Today's journey, first on foot, ferry and taxi, then by motorbike.
The Wallenius-Wilhelmsen RoRo ferry 'Ortello'
Through the early morning mist, across beyond McNabs Island, with the aid of my camera's zoom lens, I can just make out the word 'Ortello' on the stern of a ship anchored there. I sort out the paperwork I need just taking the bare minimum, everything I've got in reality, the whole bundle, including the free magazine from the air flight. Then down to one of those classy downtown office blocks to find the Wallenius Wilhelmsen shipping office. A nice man there makes a phone call from his nicely appointed office and confirms that my motorcycle will be offloaded this morning. He prints off yet more paperwork and tells me the Customs Office will need to issue me with a temporary import licence, and they can be found in the Post Office Building in downtown Halifax.
Modern Office Buildings in Halifax, Nova Scotia.
The Customs office is neither as grand or as imposing as the shippers office. In fact it is a kiosk window in a spartan waiting room. The lady who inspects my documents is wearing a Government Issue Customs Official Uniform rather than a smart business suit, but there is no mistaking the authority of it or the power this lady exerts over my plans during the next few minutes. I smile nervously and answer her questions.
"Yes I am only here for less than six months"
"No I won't be taking passengers, there is absolutely no room on my bike for anyone else."
"I will be leaving on my motorcyle to the USA following my transit across your country, which is why I do not have a return ticket for either the 'bike or me."
and
" God forbid that I will even think about scrapping my motorcycle in Canada"
And lastly.
"Here is my passport with my home address in the UK."
Does it matter that I sold it last week? I decided not to ask that question.
Here begineth the second lesson. Sometimes it pays to keep your gob shut.
At least half a dozen other questions follow and she looks at the form with the sort of look that says "If I could find a reason to refuse this I would" and stamps it reluctantly.
I head back to the dorm to don my riding boots, jacket and grab my helmet, but there's still plenty of time for a last piece of chocolate and pecan pie with the Wired Monk on the way back. I sit outside with my coffee having devoured the pie, and light up a small cigar just to savour the moment. A young, slight built man sits at the only other sidewalk table downwind of me, and so I go over to him and ask politely if my smoke will bother him. He replies that he is about to have a cigarette too and, 'Hey, are you British? Come and join me.' and we sit and chat about this and that while we finish our smoke and the coffee. It appears that he is a screen writer from New York and has rented a cabin in the southern part of the island, so he can have piece and quiet while he tries to rewrite someone else's script for a Hollywood studio. The title is unimportant he tells me, as it will be changed many times before it goes into production, if ever. But he will get paid never the less, even if the author isn't. I bid him goodbye and carry on up the hill for the last 500 yards to the Gerard House dorms.
Clad now in my motorcycle gear I head down once more to the Harbour Boardwalk and long to the ferry that will take me the short ride across the estuary to Dartmouth. I have researched on line and know the number of the bus that stops near the Autoport facility. However, outside the ferry terminal in Devonport, although I know the number of the bus, no one can tell me where the bus stop for it is. In mild frustration I hail a taxi and another problem is solved with a 'flash of cash'
Outside the ferry terminal, Devonport, Nova Scotia
Arriving at the Autoport Office I presented my sheaf of papers to an enjoyably flirty lady who got on the walkie-talkie to the men who were sorting the vehicles out. Yes they had noticed a red BMW with aluminium box panniers and would see if they could get it to the gate after they sorted something else out. Ten minutes later the walkie-talkie squawked into life and the message came through that it was at the gate, ready to go. I walk the 200yds up the road and cross over to see 'Christine' parked at the port gate waiting for me. An exchange of paper, a cursory glance over her and I'm off up the road trying to remember the my map that I had been studying in the office. Half a mile on and the elation has drained from my face. The radiator temperature is climbing remarkably fast and shows no sign of easing off. The radiator cap is right under the headstock, tucked against the left hand fairing, and it is notoriously difficult to fill the cooling system one go unless you are an ambidextrous acrobat. I had obviously not done so and had not had time to check it after a last minute service on the 'bike. Now I was paying for this lack of attention to detail. I needed a garage urgently for petrol, vehicles can only be shipped with the minimum of petrol in the tank, and some water for the radiator. Then around the bend I spotted what I thought was a petrol station, and the blue and white canopy of an Irving Gas Station revealed itself to me. I became quite proficient at spotting gas stations from a long way off when I was running low, once many miles off on the horizon and in a different country!
St.Irving has saved me!
Having bought my petrol and a litre of water I parked out to one side and attempted to check and top up the water. I think I got some in. but not much because the engine was hot, oh well fingers crossed and just keep an eye on the temperature gauge. Apart from taking one wrong turn the only other problem I had was the traffic slowing down in the afternoon rush hour. While travelling enough cooling was reaching the engine, but when slowed to a crawl even the electric fan couldn't stop the engine temperature rising. Luckily the last part of the freeway back into Halifax was both slow and downhill, so I was able to coast some of the way with the engine turned off. At last I made it to Gerard House and knew that after dinner, when the engine was cool, I had to sort it out. So after dinner I was in the car park studying the problem when I noticed that the temperature sender, the part that tells the dial on the dashboard how hot the engine is, was at one of the highest points on the cooling system, and accessible. If I took that out I could use some of my spare fuel hose to syphon water from a bottle into the cooling system. Unconventional, but it worked a treat and I went to bed happy.
Here begineth the third lesson. If you do something to machinery check it works before going 4000miles away from home to use it.
'Christine' packed and ready to go.
Note the extra bags hung on the engine crash bars, these contained tools and spares and helped keep the centre of gravity low, also absorbing some of the splashes off the front tyre. The spare tyre was a special 'gravel' one, designed for the type of road conditions I expected to find in Labrador. The pink metal bottles clipped to the front of the panniers contain a small amount of spare fuel on one side, and water on the other.
Tomorrow: Finally; just me, 'Christine' and the open road.
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