Africa - Day 271:
After three days cooped up in a brothel with the squirts, I can't handle it anymore. I have to leave.
If today's ride isn't perfect, I think I'll just go die somewhere.
I dare not eat anything. I know it won't even touch the sides on the way through...
Being crook is exhausting, and the lack of food, energy and sleep is starting to show.
I feel totally spent and the day hasn’t even started yet. I drag my feet when I walk. I'm all stooped over and old looking.
Loading the bike takes everything I have left.
I ride out.
So long, Monrovia, you’ve been bloody awful.
Liberia is killing me...
I sit at a set of traffic lights, musing over the chance of a wet-season coming early. Two policemen pop up out of nowhere.
“Papers, now!!”
They’re in full riot gear.
All in black.
They look like an African SWAT team.
Scared the shit out of me.
They’ve come from a police post at the side of road that I didn’t spot coming into the red light. There's a handful of hardcore cops milling about over there, watching.
I leave the bike running and hand them my UK rego papers; it's all I've got...
They’re as confused about these as everyone else is when I hand them over; no one seems to ever be sure what exactly they’re looking at. But it looks very official...
“Where's your permit?”
I'm ****ed...
The lights go green. And all the cars backed up behind me go ****ing berserk. Beautiful.
“This is my permit. See?”
“No. You are under arrest!” Bam! The other cop grabs my keys, turns off my bike and shoves the keys in his pocket in one swift movement...

Head to shotsfromthebar.com and read the madness in colour!