DIA 352-357 - The End of the Road... (El final del camino)

Perpignan-Besalu-Ripoll-Solsona-Balaguer-Villanueva de Sigena-Zaragoza!! Dt = 14562 Km

The End of the Road...

Angel can't stop smiling. We have crossed the border into Spain. 'Look how clear it is here', he says, pointing at the road signs. Freeway signs are blue while the main road signs are white. The number pertaining to the freeways and highways are clearly marked. 'Now THIS is civilisation'. He talks to as many people as possible whenever we stop. Because he can. I also bask in the ability to communicate with the locals.

The excitement does not wear off as we hit the Pyrenees in earnest. Angel is at home with the sights, the sounds, the smells. It is new for me though. Beautiful and as exotic as Italy or France. As usual, it is hard in the mountains. We are psyched to get to Zaragoza and push the kilometres, so it is a strenuous six days. We spend four of those days in Catalonia before passing over into Aragon. One of the most wonderful aspects of Spain is its diversity. All of the signs were in Catalan - an apparent mix of Spanish and French. Considering the history of the region as located on the Spanish-French border, the language does not really come as a surprise. When we do cross into Aragon, it is clear that Catalonia is the richer - and more political - province. The sign for Aragon was humble and graffiti-ed by Catalan 'independentistas´. On the other side of the road, the sign for Catalonia was new, pristine, and decorated with the flag of the region.

In Aragon the landscape remains exotic for me, but Angel gets more and more excited. The Pyrenees drop behind us, and soon we enter the Monegros - a semi-arid landscape with wide open spaces which at times remind me of northern Iran and eastern Turkey. The Monegros outside Zaragoza are particularly known as a battleground in the Spanish civil war (1936-1939). The nationalists (Franco´s team) and republicans (communists, socialists, anarchists, etc) fought it out in the Monegros for over three years, the Republicans trying unsuccessfully to wrest Zaragoza from nationalist clutches. The trenches are still evident but the war was also fought neighbour against neighbour in the nearby villages - if partisans fled, their families were often killed instead. For a more complete story, read Aitor's very interesting comment in the Italian section of this blog...if you can read Spanish! The most famous Republican in the English-speaking world is George Orwell. His book 'Homage to Catalonia' is all about fighting in the trenches near Zaragoza.

About 40kms away from Zaragoza a car comes towards us honking madly. It is Angel's mother, sister, grandma and Chamán the dog. Excited, the adrenalin pumping, we cycle the short distance to the village of Leciñena, meet the family in a restaurant, and have the Spanish standard (and nearly always delicious) three course meal before completing our journey into Zaragoza.

We ride into the centre of town - the Basilica of Pilar dominates a gigantic plaza - crossing the river Ebro. On the bridge we are greeted by Salva and Alba, two of Angel's friends. Others are waiting on the far side, family and friends. We take photos of the Arrival and then go for a beer.

I am so tired that I can't keep my eyes open, and have to blink constantly. We are both incredibly happy. It hasn't really hit me yet that I have ridden over 8000kms between Kathmandu and Zaragoza (Angel's grand total, all the way from Indonesia, stands at 14 562kms!). I wonder if the distance will ever feel real. So many memories, so many places, they don't all fit in the head at once. An amazing experience. I remember feeling on the point of giving up all the way back in India, but in the end, I found a rhythm, and our nomadic lifestyle became normal. Having said that, I will be happy to live a sedentary lifestyle for a while. Clean clothes, showers, beds, just being inside...life can be just so wonderfully comfortable!

But who knows how long it will be before we once again yearn for the open road, the freedom of travelling by bicycle. For anyone who is considering a bike trip of epic proportions, do it!! Although it can test your endurance on many an occasion, the rewards are truly enormous.

El final del camino

Hace frío, mucho frío. No es el frío húmedo de los Pirineos de hace dos días. Es el frío seco y afilado de los Monegros quien se cuela a través de nuestras múltiples capas. Nos acabamos de levantar. Las estrellas, al igual que las farolas de Villanueva de Sigena, todavía no se han apagado. Es un poco más temprano que de costumbre. Es el último día, son los últimos kilómetros, las últimas pedaleadas, las últimas curvas de la carretera, las últimas fotos... El Sol, eterno y fiel compañero, no tardara en salir para pedalear junto a nosotros la jornada final. Seran casi cien kilómetros.

El paisaje ha cambiado drásticamente. El verdor brillante de las praderas pirinaicas salpicadas por el ocre de las hayas otoñales ha desaparecido. Su lugar lo ocupa el pardusco campo monegrino salpicado por sabinas verde mate. En los Pirineos tuve el primer sentimiento de estar ya en casa. Las formas y colores de las montañas me eran familiares, y las hayas, los avellanos, los robles y los pinos rojos impregnaban el aire con esa mezcla de aromas tan característica de ese lugar tan querido. Ahora, aquí en medio de los Monegros, el sentimiento de estar en casa es absoluto. Los campos de trigo segados, las sabinas torcidas, y allá, al fondo del escenario, impasibles al tiempo, las Tres Sorores. Todo parece estar en su sitio, no hay sorpresas no hay dudas, me conozco el camino a casa.

A mitad de mañana el Sol empieza a calentar con cierta intensidad y dejamos caer algunas de nuestras capas. Pierdo la vista en el horizonte del seco desierto y mi mente se desconecta. Un grito de "Hallo Mister" lanzado por un indonesio desde un ribazo me devuelve a la realidad. Unos metros mas adelante un conductor tailandés nos cede el paso con una amplia sonrisa. Justo después un chino en bicicleta nos mira con curiosidad al cruzarse con nosotros. De repente parece como si la soledad del desierto estuviese cobrando vida por todas partes. Un grupo de turistas indios nos echan el alto, nos hacen el interrogatorio de rigor y nos someten a una sesión fotográfica. Nos conseguimos librar de ellos, pero poco después nos encontramos con un iraní, me da la mano y después se toca el corazón, segundos después tengo la alforja llena de manzanas. Se va acercando la hora del té así que cedemos a las insistentes invitaciones del gasolinero turco. Acabado el té proseguimos el camino. No es exactamente como yo lo recordaba y empiezo a sospechar que todo es fruto de mi imaginación cuando lo veo. Algunas dirán que estoy loco, que no es posible, pero yo lo vi y era real. Allí adelante en la carretera, a un escaso centenar de metros, había dos bicis con alforjas inconfundibles. Eran Diego y Rose pedaleando como siempre uno al lado del otro, jugando al juego de chocar alforjas y mirar pajaritos, dándose la mano por unos segundos. Si, eran ellos, no hay duda. Y todavía unos metros mas allá pude ver a William vestido de naranja que se escapaba hacia el infinito. Fueron tan solo unos segundos. Luego todos desaparecieron tras un badén.

Tras la comida en Leciñena todo pasó muy rápido. Nada tuvieron que ver las emociones en la aceleración de mi pulso cardiaco, fue la mezcla de vino y café. Perdiguera llego sin darnos cuenta, luego molinos y mas molinos, después Villamayor y yo que me meo otra vez y con esta van tres en menos de una hora. Cartel de Zaragoza, Santa Isabel, puente sobre el Gállego y al fondo de la avenida Cataluña ¡las torres del Pilar! Entramos en la Jota y mi burra que ya huele su viejo establo se arranca con un tacón-punta-tacón, y yo le acompaño con:

¿Por qué vienen tan contentos los labradores?
que cuando vienen del campo vienen cantando
Ya vienen del ver el fruto de sus sudores
porque las espigas de oro ya van granando

Las piernas pedalean por si solas, la boca se seca, el estomago en modo centrifugado, algo se mete en el ojo ¡y ahí están los grandes y verdes leones vigilando el Puente de Piedra! Entramos sin bacilar, un león nos guiña el ojo y una vez arriba tomamos el puente. Es nuestro, aunque sea solo por unos segundos, que pite el autobusero si quiere porque sí ¡HEMOS LLEGADO!

Abajo las tranquilas aguas del Ebro reflejan los últimos rayos del Sol que se esconde tras el Pilar. De repente aparece algo totalmente inesperado: ¡Salva y Alba! Han recibido un chivatazo y se unen a la toma del puente. Bajamos el puente y nos encontramos con Diego, Ainoa, la tía Lola, la sobrina y la madre que la parió. Sesión de fotos y ronda de cañas de rigor y a casa a descasar.

Mientras subimos cansados y satisfechos hacia La Paz nos vamos despertando de un sueño. Durante muchos meses y muchos kilómetros hemos cruzado culturas y ambientes completamente diferentes; hemos llevado una vida de nómada; hemos improvisado cada día; hemos vivido una experiencia tan intensa como alucinante, con muchísimos buenos momentos y alguno que otro malo. Ha merecido la pena. Es tarde, nos vamos a dormir. Es hora de despertar en el siguiente sueño.

DIA 348-351 - Getting Pampered in Perpignan

Perpignan

We stay in Perpignan for four days. My parents are in Europe and are coming down to say hello, making sure that we don't slack off on the last leg across the Pyrenees.

It is not the first time for my mother - she made the pilgrimage to Rishikesh in India while we were staying there to get my thesis finished. She came laden with goodies from Australia...vegemite, lettuce, wine...and a laptop computer so that I could do my work overlooking the Ganges. One of my most beautiful memories of India is sitting on the terrace of the hotel working on that computer while the light faded, changing the colour of the water to a deeper grey, the sound of chanting starting up on the far bank, ever watchful for the monkeys which used the terrace as a major thoroughfare.

