific information, as well as any unique rules of the road (like regular speed limits, whether daytime running lights are required, etc.)

This brings me to my next point – rules of the road are fairly universal. The big change is, of course, whether you need to drive on the right or left, but this one is easy to figure out quickly (hint: if someone is driving straight at you in your lane, you’re probably on the wrong side).

What may not be the same is the driving culture of the country you’re in. In some countries, you might get a lot of crazy or aggressive drivers that pay no attention to rules of the road, use no blinkers, don’t stay in their lanes, pass on the right, or pass when oncoming traffic seems too-close-for-comfort. In other countries, you may have to share the road with flocks of sheep, tractors, or ox-drawn carts. You may need to deal with potholes the size of craters, mud tracks, or quick-sand that comes out of nowhere. It’s important to be a confident driver, comfortable with your vehicle, and use extra caution in a foreign country. A GPS doesn’t hurt when traveling across megalopolises like Nairobi, Dubai, or Mumbai.

You might have to share the road with livestock.

You might have to share the road with tuk-tuks.

You might have to deal with potholes that seem more like craters!

While driving in a foreign country, you are sure to make a few mistakes, even if you do all your research beforehand and ask for more info at the border upon arrival. You may have to deal with police, and you may be asked for a bribe. This has happened to us more times that I can count. Yet, we’re happy to report that we’ve never had to pay out. We’ve been bribed for silly things like missing neon plates or stickers and infractions like speeding and illegal turns. In each instance, we remained calm and respectful, repeated that we were tourists, that we were sorry, and that we would rectify the situation immediately. Sometimes it took an hour, but the police always let us go. Yes, Bruno may have the chach, but we also think that foreigners are often too quick to offer bribes in order to get out of an uncomfortable situation. We strongly discourage you from accepting to pay a bribe – if you did something wrong, pay the official ticket (and be wary of fake “official” tickets). Saying no to bribes helps future overland travelers.

Crossing Land Borders

To cross a land border, you require all the same documents you need to drive (registration, license, possibly insurance). You may also need one additional, often-vital document: a carnet de passage en douane. The carnet is sort of like a vehicle passport in that it contains all the vital statistics of your vehicle. Its purpose is to temporarily import your vehicle into a foreign country and to guarantee to the customs officials that you will not sell the vehicle while in that country.

The cover of a carnet de passage en douane.

When you cross a land border with a vehicle, you will pass through immigration, as you would in an airport. You may have to park and walk to the immigration desk, or you may be able to drive up to the desk for your passport stamp.

After immigration, you will head to customs (again, either by walking or driving, depending on the setup of the border – you’ll usually have to walk in poorer countries and/or countries that don’t have very open borders with one another). Here, you will present your vehicle documents and the carnet if it is required. When you enter the country, the officer will stamp the top third of a new page, keep the bottom third of the page for him (containing your vehicle’s vital stats) and let you proceed. Sometimes they might check the chassis number on the vehicle, and they may look inside. Then you’re free to go.

When you leave the country, you will have to show the same page of the carnet, and the officer will place an exit stamp on the top part of the page, and then take the middle third for himself. You will now have only a stub of a page left, but it will have an entry and an exit stamp, proving that your vehicle has left the country.

A completed inside page of the carnet (though normally, the bottom two-thirds of the page are ripped out and left at your entry and exit point).

The reason the carnet de passage en douane works as a guarantee against resale is that you need to pay a fairly large deposit in order to obtain the document. You must contact your country’s Automobile Club in order to get the exact quotient for your country, as they vary (I know, for instance, that the UK’s quotient is very high). The quotient is always a certain percentage of the value of your vehicle, so keep this in mind when choosing whether you want to buy a new vehicle or a used one. Our vehicle, because it’s older than ten years, is said to have the minimum value of $2,500. France’s Automobile Club asks for a quotient of 100% of the value of the vehicle, so our quotient is $2,500. Now that our route no longer requires the carnet, we’ve mailed it to our Automobile Club and were returned our quotient.

Carnets are generally valid a year and have a certain number of pages in them, so keep that in mind when planning your route. One country* equals one page. Depending on your Automobile Club, it can be difficult to obtain a new carnet while on the road. Each carnet has a fixed, non-refundable cost.

