You get all kinds of people. Few of them are crazy enough to traverse the African continent. The really crazy ones do it in a Land Rover. But even that is beginning to become somewhat mundane for the true adventure seeker.
The Chameleon Backpackers Lodge was the perfect place to meet a liberal assortment of intriguing, inspiring and sometimes outrageously wacky individuals.
I first saw Mike standing near his colourful series III Landy amidst an assortment of half unpacked odds and ends. The unmistakable contemplative look meant only one thing, a Landy repair was in progress. But what was that standing next to his truck? Neatly strapped down under a red and yellow covering, sitting on a trailer with Playmobile sized tires, was Mike's recently acquired microlight.
So there you had it. Mike had upped the stakes and broken away from the routine trans-African crossing in just a vehicle. He would be able to zip up into the sky and view the continent from upstairs, tempting fate just a little more.
A television producer and writer from London, living what seemed like an enviable life, he was struck by the inevitable midlife crisis.
Mike re-mortgaged his house and with the minimum of planning embarked on this traveling adventure. In casually chatting about Land Rover mechanics, it quickly became apparent that Mike seemed to have even less mechanical knowledge than myself. I suddenly felt like a genius in auto mechanics. Empowered by this impulsive self-induced illusion of brilliance, I no longer worried about my own mechanical ineptitude. Certainly if Mike could make it through Africa, so could I!
I asked him if he had this spare or that to which he would innocently reply, "What's that? Do I need it?" I went over some basics with him, which was promptly cut short as I attempted to show him how to clean his air filter. Instead of finding a conventional paper-type filter, I found this metal contraption sitting in a pool of grimy oil. I'd never seen one of those before. Clearly it was a good time to head to the bar.
Mike wasn't traveling alone. Hanging from the Landy's rear view mirror was his traveling companion; a scraggly looking fairy who looked like she might also be going through a midlife crisis. Midlife crisis or not, this fairy was traveling with an official looking mini-passport and Mike made sure that this document was stamped at each and every border crossing!
During the last year, Mike was abroad filming international Jackasses all round the world and writing a sit-com. Now he's making his way through Africa in a brightly coloured Landy, microlight in tow, hoping to perhaps one day return back to London.
One evening at the bar, after several wobbly pops, Mike read a few passages from the book he is writing about his African adventures. I'm not sure with which I was more amused, Mike's witty and often side-splitting writing style or that he was so candidly entertained by his own words.
With Mike's permission I have posted a small section from his book-in-progress.
00. PREFACE
I think, when it’s my time, I would quite like to be eaten to death. It’s interesting at least and think of the epitaph: "Here Lies half of Michael Taylor". And there’s a story in it.
The Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris sports a grave that obituarises its occupant with the simple words "Ici repose un con". Nothing else. No name, no date, and no summary of misdeeds to offer any explanation why the scoundrel earned himself such a tacit and scathing review. It's as damning as you can get. The ultimate revenge. A conscious decision by the author to deprive the deceased the dignity of any factual detail but wish him instead to Rot In Piss through the restless ever-after. I assume it’s a guy; girls are pretty things who smell nice and couldn't be nearly so horrid - especially French ones.
Whatever the git did, he has perhaps drawn more smiles posthumously than any of us do in a lifetime. “Here lies a cunt”. It’s impossible to read those words and not fill in the gaps and chuckle. And it’s memorable. The world is therefore - at least now - a better place for him. It may seem strange but I can’t help my envy.
I don't support the notion of an afterlife and the likelihood of my making the history books looks slim, so a memorable epitaph will be my only stab at any semblance of immortality. Assuming that one has to devote one's life to being a 'con' to warrant the accolade, or at least perform a particularly low act - neither of which I feel I have in me - I reckon the easiest way make my mark is by the nature of my demise. So I shall be eaten. Eaten by lions. Or better still cannibals.
Of course, I don't want to die. But given that I will, what a waste it would be not to do it dramatically. Doing it peacefully in one's sleep is not dying, it's sloping off. Where's the fun in that unless you're an airline pilot with 500 screaming passengers in the back. Crashing a plane is dramatic. Being eaten by lions is glorious. Doing both is fucking outstanding.
If I am to go to such lengths, it’s no use my leftovers being deposited in the corner of some crappy field where the headstone will only be read once every three years by pissed-up couples up for a grope. They should have maximum effect. To this end, I want it to be known, here and now, that my remains should be returned to my beloved Boundary Park and interred beneath the goal mouth at the Chaddy End. The above epitaph - not the ‘con’ one - should be engraved into a brass plaque and mounted on the goal-post so opposing ‘keepers can read it and feel the Ju-Ju. Oldham Athletic will never lose a home game again and they’ll do it over my dead body. It’s all rather poetic. I was born at Boundary Park hospital in view of that very goal, so it seems quite fitting. To me at least. Yes, now I can feel happy and complete.
Actually, If I'm truly honest, I'm really just looking on the bright side. You see, I don't want a ‘fucking outstanding’ demise at all. The thing is at the moment, it looks like a prospect. You see, I have done something silly.