While I was working in Rishikesh, Angel and my mother went out God-hunting in temples full of devout Indian tourists, and sought out their inner hemisphere in the ashram which the Beatles made famous. My mother also found the time to do a course in reiki and, unlike other Western tourists who go to India to find a guru, she reversed the roles and became a guru to her young Indian reiki teacher instead!

But Perpignan could not be further from those Indian memories of cows and chaos. My parents treat us to luxury - we stay in a very comfortable modern hotel, and sleep for two nights on a bed in a temperature-controlled room. It is so wonderfully comfortable that we toss and turn all night accustomed as we are to sleeping in our tiny tent, not being able to move because our sleeping bags are zipped together for warmth, both pairs of feet in the boot of Angel's sleeping bag.

We also get treated to dinner in a traditional French restaurant which is such a pleasure that we all troop back the following night. Frogs legs are on the menu as proof of authenticity. On Saturday we take a walk to the old Perpignan citadel completed in 1309 by King James II of Mallorca. The citadel was effectively the front line between the kingdoms of Aragon and France but, finally, France (formally) nabbed Perpignan from the Spanish in 1649.

On Sunday morning my parents leave early to take the long train trip back to Paris. Seeing them was really wonderful...the next time we see them will hopefully be 500kms away from Perpignan, just across the Pyrenees in (modern day) Aragon...At 11am, after dallying in our comfortable hotel room for as long as possible, we set off towards Zaragoza.

DIA 341-347 - Trials and Tribulations

Cannes-Le Muy-Tretts-Salon-Alboran-Frontignan-Beziers-Perpignan Dt = 14057 km



The playgrounds of the rich and famous. We fly by Monaco, Nice and Cannes in a day. The French Riviera is not really our scene. In Monaco we marvel at the hype the royal family have created for a charmless city. We are not supposed to bring bicycles so close to the Disneyland-style casino, apparently, and a swaggering young policeman confiscates our passports. We protest at the overreaction. He rings someone to record our vital statistics, and informs us that we are in a police state before finally giving back our passports. We are happy to leave Monaco, glad to return to the more civilised France.


The main attraction of Nice, the next stop on the Riviera, was a wonderful long bicycle path beside the sea. There is a general acceptance of cyclists in France, we have found. And, further down the coast, Cannes had a certain je-ne-sais-quois. Perhaps it was the air of old money...not the place to go if you are on a budget!


The French Riviera may be popular among tourists, but Provence was the real gem. Provence is like Tuscany in Italy - quite ridiculously beautiful and much less built-up than the Riviera. We were lucky with the weather too. No clouds and a little nippy. Great for cycling. Cars gave us a wide berth and drivers ceded right of way with a smile. The towns were charming. Aix-en-Provence in particular had a wide shady boulevard and a laidback elegance. People in Provence were friendly and helpful and interested in what we were doing. 'Bon courage' said an old lady giving us fresh bottles of water to replace our mangy-looking bottles. 'Bon courage' reiterated a lady in a caravan park who would accept no money for our long shower and mammoth clothes washing session.


The best part of the day was midmorning coffees in little towns, sitting out on sunlit pavements, watching the world go by with mouths full of brioche or croissant. Ahhh, the colours, the vibrancy of Provence. Not surprising that people like Van Gogh have fallen in love with the place. No one had to tell us that we had left the region. Cycling became a little more tense. Some cars (not as many as in the Balkans, to be fair) felt niggled by our presence and tooted their annoyance. A truckdriver felt the need to toot and shout at us because the road had narrowed. As if the road malfunction was our fault and we had somewhere to go to get out of his way. I then felt the need to flip him the finger, which led to him stopping his truck to indulge in some road rage. The fact that I was a girl took the wind out of his sails - he hadn't realised because it was raining and I was wearing my hood. So, instead of slowing down the minute necessary to pass us, he lost about five. There have been many friendly truckdrivers in France who have shared the road with us. It is a shame that there still exists a minority with brains the size of peas. And I know that flipping the finger is neither a dignified nor a feminine thing to do, but I think of it as a replacement horn...it is my way of tooting!


Finally, cycling into Perpignan was a nightmare. A lot of traffic going extremely fast, and the roads with very little shoulder for cyclists. Unsurprisingly, the numerous cyclists we had seen along the French Riviera and in Provence completely dried up. The most terrifying moment came when we very nearly ended up as collateral damage in a police car chase. We had reached a section of the road which had some shoulder - not much but enough for bicycles to fit. Two cars had just gone past us when a third car travelling at an insanely fast speed dog-legged in front of us onto the shoulder, almost cleaning us up in the process. The space was so narrow that the car almost blindsided the cars in front as it went past. The police were right behind, sirens blaring, but did not pull the same stunt. We had to stop so that my heart had a chance to start beating again. A few seconds earlier or slower reflexes on the part of the carjackers, and there is no way we would have survived.


So it was a relief to get to Perpignan in one piece. In Spain we will be choosing small roads as much as possible. And as far as France is concerned? We have been delighted by people's friendliness overall, thoroughly recommend Provence, and have been overindulging in cheeses. The French sure know how to whip up a fine Brie and Camembert...

DIA 333-340 - Musings on Italy

Siena-Pisa-La Spezia-Chiavari-Genova-Imperia-Ventimiglia-Cannes Dt = 13525 Km

As we ride along in Italy, Tuscan hills dressed with vineyards and sprinkled with young forest give way to the Arvo Valley between Florence and Pisa. The coast to Genoa is extremely hilly - the Alps are starting to take hold. We go over a mountain pass to get to the sea. From Genoa to the French border the Alps are so close you can almost reach out and touch them, and every piece of even vaguely flat land along the coast is taken. But it is all beautiful. The only day in Italy which has not been a delight on the eyes was the day between Siena and Pisa - the valley looked very industrialised. The two cities we stop at are Siena and Genoa. Siena reminds Angel of Florence to the extent that he thought he may have actually been confused about the name of the city! I like knowing there is such similarity. The old buildings give me an idea of the urban landscape of 15th century Florence - my current fascination.

15th century Florence is synonymous with the Renaissance. But it is the Medici family rather than the painters which fascinates me. The famous bankers, politicians, patrons of the (religious) arts. These three aspects of the Medici are interconnected. Ursury (lending money at interest) was such a grave sin in medieval Christianity that if you wanted to be a banker, you had to make sure that you were relatively untouchable and were in a position to influence laws regarding money (politician),and also that your eternal soul would be saved by giving liberally to the Church and having paintings commisioned where your name saint is a star player (see Dante for what happens to bankers down in hell). The Catholic Church was not adverse to bankers; in fact, successive popes were the Medicis' biggest clients, but still one had to be careful.

The Renaissance, or rediscovery of ancient Greek and Roman knowledge seemed to have a lot to do with working out how one could build up riches on earth and still make it into the kingdom of heaven. Christianity did not fulfil the needs of the people who wanted to have fun in this life, and they needed to construct their moral base in a different way...all the time remaining staunchly Christian!

There is a possible reason why a little room to manoeuvre opened up in the Catholic world (apart from the obviously covetous nature of the Vatican). Everybody was dying. People started dying in Europe in 1348 when the Genovese brought the Black Death to Sicily. Apparently, Genovese merchants had been in a town in the Crimea, and invading Mongols began throwing plague-ridden corpses over the city walls to infect the general populace.Genoa had a fruitful alliance with the Byzantines and, therefore, access to the East and the Crimea. (Genoa is also located on what used to be an extremely important trade route. Trade routes changed in the end, and the Genovese also lost territories such as Sardinia, which they had acquisitioned as a result of power generated by successful trade. Trade routes changed and they lost all their territories in the end, but it was good while it lasted, and Genoa remains an elegant city with lofty arcades, palaces and finely turned out old buildings...although some are badly in need of a clean...)

Back to the Genovese merchants fleeing the city in the Crimea. They tried to return home, but only made it as far as Sicily. All the sailors in the merchants' fleet died of the Plague, and people looting the ghost ships had no idea what was in store. Nor did Europe. It is estimated that Europe lost around a third of its population, and in many cities, this statistic was closer to a half. The priest and monks were among the first to go since it was their duty to care for the sick. So all of this was fertile ground for social upheaval. It is extremely difficult to imagine the horror and trauma and fear that the Black Death (considered now to be the Bubonic Plague) must have produced. It was not until the 1700s that outbreaks ceased altogether.

So the Medici were banking away in a very insecure world. Good directors of banks were hard to find and, once found, they may suddenly die. However, the Medici did manage to find a few directors who lived for long enough to prove lucrative. The bank had branches in Florence, Rome, Venice, Genoa and Ancona, not to mention their internationhal branches in cities such as London and Bruges. The Medici would be extremely proud of today's world.

All in all, we would have liked to learn more, to explore Florence and Venice in particular. But that will have to wait for another trip...

DIA 329-332 - Italia: The Land of Lycra

Split - Ancona-Jesi-Gubbio-Foiano de Chiana-Siena Dt = 12948 Km

We catch a night ferry from Split to Ancona in Italy and wake up in Europe. I try not to contemplate the next mountain range we have to ride over - the Appenines. Luckily, there is not too much time lost in contemplation since we ride over the Appenines in a day. I am still not sure how that happened, but we came shooting down the side of a mountain into rolling hills around late afternoon.

