Moto-vagabondism and cultural connections from Ireland to India words & photos :: Todd Lawson
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fter a long, hard day in the saddle, all we want to do is to pitch our tent within the grassy compound of a random farmyard, but our host is having none of that. “This my house!” says Krystof in broken English, pointing proudly his rusty pitchfork at a stout-yet-nondescript red brick house behind us. “You stay here this night.” We leave the cool, pure Polish country air and step inside, where the dank stench of mold literally stops us in our tracks. The smell triggers memories of my Polish grandparent’s basement from the ‘70s, a root cellar permeated with aromas of potatoes and dirt. I hated going down there as a child. And Krystof’s kitchen is even worse. It reeks like old cheese, his tiny bathroom contains a sink the crusty shade of brown camouflage and a toilet that likely hasn’t felt the bristles of a brush in years (we’d
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most definitely be hovering above that thing). The look on Christina’s face says it all—we don’t want to stay here, but being rude to a host would be worse. “Oh, thank you so much Krystof,” she says. “This is great…” The front lawn seems so peaceful, and suddenly so far away. We’re in eastern Poland, five months into our year-long adventure, and Krystof has spent his entire 65-year existence on this hay and cattle farm along with his 87-year-old mother. A few minutes ago, when we arrived and kindly asked (via Google Translate) if we could spend the night on his farm, his face lit up. “I cannot believe this!” he says, speaking into our magic translator box. “I would have expected a UFO to land here before a family of three Canadians on motorcycles.” Christina and I have travelled through 69 countries together on motorcycles and randomly asking strangers if we can camp