*Almost all countries in Africa require the carnet de passage en douane. Most countries in the Middle East don’t require it, but we were asked for it when importing our vehicle into Saudia Arabia and shipping it into Iran, and we’ve heard stories of other people needing it in Oman and the U.A.E. Neither Europe nor the Americas require the carnet, and Asia is a mixed-bag.

Crossing Sea Borders

As overlanders, we don’t just hop on a plane when we want to go from Africa to South America or from Asia to the US. When roads can’t take us there, we use boats. It seems simple, but it’s probably the most complicated part of overland travel.

Overlanders can choose between container ships and ferries. We’ve done both, though the three container ships our vehicle has been on were before I was around. I’ll do my best to describe the experience of shipping a vehicle by container from what I’ve gleaned from Bruno:

Getting loaded into a container to cross the Panama Canal.

Loading Totoyaya into her first container in South Korea.

Bruno hates shipping in a container. It’s expensive, requires a lot of complicated and lengthy paperwork, and leaves him homeless for weeks. He tries to avoid it, and purposely chooses a route that eliminates as many container ships as possible. If there’s a road route, that’s what he chooses, even if it means a long detour. The journey is the destination in overland travel, anyway.

When his journey has required a shipping (from South Korea to Los Angeles, across the Panama Canal, and from Uruguay to South Africa), he’s always contacted a shipping agent. The agent is responsible for overseeing the paperwork, which can obviously be challenging in a foreign country. With the agent’s guidance, Bruno spent days running around to various offices with various documents and obtaining various signatures and stamps. The agent also organizes the departure, and provides a reputable contact for the arrival procedure. We highly recommend using an agent, even if you speak the local language.

Our vehicle fits into a high cube container (in fact, Bruno designed the vehicle with this sole purpose in mind), which means we can share a container with another vehicle. Though in each case it took Bruno a little bit of time to find someone to ship with, it cut the container costs in half and he made lifelong friends – like Phil and Angie – a out of the experience (I guess there’s something about loading your home onto a boat that bonds people together!) With each shipping, Bruno paid less than $2,000, including agent fees and port taxes. From what we’ve heard from other overlanders, this is a pretty great feat!

We fit snuggly into a high cube container.

Ferries are a lot simpler, and generally don’t require the help of an agent. We’ve traveled on loads of tiny ferries (like to visit Uganda’s Ssesse Islands and to hop from Anatolia to the Galipoli Peninsula in Turkey) but the ferries that I’m going to talk about are long crossings that span borders. These are often called RORO, or roll-on-roll-off ferries.

This year, we’ve taken a ferry from Sudan to Saudi Arabia, and another from the Emirates to Iran. Both times, we traveled with the vehicle, though in the first ferry we needed to purchase cabin tickets for sleeping, while in the second case, Bruno was able to sleep inside the vehicle. We asked around for a ferry agent (locals are better sources of info that Google, I swear!), went to their local office, enquired as to their dates and prices, and purchased tickets several days before the date of travel. In most cases, the larger the vehicle, the higher the cost – but it’s still nothing like a container ship (between $400-800 for us and the vehicle).

On the day of departure, we arrive several hours before scheduled departure, because you have to do your immigration and customs exit procedures before you board. It is significantly more confusing than a land crossing, and it was only with the pity of a local officer that we were able to get our paperwork done. Sometimes you are able to stay with the vehicle and load it yourself, but on other ferries you have to park the vehicle at the dock, give your keys, and board the boat.

Upon arrival in the new country, we follow the crowd of passengers to the immigration desk, but we always have to wait several hours to claim our vehicle and complete the customs forms because offloading the vehicle is lengthy. Again, it was only with the help of local officials that we were able to get all the customs paperwork complete. I’m not sure why it’s so much more confusing to go through customs at a port than at a land crossing, but it’s certainly an argument for minimizing sea travel.

We had to leave the vehicle and keys at the port in Sudan and board the ferry without our vehicle. Can you spot Totoyaya?

I sneakily shot this photo when we were doing customs paperwork upon arrival in Saudi Arabia.

It may seem complicated to travel overland. But just think: you don’t need to book flights, look at train routes, or sit on bumpy busses for endless hours. Once you get your vehicle into a new country, the possibilities are endless. And there’s a massive online overlanders community to help you with any particular questions along the way.