The next day is spent cruising along a valley. This is where we start blending with a crowd. It is Sunday and the hardcore Italian cyclists are out and about, zooming past us at great speeds, clad in full-body lycra with plenty of publicity across their chests and the usual clashing of colours. So we do not blend quite as well as we do in my imagination, but at least they are on bicycles! They shout out a 'ciao' as they become specks on the horizon.

In fact, it is not just the Tour de France contenders who ride bikes in this country, it is everyone. Which makes a wonderful change. Cyclists have been few and far between since India, and here in Italy we are accepted on the roads as opposed to being chased off them by buses and trucks. In little Italian villages every age group pedals about, although some nonnas have electrified their bikes, so they whizz past with only a few desultory pedalling actions. The villagers tend not to cycle in lycra, however. The lycra club is reserved for males who are capable of cycling a 10 second kilometre.

So the roads are narrow in Italy as well, but we all fit. It is still a novelty hearing car horns which are not directed at us. The other novelty is drinking a mid-morning coffee that is not so strong that it has an amphetamine effect for the rest of the day (In the Balkans, everyone is completely wired on coffee!). Italy is truly a civilised cycling destination.

DIA 328 - The Split of Diocletian

Stari Grad - Split

DIA 325-327 - The Quiet Islands

Dubrovnik - Drace - Sucuraj - Stari Grad Dt = 12674 Km


Croatia has a coastline littered with islands. Yachts sail tranquilly between these islands, and mountains reach skyward. Cycling is common here, but there is friction between cars and bikes because the roads are narrow. When there are no cars, the scenery and the peace are enchanting. We ride through vineyards and olive groves, up to the top of mountains, then whistling down to the sea, then up again. The average tourist is middle-aged: You need to have earned some money before coming on a civilised retreat such as this. Most people do not dive into the bushes as the sun sets and camp, like we do...

Today we are on the island of Hvar, said to be the greenest of Croatia's 1000 or so islands. It stretches at right angles from the coast. Last night we slept in an olive grove and there were no clouds so we could star gaze. Perfect. The islands are large - Hvar is more than 80kms long. It is an island for people who crave serenity on their holidays. There is little to do but stare meditatively at the turquoise sea (it is too cold to swim) or kill yourself cycling up and down mountains. Most people choose the former option, but we have met more fellow cyclists here than anywhere else on the trip....although they are not such long haul travellers!

The only downside of the Dalmatian coast is the rain. When the sun comes out and warms the pine needles up in the mountains enough to produce a heady aroma, and fluffy clouds scud across the sky and wrap themselves around the higher coastal mountains, and the sea twinkles far far below, it is paradise on earth. When it rains, it is cold, and it is hard to keep things dry, and the squeak-squeak of a bike chain washed free of grease reminds you of the unhappiness of your beloved steed. Today it is fine and we are in heaven.

DIA 323-324 - Dubrovnik (Ragusa)

Cipili - Dubrovnik

I am a 16th Century Venetian Cloth Merchant

Hello. My name is Pietro Dandolo. Women love me for my charming manners and my fine length of leg. But I am even better known as a talented and highly successful cloth merchant. The only cloth merchants more successful than I live in a Godforsaken city named Ragusa. The merchants of Ragusa thieve our trade, and must be stopped.


They have 200 merchant ships in their fleet. It is the biggest fleet in the world. We need to rule over them once more so that we may share in their good fortune. In the Year of Our Lord 1205 we took their city, and they were forced to pay us tribute. We also took freely from their supplies of silver, hides and wax. The position of rector of the city was allotted to a Venetian. However, we lost our claim to the city in 1358 - Ragusa fell into the control of the Hungarians.


The situation worsened when the infidel Ottomans began terrorising Europe. One day they will be judged by God, just as the Byzantines were judged and found wanting, but that day has not yet arrived. The citizens of Ragusa pay a thousand gold coins to the Porte, and these handed over with the honeyed words of the shrewd diplomat. The Gran Signore (our name for the Sultan) left them alone, and their unholy alliance has given them trading rights with the infidel. They trade freely with the East and with the West, all the way to Syria, Egypt, France and Spain. They specialise in glass-blowing, weaving, textiles, and they have recently started trading in salt. They put their consulates all over the world - they know the latest intrigues and sell others the political information they have gleaned. They would no doubt deliver up their grandmothers if the price was right.


True, their city is beautiful, in similar tradition to Venice. In 1292 regulations were laid down, and everyone must abide by these, from successful merchants like me to lowly butchers. Windows and doors must be just so and houses made of stone. Their sewage system has lasted over 100 years and perhaps will last into a new millenium. The main street is paved and plays with the light in the most delightful way. A huge fountain near the entrance of the city brings in water from eight miles hence. The city holds wheat silos filled with wheat, and the citizens continue to construct additional fortifications to protect themselves against our might. The Fransciscans, Dominicans and Benedictines all have churches within the city walls.


Nevertheless, I pray to God everyday to let justice be done. These so-called Catholics do business with infidel. I would never sully the beauty of my rolls of cloth by allowing ungodly hands upon them. The citizens of Ragusa may pride themselves upon their diplomacy, but I predict that a man named Napoleon Bonaparte will take the city in 1808, and that the city will later be ceded to the Austrians. My intuition tells me so. God always judges in the end.


Now I must leave you. The brothel calls, and it would not be gentlemanly to keep the ladies waiting.

DIA 320-322 - Montenegro: Cycling Over a Cliff

Koplik - Podgorice - Lovcen - Cipili Dt = 12433 Km

Up and down, up and down, all the way from Thessaloniki, but a lot more up than down. All of this gradual ascent led us to Monte Negro, the mountain after which the country is named, and then over a cliff, down-down-down to the sea far below. There are more than 25 switchbacks the drop is so steep, and the view from the top, just as the sun was setting is overwhelmingly beautiful.

DIA 317-319 - Albania: Riders in the Storm

Struga - Elbasan - Rinos - Koplit Dt = 12235 Km

We are sitting in a tiny roadside restaurant in Albania while the rain pours down outside. The restaurant is cozy, but my legs in soaking wet bike pants are freezing. Thunder growls. We have just finished eating a huge plate of lamb cooked on a covered spit outside, a generous salad, chips and plenty of freshly baked bread. Amazing how much you can eat when you are cold!

The two people working here look like brother and sister. They are the best-looking Albanians we have seen all day - we rode over the FYROM-Albanian border this morning. They smile constantly. At the moment they are outside with a fresh goat, but it gets hung from a tree, waiting to be prepared for the spit. The old man at the next table is ploughing his way through the head of the last spitted goat. He has eaten the eyes first.

The restaurant is a small outfit with only four tables and a red lino floor. The side facing the street is encased in glass. The kitchen is tiny. I followed the sister in earlier to point at what we wanted to eat. The brother is cutting the innards out of the goat hanging from the tree. It is still raining heavily.

It is Sunday today and we notice that everyone is wearing their Sunday best. Strange in a predominantly Moslem country. During the long Ottoman occupation many Albanians converted to Islam, and many of those who preferred to stay Christian Orthodox went to Italy. Albanians were then generally treated well by the Turks, and often helped the Turks in quelling Orthodox uprisings in the region.

We stay in the restaurant for two hours waiting for the heavy rain to abate. It doesn't, so we finally head off downstream. The three days we spend in Albania are stormy. Albania will be forever etched in my memory as the land of the long black cloud...

DIA 315-316 - "FYROM"

Niki - Resen - Struga Dt = 11988 Km

En route to Thessaloniki a policeman was angry with Angel. The conversation started pleasantly enough, and the policeman asked Angel where we were headed after Greece. Angel said 'Macedonia'. Wrong answer. The policeman told us in no uncertain terms that we were in Macedonia and we were headed to FYROM (the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia).

The Greeks have a right to be angry, considering that original Macedonia is an extremely important region in the national psyche. It is not even correct to say that the whole of FYROM was conquered by Alexander the Great, thereby becoming part of Greater Macedonia: He only conquered a small part of the region which currently constitutes FYROM. We agreed with the Greeks on the issue, and were curious about the choice of name. We then also became worried about the people when a woman near the Greek-FYROM border told us that the people in FYROM would try to rob us, and it was unsafe to camp.

It was therefore an absolute delight to find the people of FYROM warm, friendly and helpful. It took two days to ride through the country, but only because we tried to prolong our stay. There are a mere two million people, which leaves the roads relatively free of cars. Horses and carts and tractors were also regular features - nice when you are travelling by bike because they travel at the same speed! Many people have ties with Australia, and one man bought us both a drink because I was Australian. Food was tasty and very cheap - real coffee cost 50 euro cents. Internet worked and Windows was in English for the first time on this trip (not great for the Macedonians that there is not enough of a market for Macedonian version, but great for us!). The mountains were beautiful and lush. It was hard to leave in the end.

So yes, the right of the Macedonians to borrow a Greek name and heritage is dubious (although, when they first started fighting for their independence before the First World War, the region DID include what is currently known as Greek Macedonia. Greeks were apportioned this land by the Great Powers after the defeat of Ottoman Turkey). But the country itself? A real pleasure. We vote FYROM our favourite Balkan country!

DIA 312-314 - Rumbo a Yugoslavia?

