Flat: move to new hostel and more not so good but passable photos

August 1, 2016

Saturday morning: my front tyre had gone soft in the week the bike sat idle. I thought this was just normal air-leakage, common when the bike hasn't been used for a while. Accordingly I pumping it up solid, because I would be moving to another hostel, but returning with my packed panniers about five minutes later, the tyre was flat again.

The usual procedure when this happens, is to remove the inner-tube and look for a puncture by pumping it up until a fat inflated rubber hoop, then listen for hissing air by rotating the tube near the ear. I go into mundane detail, because I hope non-cycling people are reading. Failing to hear air hiss out of a puncture hole, use a basin of water, submerge the tube beneath the surface, this time looking for a stream of air-bubbles.

In due course I found a fast air-hissing pin-hole, glued and patched it, put the tube back inside the tyre, the tyre back on the rim and pumped it up solid. Then go to wash my hands and return, the tyre flat yet again. This time I have to resort to the basin of water technic, finding a bubbling of air-bubbles, a second pin-hole which I patch too. Both these punctures were caused by small bits of wire internally protruding from the tyre casing, no foreign body such as a thorn being found.

This all means that the tyre I've on the front wheel, has served it's full life expectancy. To ride on it further will mean more punctures, so I'll fit one of the three spare tyres I'm carrying.

Outside my room door, it doesn't get much better than this in the morning.

A selfie. Well, of my shadow on top of a tower in a park.

All these trees have already been claimed by friends of the canine type.

Clearly good English teachers needed here, to teach proper grammar for one thing...

Right up my street. The hostel up the rise on the right.

Now having moved, the new hostel, called "Kultur Café Berlin" has worked out well.

A little more expensive by 10Bs at 55Bs (£5.50), for an equally comfortable bed, in a six bed dorm room opening out into a large tranquil garden. Best of all though is the German style all-you-can-eat buffet breakfast.

Also, full of people, though the majority seem to be under thirty, making me feel old: a fact which made me feel deeply depressed my first day here, because it was hard finding someone I could find something in common with to chat with. Thoughts that it all goes downhill once I've passed fifty, over the hill, as they say, entered my head.

In due course I've made room-mate friends: a group that met up while doing their Salar de Uyuni jeep-tour, and have traveled together since, comprising two twentysomething Israeli former military service boys, a Korean-Canadian girl. a German and a French girl. They are fun to have around, but I'm jealous the young women make such a fuss over the two dark and handsome middle-eastern lads. I think I'll have to look for my own females if I have to watch them play any longer.

This morning there wasn't room for me at their breakfast table, so I sit at an adjacent table by myself, until a big lump of a fellow with a bowl of cereal come over and says "mind if I sit here, mate!"

"Please do" I welcome him to sit.

"Martin's the name, yours?"

I ask him where he's from once he'd settled in his place, meaning what part of Australia. The accent very thick, is undeniable.

He replies "Aas-stray-yah!"

"Oh. What part?"

"Bally-do-lu-gala."

I didn't quite get that: the above written is a simplification of what it sounded like he said, like a mixed up Irish town and an Australian outback aboriginal place-name.

"Where?"

"No worries, yeah won'tta heard of it"

"Which state is it in?"

"New South Wh-aales"

I tell Martin I'm cycle touring, and would like to cycle across Australia, sometime.

"Take yeah years, mate."

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