Peristera - Pella - Edessa - Niki Dt = 11877 Km

DIA 304-311 - Mount Olympus

Vergina - Meteora - Pelion Peninsula - Mount Olympus - Peristera

I have dreamed of Mount Olympus since I was little. Ever since my imagination was set on fire by Greek mythology, the home of the Greek gods was a shadowy place, majestic and unreal. It was, and still is, difficult to believe that one can ascend its peaks with no superhuman powers - just sweat and sturdy knees.

There is a village called Litohoro which lies between Mount Olympus and the sea. We followed the advice of our Greek host Versilios, and began and ended our three-day hike at this popular tourist destination. The beginning of our trail lay about 7kms out of town and we camped in a secluded spot nearby in order to get an early start the next morning. An early start meant 11am due to interesting breakfast conversation, and the usual feast of Spanish jamon and cheese brought over by Piluca and Ester.




Off we went, plodding up the mountain, finding a rhythm. Not unlike cycling up mountains: slip it into the lowest gear and no rapid movements. The views were magnificent. We could see all the way to the sea. I have never been up so high (outside an aeroplane!) and been able to see all that sparkling blue. Black pines gave way to a more alpine landscape above. Mountains are the most beautiful of places. I always feel such a sense of peace...and suffering! But there is no place I would rather be.


Mount Olympus is the name for the whole area and the highest peak is called Mitikas (2917m). There are two refuges about 300m lower than the peak and we stayed in one of these. It was bitterly cold due to the fierce wind, but in the night the wind dropped. I needed to go to the toilet around 2am and the landscape took my breath away. The air was still, the silence complete, and the stars arching across the heavens as bright as I had ever seen them.

The next morning we set out to scale Mitikas. The final 200m are a scramble and it is wise to leave backpacks below. Arrows point the way up the rock. It is easy climbing but formidable for anyone who has never climbed before. There is plenty of exposure, loose rock and, as Banjo Paterson would say, any slip is death. Piluca and Ester, both of whom have no climbing experience, did impressively well. It was wonderful to witness Ester's elation at making it to the top...which constituted a tiny little space filled with a cheerful group of climbers. There was a Russian couple who cracked open a bottle of champagne. It just had to be the Russians! We had a few sips of champagne to commemorate the occasion.

Going down, as usual, was harder than going up. Then, when we started descending along the path carved into the side of the mountain, it became more painful than scary. When it got dark, we hobbled as quickly as we could to a suitable camping spot close to a river. We slept in the open air, which was a delight, although my too-vivid imagination conjured up beetles living in the leafy groundcover crawling into ears.

In the morning, ears mercifully free of beetles, we set off, legs aching. It was the day of the Mount Olympus marathon - people almost completed what we were doing in three days in four hours (and two knees). It took our friend Versilios five hours, the lazy bastard! The first runners we egged on enthusiastically, especially the girls. But after the 100th runner on the narrow path, we decided that these sort of events destroyed the serenity of the mountains.

When we staggered into Litahoro like bedraggled (and smelly) rats, it was Piluca who was the most cheerful, thinking that we had been telling her how strong she was to encourage her, only realising belatedly that the 'youngsters' where in as much pain as she was!

And the gods? I hear you ask. The burning question. Are Zeus and Hera and Athena and all the rest really there? Or are they just a huge pile of...myth? The answer is yes, they are there. Not at the top of Mitikas - it is way too cosy up there for all twelve gods and goddesses. Not even up high when the mountain becomes alpine and the trees disappear. And not down below where the beeches grow. The gods live in the shadows of the black pines just below alpine level. If you stay still, or walk very quietly, they are all around. But they come to you only if you let them.

DIA 295-303 - Enter Macedonians Stage Left

Istanbul - Kesan - Alexandropolis - Kavala - Peristera - Vergina Dt = 11651 Km

From Istanbul we catch a bus to a town close to the Turko-Greek border called Kesan. We are in a hurry to meet Piluca and Ester (Angel's mother and sister) in Thessaloniki. We ride like maniacs from Kesan to make it on time, and Thrace passes in a blur. But there is still a little time to think.




The Persian king Xerxes is the first historical figure to spring to mind. We are riding between the mountains and the sea. Did Xerxes march this route on his way to see to father Darius' unfinished business and defeat those pesky Greeks? I remember standing in the ruins of his palace at Persepolis near Shiraz in Iran. It has taken us almost two months to cycle. How long did it take Xerxes? How did he feed all his soldiers? There is some debate over how many soldiers were in the Persian army, but many scholars put the number at 250 000 men.

From Xerxes, it is an easy mental leap to Alexander the Great marching in the opposite direction. They are related in my thoughts ever since Persepolis. When Alexander conquered Persepolis in 330BC, he burned the place down. The fire started in Xerxes' palace and was rumoured to be revenge for Xerxes' destruction of the Acropolis in Athens over 100 years earlier. (Athens was completely destroyed. In a rare display of solidarity, many of the Greek states worked together to hold off the Persians. They failed to stop Xerxes from taking Athens, but he sacked an empty city. After the Greeks' defeat at Thermopylae, Themistocles, the ruler of Athens, made the wise decision to evacuate all the women and children, and the men retreated to Corinth, the next line of defence. The Greeks had Athens back in a year by using their navy to good effect). Nevertheless, I thought Alexander was an animal for burning a place of such staggering beauty when I was in Persepolis. I do not subscribe to the eye-for-an-eye idea when it comes to losing so much artwork!

When we are near Thessaloniki, we cycle up into the mountains to stay with Vasilios, a super-cyclist we have contacted through the Hospitality Club. Vasilios has cycled around the world. He travels between 2-3 times faster than us on his bike. We are impressed and also very grateful for his excellent hospitality and trip advice. He lives in a house he has made with his father on the outskirts of a little village called Peristera, and the views all the way to Thessaloniki and the sea are magnificent. His house is extremely relaxing and we get to sleep on a comfortable mattress. We leave our bikes with him for ten days, and go down to meet Piluca and Ester at Thessaloniki airport.


The four of us hire a car and head to Vergina. This is the site of Aegae, the ancient capital of Macedonia, otherwise known as the springboard for Alexander's sacking of the known world. So far, as you may have guessed, Alexander has not been my favourite historical bloodletter, but when it came to burying his father, Phillip II, the young man surprised everyone and stepped up to the plate. King Phillip, who paved the way for his son by converting Macedonia from a provincial backwater to a major Greek player, was assassinated in 336BC at the wedding of his daughter. Alexander gave his father the best burial ever and, as either luck or strategic planning would have it, Macedonian citizens were buried on top of Phillip's tomb. Grave robbers managed to get into surrounding tombs, but Phillip's tomb was left intact until 1984.

Everything found in the tomb and also the tomb itself are on display inside the original mound. The most important aspect of the burial was the supreme sacrifice of a young woman. Meda, one of Phillip's younger wives, sacrificed herself for her husband, and Alexander paid her the highest honour, giving her a gold crown, and putting her cremated remains in a box just as ornate as his father's to take with her to the underworld. This Thracian princess is now immortalised along with her husband - she made an interesting decision, but one that has paid off in the long term! A beautiful dinner set, washing implements, gold crowns and numerous precious items were also found in Phillip's tomb. Other tombs have also been discovered in this mound, including the tomb of Alexander's son, who was born after his father's death and assassinated as a little boy.

However, it is the tomb of King Phillip II of Macedonia in particular which offers us a window into Macedonia's golden age. It feels like the events which unfolded occurred in recent history rather than more than two millenia ago. Thank you Alexander. Nice to see you could do something more than lift a sword and light fires...

DIA 293-295 - Istanbul Not Constantinople

Sinop - Istanbul

Catching a bus to Istanbul is not always straightforward. Our plan was to catch a bus from Sinop since we were running low on time. Little did we know that Sinop is extremely attractive if you are a Turkish family looking for a beach holiday. All the buses were booked solid for a week. This made our journey to Istanbul quite interesting, albeit a little stressful.

We rode out of Sinop and hitch-hiked to another town, which proved to take a very long time. When we arrived at the next town only the 'drama' bus had room for us. This bus stopped at every one-horse town all night and whenever new passengers joined us everyone was forced to play musical chairs. A lot of shouting ensued each time, and one time the bus conductor hit a passenger in the face. Quite naturally, the passenger was upset by this turn of events. The only problem was that he was travelling with his mother who was extremely large, and the conductor managed to hide behind her in the aisle. The woman fanned her face frantically and looked on the verge of fainting as her son uselessly tried to reach over her to hit the conductor. This all happened about 3cms away from my left leg. Angel, who had been sleeping, woke up and tensed: He appeared quite eager to join in but wanted to work out first who to punch!

Getting to Istanbul was therefore a relief. The Golden Horn seen in the pink dawn light across the water was enough to start the butterflies in the pit of my stomach. But there was no bridge, we did not think to take a ferry, and the bus drove us away. It took us all morning to get back again (metros and bicycles do not mix well). When we found a dodgy hotel and recovered some semblance of calm, we planned our tourist itinerary. Here are the highlights.



Our first stop was the Aya Sofia Museum. It was built by the Byzantines in the 6th century, not by Constantine as I had formerly supposed, but by Justinian. Both men appear in the building: If you look back at the last archway as you exit, these emperors are immortalised in golden mosaic. Constantine on one side offers Jesus the city of Constantinople (held out in his hands), and Justinian offers Jesus the Aya Sofia on the other side.

For almost 1000 years no one could replicate the Aya Sofia's feat of engineering: such an enormous, apparently unsupported space under a dome. The architects, Isidore of Miletus and Anthemius of Tralles, were derided at the time for attempting the impossible. Indeed, their dome fell down in an earthquake after 20 years, so the sceptics got their chuckle. But not the last laugh. Isidore's nephew, Isodorus the Younger worked out some new logistics, and Jesus got his Aya Sofia back again.


What I love most about the Aya Sofia, the amazing golden mosaics and the impressive architecture notwithstanding, is the religious tolerance it displays. Well, religious tolerance between Christians and Moslems. (The place was sacked by fellow Christians during the fourth crusade in the 13th century.) When the Ottomans sacked Constantinople in 1453, scimitars swinging, Mehmet the Conqueror hoisted up a few Koranic prayers, repainted the ceiling of the dome with lots of wordy praise to Allah, blocked out all the low-lying Byzantine saints and miscellaneous greybeards, and declared the place a mosque. He did not burn the place down, he did not desecrate it, he simply left the virgin Mary floating in space with little baby Jesus perched on her knee, put Koranic prayers on either side of her, and started praying.



Our next stop was Topkapi Palace, but we spent so long in the Aya Sofia that Topkapi had to wait until the next day. This palace was begun by Mehmet the Conqueror straight after he told everyone to stop calling Constantinople Constantinople and to start calling the place Istanbul. Then all the subsequent sultans added extra rooms, especially in the harem, to show that they had been through. There are four sections in the palace: one for the public, one where the public could meet with the vizier acting on the sultan's behalf, one for the harem, and one reserved solely for the sultan.

All the sections are breathtaking but the harem is the most fascinating. The day-to-day life of all the concubines and the hierarchy amongst them is easy to imagine. The favourite of the sultan often wielded great power, and heads rolled as a result of pillow talk. Roxelana, the concubine/wife of Suleyman the Magnificent in the 16th century managed to convince her man to kill his competent first born son so that her incompetent son had access to the throne. Then she had him kill his grand vizier for good measure.

The Ottomans were clever: They had so many children by all their concubines that there was plenty of family to defend the empire. On the downside, brothers got suspicious of each other and some were forced to stay in the harem where they grew debauched with so much sex and soft living. A few of these made it to the throne, and then had a large number of people killed randomly, showing that lots of sex does not necessarily equal competent governance.

In sum, there is so much to see and think about in Istanbul, once known as the 'Great City'. Standing on Galata Bridge looking towards the Golden Horn, we thought about the rise and fall of empires. The sheer terror of the Byzantines, knowing that the Ottomans were going to win and sack their beautiful city, the dunbstruck awe of Istanbulites watching the Allied Forces sail quite literally into the centre of town in 1918. So much to Istanbul: a city with layered memories of greatness.

DIA 290-292 - The Black Sea Coast of Turkey

Samsun - Sinop Dt = 11175 Km


We have seen a lot the Black Sea coast of Turkey has to offer - from Rize (almost) in the east to Sinop in the west. The Black Sea is like a giant pond in the early morning and then the wind springs up and the ripples start. Maybe in winter the sea gets wild and bursts against the shore in a fury, but in summer you could almost use it as a mirror. The clouds are always present but always different. They play beautiful games with the light.

To the left of us as we ride along are lush green hills, the higher hills wreathed in cloud, houses dotting them sporadically with no apparent path leading to doors. The air is thick with moisture and our sweat does not dry. Breaths of air on our body are warm but sometimes we ride through pockets of cold air. The scenery to our left gradually changes from subtropical green to temperate green, and patches of blue sky increase as we travel west.

Usually we speed along the highway made from land reclaimed from the sea, but when we can take the old roads we do. These roads go up and down but it is more beautiful to be up in those green hills looking at the sparkling sea below. There are plenty of hazelnut farmers - it is the harvesting season and hazelnuts are laid out by the side of the road to dry. There are also dogs but, although they bark, their hearts are not really in the chase.

I dream as I ride along. How did this coast look to the ancient Greeks? My imagination is filled with their history. Pontos Euxine: The Black Sea. The Greeks came here for the first time around 1000BC. At first they were a little nervous of all the barbarians. Jason and the Argonauts (of Golden Fleece fame) were sailing the waters of Pontos Euxine, meeting with all sorts of adventures. The Golden Fleece is thought to refer to the custom in Colchis (present day Georgia) of sifting for gold using fleece. We cycled past a promontory now called 'Yason' where ancient mariners made a sacrifice to Jason before continuing their journey.

Then there were the Amazons who lived in the Delta around modern Samsun. The Amazons were supposedly one-breasted man-haters (they cut off a breast to better throw a spear), although the Turks around Samsun tend to depict Amazons with both breasts intact, in sexy clinging tunic dresses shooting arrows. Amazons appear in this region in random places as statues and on the sides of buses.

Xenophon, a student of Socrates turned mercenary soldier, also came to these parts in 401BC. He found himself in Trapezus (modern day Trabzon) when he was fleeing from defeat at the hands of the Persian king Ataxerxes II at the battle of Cunaxa. Cyrus the Younger had hired Greeks to fight against his brother Ataxerxes because he viewed the Greeks as superior fighters and, although the Greeks did fight well, fıve Greek generals were betrayed and executed. Cyrus the Younger was also killed. Xenophon wrote of the return of 10 000 men - although skeptics could accuse him of slight exaggeration (let nothing stand in the way of a good story!). He stayed in Trapezus for a month, resting and organizing everyone's onward journey back to Greece.

As is evident with Trabzon, most of the Black Sea city names are mutations of the Ancient Greek names. My favourite is Sinop. This name derives from 'Sinope', the name of an Amazon queen. Zeus took a fancy to her, and promised to grant her a wish should she accept his amorous advances. True to her Amazon man-hating one-breasted roots, she asked to remain an eternal virgin. Zeus, in an unusually gracious and sporting gesture, curbed his enormous libido and granted her wish.

The Black Sea coast of Turkey is filled with history, and these are only snippets, my highlights as I look out to sea and avoid riding over hazelnuts. The Romans were here too, the Byzantines, the Ottomans, and they have all left their mark. But my imagination wanders past them all...

DİA 285-287 - Samsun - Our Favourite Unseen City

Fatsa - Samsun Dt = 11005 Km

Samsun is a large sprawling city on the Black Sea coast of Turkey. We were lucky enough not to see it. Our beautiful warm host Banu gave us a much happier experience and lovely memories. She lives in Pelitröy about 20kms west of Samsun. The day we told her that we would be arriving, we rode 120kms and collapsed, exhausted, in an Internet cafe in Samsun. Banu came and collected us, negotiating our bicycles onto a local bus. She then asked a petrol station to look after the bikes at the bottom of the 2km steep hill (wall) which led to her spacious apartment.

The bikes ended up staying in the petrol station for three days. We were planning to stay one night but we were in heaven! A gracious hostess with whom we could have indepth conversations from Turkish politics to teeth (Banu was just finishing a thesis on orthodontics), the run of the kitchen, and two cats to keep us company. Well, one cat. Bıdık, the other one, spent most of the time in a kitchen cupboard, secretly knowing that we lived for the taste of cat flesh.

Banu was extremely busy - she handed in her thesis during our stay - but still found time to entertain us. On the first night we were invited to a scrumptious dinner at her university restaurant, and wish that we could remember the names of the dishes. On the last night, we feasted on fish which had the big thumbs-up from Angel, the fish connoisseur. During our stay we drank wine, we listened to Banu's great collection of Turkish and Brazilian music, we watched everyone but Australia and Spain compete in the Olympics. I even got to finish my book -I never seem to have time to read. As if all this was not enough, Banu took us to her favourite spot, a tranquil lake with clouds encircling distant hills. She then took us horseriding where we rode off into the sunset (and back again!).

Thank you so much Banu. We really hope to see you again in Spain or Australia, and also hope that those people you are going to in Sydney know how lucky they are!

La entrada en Samsun sobre autovia de seis carriles llena de trafico con prisas y sin espacio para nosotros remataba un largo dia lleno colinas. Buscamos internet para rescatar la direccion de Banu, nuestra hospitalera, y casi nos desmayamos al descubrir que se encontraba todavia a 20 km. y cuesta arrıba. Llamamos a Banu para decirle que nos sabiamos ni cuando ni como pero llegariamos. Su respuesta fue contundente: - No os movais, estoy ahi enseguida. Diez minutos despues entraba en el cibercafe con una suve sonrisa y mucho brillo en los ojos. Removio cielo y tierra para poner nuestras burras en un dolmus rumbo a su barrio y luego les encontro un establo donde pacer y a nosotros nos llevo a su calido apartamento. Mientras nos duchabamos arreglo una cama doble en el salon y pronto su casa era tambien la nuestra. Una estupenda cena turca a orillas del mar puso la guinda al dia.

Al dia siguiente Banu tenia que entregar su tesis en odontologia asi que paso todo el dia en la Universidad. Nosotros lo pasamos descansando y disfrutando de una casa de verdad. De una de esas que tiene de todo. En la cocina habia perolos de todos los tamaños; sartenes que no se agarran; vasos diferentes para vino, cafe, te, agua..; cuchillos grandes y afilados y hasta batidora!! para hacer mayonesa y triturar nueces. En el salon cosas mas basicas y mas esenciales como internet; unas cuantas estanterias llenas de musica; unas television donde ver los juegos olimpicos; y un gato y medio que deambulaban de aqui a alli (el medio era uno que paso la mayoria del tiempo escondido en un armario). Pero sin duda lo mas fascinante de todo se encontraba en el baño: rollo de papel higienico colgado de la pared; espejo; agua caliente; lavadora multiprograma (de esas con una puerta redonda que la abres, metes la ropa, le das a un boton y al cabo de un rato esta la ropa limpia); y una caja llena de bastoncillos para las orejas!! ay que baño!

Al dia siguiente Banu tenia un poco mas de tiempo y nos llevo, primero, a pasear por un lago, luego a montar a caballo y finalmente a degustar una cena de pescado fresco recien sacado del mar negro bien acomapañada de vino blanco, que cena mas tremenda! Una vez en casa, sobre los cojines de la terraza y con vaso de tinto en mano charlamos durante horas inolvidables de las diferencias y similitudes culturales del mundo. Durante toda la estancia no nos dejo pagar nada y a pesar de nuestras quejas y esfuerzos su rotundidad fue invencible. Pero sin duda el mejor regalo fue habernos hecho sentir como en casa, una casa que hace mucho tiempo que no tenemos. Muchas Gracias Banu.

DIA 284 - Hospitality Club

Bulançak - Fatsa Dd = 95 Km Dt = 10889 Km

Watch out Iran: The Turks are no slouches in the hospitality department and are a definite contender for gold medal! The Black Sea coast in particular has been a hospitality highlight. OK, to be honest, we have organized some of the hospitality in advance. For all those who do not know this wonder of the Internet, there is a hospitality club operating all around the world, offering anything from a piece of floor to sleep on, to a guided tour or five-star treatment.

In a town called Trabzon, the first major town we visited on the Black Sea coast, we met a man called Erjan who cheerfully bundled us into his car and took us to all the major sites. In the space of a few hours we had admired the building in which Atatürk stayed on his visits to Trabzon (and its immaculate gardens), the Trabzon museum complete with a two-dimensional bronze statue of Hermes (he was rather ignominiously crushed under a pıllar of his own temple), and the Aya Sophia - a late Byzantine masterpiece of a church innovatively blending Byzantine, Moslem, Georgian and Selçuk styles. After this whirlwind tour we sat down to have a chat over the compulsory cup of tea. We learned a lot about Turkey's recent history and Erjan, in his opinions and comments, underlined the red crescent/star nationalism constantly fluttering over our heads.

Giresun was the next city we visited and was home to Nuri - another member of the hospitality club. Nuri lives 12kms out of town and came on his moped to guide us to his house. He had jumped ship on a visit to the US and stayed for 17 years: He spoke English well. Nuri had come back to Turkey, bought a 5 storey apartment building and a grocery store, got married, had a daughter but, even after all this flurry of Turkish activity, he still had an eye on the western hemisphere. He had recently successfully applied for a Canadian immigrant visa, and was heading off again (this time with young wife and child in tow) to seek his fortune for a second time. Nuri was extremely generous, taking us for pides, buying us beers, cooking us a big breakfast of eggs, cheese and chorizo in the morning, and all the while talking non-stop in American slang. But the best thing for me was the shower: I had not seen such a beautifully clean shower since leaving Perth. Such a pleasure.

DIA 283 - The Day of the Chicken Barbecue

Görele - Bulançak Dd = 78 Km Dt = 10794 Km

While cycling towards Giresun we discovered that cycling on Sundays has its benefits. At lunchtime we stopped at a makeshift pavilion by the sea. Soon a family arrived for a Sunday picnic. We finished up at the only table and moved onto the rocks to write and drink tea so that the family could use the amenities. Soon a plate of barbecued chicken, some bread and melon arrived at our rocks. Fanta and plastic cups followed, along with grapes. Refusing was not an option. We ate a second lunch and, groaning, we waddled back to our bikes where they were parked near the pavilion. The friendly father pressed tea on us. We tried again to say no but he pretended not to understand, putting pastries into our hands for good measure (my pastry was swiftly placed in my front pack on my bike when the man was not looking).

We managed to somehow cycle through a haze of overconsumption and stopped for dinner at a picnic spot hidden from the road by tall leafy trees. There was another family lying in wait. The father wandered around drinking beer, his bare belly protruding over his shorts, saying 'problem' whenever he wanted to communicate with us. It was the only word he knew in English and he simply changed the intonation depending on his feeling. His wife was extremely short and bubbly. She was voluptuous and bottle-blonde. Their daughter was 18 and wanted to be a doctor, and their son was 15. The kids both engaged with us, practising the English they had learned in school. We found ourselves feasting on yet more barbecued chicken and drinking beer and bottomless cups of tea.

The day of the barbecue actually extended into the next day when we set up camp in a picnic area just outside of a small town called Fatsa. The extended family sitting near us fed us...you guessed it...chicken barbecue..but there was a slight variation on the theme when the meatballs arrived. This family also later invited us over to their picnic rug for tea. There were children everywhere - all age groups were well represented. The children were the offspring of three brothers, and the family looked very religious, all the women wearing headscarfs and the grandmother trumping them all with her burka. Although we thought that the lack of contraceptive use was a little alarming, the behaviour of the children was a dream: They were well-behaved and mature. No one could speak much English, but we managed to communicate a little. When I said that I was Australian I was honoured with:"Putin, oh my God! Bush, oh my God! Australia, I love you!" It is nice to know we are not being too annoying as a country at present.

DİA 282 - El dia de la barbacoa

Trabzon - Görele Dd = 31.7 Km Dd = 10636 Km

Domingo y encontramos un chiringo a orillas del mar con tejadillo, sillas, mesa y lo mas imprescindible de todo: bandera de Turquia. Una vez perfectamente instaldos llega la famlia Mohamed Dominguez con todo el equ.po: pelota, barbacoa, coj.nes, nevera, mantel a cuadros, bañador y perro. Pero no t.enen sitio, se lo hemos quitado. Se van a una piedra cercana y desde alli emp.ezan a enviar em.sar.os con uvas y croquetas para cortejarnos. Al f.nal nos tocan nuestro corazonc.to, acabamos rapido nuestro almuerzo, nos retıramos a otra p.edra y prem.o! Nos toca un plato generoso de pollo a la brasa. Habra que hacerle hueco. Preparamos te, leemos, escribimos, nos bañamos (no olvidemos que es domingo y hay que tomarselo con calma) y cuando queremos despedirnos no hay manera de rechazar el te y las pastas de la familia Dominguez. A punto de explotar pedaleamos no sin dificultad.


Hoy la suerte nos acompaña y a la hora de acampar encontramos un bosquecillo con una mesa de picnic tambien a orillas del mar. La familia Mustafa Dominguez lo ha visto antes pero se ofrece a compartir el preciado rincon. Son una familia feliz. El hijo y la hija (15 y 17 años) ponen a prueba su ingles sin miedos. Mustafa, el padre, pone musica en el radio-cassette del coche y la madre se anima a cantar y a bailar. Nosotros un poco cansados y todavia llenos comenzamos a preparar una ensalada que junto a unas olivas negras la pondremos sobre la mesa para compartir. Ellos no tardaran en poner su barbacoa: pollo y chorızo (de vaca, nada de cerdo).

Todos juntos compartimos la cena y cerveza del padre que una vez acabado el botellin se planta en medio del claro del bosque cual torero en medio del ruedo, pies juntos, saca pecho, y con todo su arte hace volar hacia atras el botellin. El ruido de cristales rotos cual clamor del publico le evita mirar hacia atras. Al tercer lanzamıento de montera-botellin la madre le llamo la atencion señalando la bolsa de basura (yo casi le lance un torero!!). El alcohol paso factura. Me dijo cinco veces que no me olvidara de apagar el fuego. Vale que tengo mala memorıa y no soy muy listo pero hombre que hasta ahi llego! Mis sospechas sobre su estado fueron confirmadas cuando se acerco hasta mi y, señalando la guindilla que picaba como un demonio e insistia en que me comiera, dijo: Sex no problem, good sex, sex no problem, good sex.

Nos despedimos con sonrisas y afortunadamente fue la madre quien condujo. Nos acostamos con el estomago lleno de comida de barbacoa por generosidad turca.

DİA 280-281 - Un İmperio en el trapecio

Arsin - Trabzon - Sumela - Trabzon

Mosterio de Sumela

Aya Sophia (Trabzon)

DİA 279 - Llueve sobre mojado

Ikizdere - Arsin Dd = 78 Km Dt = 10634 Km

Las invitaciones a te en Turquia caen por todas partes, desde el frutero hasta el gasolinero pasando por panadero. Siempre tentadoras ponen en grave riesgo el kilometraje diario. Hoy la tercera invitacion caia desde una gravera, justo a media mañana. No la dejamos escapar y nos sentamos bajo la marquesina de madera a disfrutar del te entre conversaciones fustradas. Nuestro amago de continuar valle abajo se vio neutralizado completa y rapidamente.

-Pero donde vais sin comer hijos mios! Que son ya casi las doce. Anda, haced el favor de sentaos aqui. (Pueda que la traduccion no sea del todo literal)

Sentados en el comedor de la empresa nos sirvieron una fritada de tomate y carne acompañada de arroz, sopa de maiz y yogur. Por supuesto bien de pan, que no falte. Acabada la comida como no, te otra vez. Empieza a llover y hacemos tiempo viendo los juegos olimpicos con el te en una mano y un trozo de pastel en la otra (el pastel fue cortesia nuestra). Finalmente deja de llover, nos despedimos y bicicletas hacia abajo.

Pronto empieza a gotear de nuevo mientras nos dirigimos hacia una nube que es cada vez mas y mas negra. Ocurre lo esperado: el agua empieza a caer con ganas. Es curioso lo de que llueva cuando vas en bici. Al principio el chubasquero te protege y tan solo son los dedos los que se mojan. Poco a poco tus pantalones se van mojando pero con el calor de tus piernas trabajando no importa demasiado. Pero despues de un rato bajo lluvia de verdad no hay chubasquero o gore-tex que te salve. El agua encuentra ese pequeño hueco que queda entre el casco y la capucha, te moja un poco el pelo, hace masa critica y se desliza por espalda y pecho robandote suspiros. Piensas en parar o no parar, sigues. El agua tambien sigue su camino y llega a esas partes intimas para hacerte cosquillas y entonces sabes que ya esta, has perdido. Al cabo de un rato estas completamente calado, se han acabado todas esas placenteras sensaciones y todo son ya comodidades. La ducha que hace tres dias se habia hecho imprescindible ya ha sido olvidada. Que tienes sed pues abres la boca y pegas un trago del chorro que cae de tu nariz. Y si de repente quieres ir al baño pues como en el mar, total un poquito de pipi entre tanta agua quien lo va a notar.

Como dos gigantes gotas de agua caiamos horizontalmente por el fondo del valle, compitiendo con las gotas del rabioso barranco y cruzando una nube negra rumbo al mar negro. Al fondo del valle se distinguia un poco de luz. Cuando llegamos a la orilla donde rompen las olas el sol se asomo timidamente y entre su timido calor y la tibia brisa marina nos fuimos secando lentamente. Para cuando montabamos campamento bajo un monton de avellanas ya estamos totalmente secos, limpios y seguros.

Aqui en la carretera costera del mar negro el trafico parecia poner fin, a pesar de la belleza, al paraiso cicloturista que veniamos pedaleando desde el norte de Iran. Carreteras pequeñas de trafico casi ausente con paisajes y gentes alucinantes y cambiantes. De los mejores tramos del viaje.

DIA 278 - Fresh (Soggy) Mountain Air

Ispir - Ikızdere Dd = 60 Km Dt = 10526 Km

We knew it was going to be a hard day. The day before we had ridden along a valley rising very slowly but steadily. The road went up and down, up and down steeply, always coming back to the river, similarly to the Aras valley. Today we got up early as usual but were more efficient in our packing up. Off we went at 7am. Sustained climbing this time - we were following a branch of the same river upstream, high into the mountains. The sun shone, the sweat trickled, then poured. Always the rush of the nearby river. Sometimes we were lucky and the steepness of the gorge blocked the sun.

It was slow going: We averaged 6kph. After 20kms we rode into an icy wind, which was great for about 5 minutes because it dried the sweat. After that, the fact that it was a headwind became its primary characteristic. We crawled on, past construction work and hills still patched with snow in midsummer. There were plenty of people in makeshift houses and a Muezzin calling everyone to prayer. Nothing was growing on the hillsides now and the wind was fiercely cold. We stopped for lunch, taking shelter on the leeward side of a small cottage.

When we set off again, the wind was so strong and cold that I was gasping for air (although it could have been indigestion - lunch was rather rushed). We could not stop because the conditions were increasingly uncomfortable. Tendrils of cloud were starting to snake towards us, and within a kilometre the cloud had become so dense that visibility reduced to less than 10m. I prayed that the traffic would go slowly because the road was narrow. The traffic did go slowly, which was a huge relief. Most of the cars had their hazard lights on as well as their normal lights - a fine idea. And never have I been so delighted to see cows on the road...they slowed down the trucks. Funny to see them emerge out of thick fog, and they are quite as silly as kangaroos, clattering along beside us in fright and then making kamikaze dashes in front of us.

Finally, we were at the top. We knew this even before we saw the requisite sign showing the altitude (2640m) because there was a Turkish flag the size of a house cracking and groaning, hoisted above the middle of the road. Angel did not see it until we were about 2m away and yelped in shock at the colossal shape looming above us. Here we were, most definitely in Turkey (let there be no doubt), at the top of one of their three highest mountain passes - well, impassable between the months of October and May. It was a little difficult to enjoy though. I could not remember the last time I had felt so cold, mainly because I was so unprepared - I was only wearing my usual T-shirt under my raincoat. We had ridden to around 2400m in Nepal without experienciıng such an enormous change in conditions. My hands were seızing up and I was completely drenched in cloud.

We started going down. The cloud did not stop. I could not feel if my hands were on the brakes - I figured that they were since I was going slowly. The cloud still did not stop. We thought we would be out of the cloud within 5kms given that we had entered it under 5kms from the top on the other side. It took almost 20kms of downhill to finally escape the cloud and recover visibility. It was amazing the effect the mountains had on the weather: 20kms down the other side we had been sweating like crazy in the hot sun. It appears that East Turkey lies in the rainshadow of those mountains. On the Black Sea side the landscape was so lush and green it looked subtropical. Tea is the staple crop of these parts and was all over the place.

It was drizzling. Our bodies had adjusted slightly to the new conditions, but we were still soaking wet and freezing. A hotel miraculously appeared, but they were charging sixty dollars US a night - more than we had spent in a week. We could not do it and rode on, teeth chattering. In the end, we found a bridge to sleep under. The only problem was a rather large dog who also thought that under the bridge was a pretty nice place to sleep. It ran through about three or four times during the night barking its head off, trying to frighten us away. In the morning it watched us from a distance as we packed up. We called to it and it wagged its tail - not unfriendly, just frightened of the tent.

So, that is the story of how we finally arrived at the Black Sea coast, the verdant soggy Black Sea coast so anomalous with the rest of Turkey. The mountains do a great job of cloud herding in these parts!

DIA 275-277 - The Valley of Arthur the Beetle

Nicantasi - Yusefeli - Ispir Dt = 10463 Km

Turkey's Father

There is a man in Turkey who is everywhere. His photo is above the window of the Internet cafe where we are sitting, it is in restaurants and bookshops. His bust adorns streets and museums, and is as much a part of the Turkish landscape as old Turkish men sitting around drinking tea and large groups of cows. Atatürk, or 'Father Turk', was the humble name he chose for himself. He was born Mustapha Kemal and took his last name as his first to make room for his patriarchal tendencies. And Atatürk more than lived up to his name considering his determined and ultimately successful fight for Turkish sovereignty after WWI.

I first became aware of Atatürk on my first trip to Turkey 10 years ago. I knew only one thing about the man and I liked it: He erected a beautifully worded memorial for all the Turks and ANZACS who died at Gallipoli. I thought it was a gracious gesture considering that the ANZACS were attacking him. And it was him personally they were attacking. He was one of the generals defending the Dardanelles against the Allied forces. The defence was successful, and he shone as a military strategist.

On this current trip to Turkey I have discovered more. After the war, when the Allied forces were occupying Turkey and the last Ottoman Sultan was acquiescing to rather compromising demands, Atatürk flipped the proverbial finger, and fought the French, Greeks and Armenians on three different fronts (the old chestnut of Turkey having plenty of fronts to protect). He won. In 1923 the Republic of Turkey was proclaimed and the Allied forces departed. Ankara became the new capital: The Allied forces had been occupyiıng Istanbul and wily Atatürk had made Ankara his base, knowing that he would probably have been executed if he had remained in the old capital.

So Atatürk was a hero, and he still is. It seems that his great strength was that he could see situations very clearly. This made him an excellent general and a powerful first president (the last Ottoman sultan fled, leaving a vacancy for top dog). He was autocratic, an adherent of the enlightenment, a firm believer in the separation of religion and government. He destroyed the caliphate (Selim the Grim - an Ottoman sultan of the 16th century - had won the caliphate for the empire), and Turkey became a secular state. He was also responsible for full suffrage for women, recognizing that Turkey could only become stronger with women's help. He attacked illiteracy in Turkey by introducing a new alphabet and promoting education: Prevıously only around 10% of the population were literate in Arabic and Persian.

However, as a charismatic autocrat, there were also disadvantages to his rule. When he died at the age of 57 ın 1938, he left a vacuum emphasised by subsequent political turmoil and corruption. His legacy has given the military a prominent role in the governance of Turkey - there have been coups as late as 1980, and the military still appear to remain an extremely influential group. His strong reaction to women wearing headscarfs has also meant that headscarfs have been banned at universities and in the public service, although this is now changing under the current Government. Ironically, the daughters of the current Prime Minister went to university ın the US in order to wear a headscarf. By advocating the rights of women so forcefully, he failed to allow freedom of choice. Perhaps in order to promote a new way of thinking, it was necessary to be so forceful, and the Turks have needed to rethink their legislation since. The cult of Atatürk has made this process challenging.

All in all, Atatürk was a very strong, perceptive man who concentrated on the big picture. His legacy still affects Turkey and could be seen as a bulwark against current Islamic fundamentalism. Erdogan, Turkey's Prime Minister, is an Islamist but has this secular aspect of Turkish nationalism as a foil. He is promoting reform and has been elected for a second time, concentrating on fulfiling conditions for accession to the European Union. Who knows whether this will happen (cynics say that it will not), but endemic corruption in particular is being tackled, which can only be good for Turkey.

DIA 274 - Marianne's Birthday

Balcesme - Nicantasi Dd = 48 Km Dt = 10263 Km

Here is the tale of a beautiful birthday...The day before this very special day we rode more than 20kms uphill, and set up camp just before a long downhill. We slept in until 6am (we usually set the alarm for 5am) when we were awoken by yells and the lowing of cattle. A large number of cows were on the move. Verdant grassland sweeping down the side of the hill where we were camped was getting steadily munched. A couple of men and young boys were energetıcally running and herding. Perhaps they did not use dogs because they did not want to get fat: We have noticed the lack of dog use in herding animals in these parts. Fair enough for geese herding, but dogs appear to be quiter useful for sheep/goat/cow herding. Another reason for operating without dogs is that it may take dogs away from their main duty: to attack passing cyclists.

Getting out of the tent I bemoaned the lack of privacy - I wanted to go to the toilet. Angel advised me to go behind a cow. I decided that the cow might move and marched up to the top of the hill instead. Peeing on top of the world. We were about 2500m up and it was lush and green. The hill dropped away steeply into a ravine and there were purple flowers everywhere. The beauty set the scene for the rest of the daty. Pine forests by the side of the road, soaring walls of rock, no wind, the constant burble of a river.

About midmorning we cycled into another cowjam as they were moved along the road. The cowherds greeted us as we rang our bells and wobbled our way around bovine curiosity. Then we found ourselves in a little town called Göle. We stocked up on beer and chocolate and started riding out of town. And there it was: a cake shop. The first I had seen on the whole trip...and on my birthday! İn we went and had some slices of cake. Angel balanced a candle precariously on the edge of the plate (the creamy cake looked liable to implode given the ınsertion of any foreign objects), and I managed to blow it out without setting fire to anything. This little snack was supplemented by a later invitation to drink chai. Our hosts - a truckdriver and his family - plied us with crusty bread and tasty, fluffy cheese called something that sounded suspiciously like 'penis'.

Around midafternoon we found a beautiful campsite and swiftly put the beers into the everpresent river to chill. There was no one around - it was a rare pleasure. One of the best days yet and on my birthday!! This region of Turkey/old Georgia is really amazing...difficult due to its mountainous nature, but worth the effort.

DIA 273 - Altiplano de burros y vacas

Kars - Balcesme Dd = 58 km Dt = 10215 Km

DIA 268-272 - The Road to Ani

Dogubayazit - Igdir - Digor - Ani - Kars Dt = 10157 Km

Cycling a High Plateau

Visiting a City of Ghosts - Ani

The old Armenian city of Ani is not on our way precisely. In fact, it is so far off the beaten tourist track ın Turkey that it receives few visitors. A shame since, with more visitors, more excavation and restoration of the site may happen. Ani in its heyday in the 9th and 10th centuries rivalled Constantinople and Baghdad in importance and was home to around 100 000 people.

There has been a settlement here for millenia but Ani began to increase in importance around the fıfth century A.D. due to its location on an east-west trade route. Then in 961 Kıng Ashot III of the Armenian Bagratid dynasty moved his capital from nearby Kars. For three generations Ani experienced great prosperity, but in 1045 the Byzantines annexed the city as a result of religiously-driven enmity: the Armenian Apostolic Church was deemed heretical by the Christian Orthodox Byzantines. The Byzantines themselves were not doing so well by this stage and the Seljuk Turks easily took Ani from them ın 1064. Although the Armenians were able to regain Ani in the 12th century with the aid of neighbouring Georgia, the Mongols swept through pursuing their usual destructive itinerary in the 13th century. A terrible earthquake in 1319 and changing trade routes sealed Ani's fate: It was abandoned and has been a city of ghosts and rubble for the past 600 years.

It is easy to see why a city prospered on this site. On one side of a plateau, more or less in the form of a triangle, the Arpa Cayi (Arhuran River) has carved a gorge and on two more sides run deep tributaries. The northern side is the only exposed side in need of fortification. Defence looks impregnable although looks are often deceivıng, as in this case! The buildings left standing are churches. Armenians were the first to create a Christian state around 301 A.D. (Kıng Trdat III beat the Roman Emperor Constantine by a few decades), and they were quite fond of Saint Gregory. Three of the remaining churches at Ani were dedicated to this particular saint. It seemed that, before his conversion, Trdat III was not particularly kind to Gregory and tortured him for being Christian.

So, ever since Trdat saw the error of his ways, repented and converted to Christianity, Armenians have been Christian. The Byzantines did not see it this way, considering the Apostolic Church to be heretical, but the Armenians traditionally see themselves as descendants of Noah's grandson, whıch is fair enough: Noah crashed into a mountain on their doorstep after all.

Considering their proximity to Islamic empires, the Armenians have done well negotiating a degree of autonomy, and have usually had access to Ani as well as other churches dotting the nearby landscape. Armenia was a part of Persia, for example, although Russia took Armenia from the Persians ın the 19th century, lost the small country again after the Bolshevic revolution/World War I, regained it after World War II, and then lost it again when the USSR crumbled. The Armenians are now independent but they still appear to rely on Russia to help with hostile neighbours and have a Russian military base inside their borders, at their request. They also retain cordial relations wıth the Islamic Republic of Iran.

The Arpa Cayi is now the designated Turko-Armenian border, so Armenians can no longer access Ani. The area down by the gorge is mined, indicating the hostility surrounding this decision. But at least the Turks are not destroying what is left of the citadel: In the nearby Turkish town of Digor, whıch we also visited, four out of five Armenian churches have been destroyed. These churches were built around the 11th century and restored ın 1878, but between 1920 and 1965 explosives and boulders were used to destroy them.

The little that is left of Ani is beautiful. The Armenians are historically renowned for their masonry (Shah Abbas - the Shah who built Esfahan in Iran - rounded up the whole Armenian town of Jolfa and brought them down to work on his new city. There is now a suburb in Esfahan called Jolfa because many of those Armenians subsequently stayed). Armenian churches are made of dark volcanic rock and warm red sandstone. They are well-proportioned, usually with blind arcades, Armenian inscriptions, long rectangular recessed vaults and ornate crosses. The stones are cut extremely straight and are fitted together seamlessly. Domes are also in evidence and there is an interesting mix of curves and the squared edges of so many European churches. Frescos, mainly of saints, adorn inside walls, although these have often vanished, and only vague shadows of human figures wıth halos remain.

Finally, walking around Ani, we think about the fate of cities. Constantinople, a Christian city, was taken by the Ottomans and now thrives as Istanbul. Baghdad is currently taking some hard knocks, but is still nominally ruled by Moslems, though occupied by Judeo-Christians. And Ani? Ani languishes all but forgotten on a windy, treeless but breath-taking plateau.

DIA 267 - Welcome to the Democratıc Republıc of Turkey

Maku - Dogubayazıt Dd = 65 Km Dt = 9906 Km

The Turkish securıty guard on the Turkish side of the Turko-Iranian border welcomes us to Turkey wıth a smile. He looks at my headscarf and tells me that Turkey ıs a democratic republic. I take my headscarf off wıth a flourish and Iranian women all around me stare at the gesture, pulling theır chadors more tightly around their faces. I think it is going to feel stranger than it does to have my hair uncovered: I feel normal again although Angel takes a few minutes to get used to the new development.

As we rıde into Turkey, we see military everywhere. We see tanks, bags of sand piled up, training grounds. Turkey borders Iran, Armenıa, and Iraq ın these parts. Who is it that Turkey is most worried about? I wonder if it is Armenia considerıng the icy relations between the two countries. Turkey does not recognize the genocide of Armenians in 1895 and 1915. At the turn of the 20th century 1.5 million Armenians were living in Anatolia, according to a Turkish census carried out at the time. After 1915 they had all gone - half a million are thought to have escaped to become refugees in other countries and a million thought to have been systematically killed by the Turks. Thıs issue is still very much alive with Armenians lobbyıng hard all over the world for recognition of their loss. Some countries (Russia, France, Canada) have officially recognised what happened to the Armenians as genocide, while other countries (the USA) have not in order to protect trade relations with Turkey. Turkey hotly dısputes that genocide took place.

Later I realise that the huge military presence is also very much a result of the "Kurdish problem", as the Turkish Prime Minister Erdogan called the situation in 2005. A separatist Kurdish resistance group called the PKK has been fighting the Turkish government since 1984, and around 50 000 people have died in the conflict. But the US invasion of Iraq and Turkey's desire to enter the European Union have led to reforms in Turkish treatment of its Kurds. The US reliance on Iraqi Kurds for support has no doubt been a concern for Turkey since it is not in Turkish interests that a Kurdısh state be created in Turkish territory. And the European Union no doubt has conditions concerning human rights. When we enter Turkey the first town we visit - Dogubeyazit - is predominantly Kurdish. We are only 150-200kms from the Iraqi border.

However, our problems wıth the Kurdish do not lie wıth the PKK (the PKK have recently kidnapped three German tourists in the area, but friendly Belgians assure us that the Germans were kidnapped because Germany had done something to arouse PKK wrath, and we would be fine). Our problems lie wıth Kurdish children and dogs. Chıldren get overexcited at the sight of tourists on bicycles and throw whatever is at hand: rocks, tomatoes, water. Dogs are very bıg and are afraid of bicycles. We have a similar strategy for both groups: attack back. I yell at the top of my lungs (it seems to work for the dogs too, surprisingly), and Angel gives chase (the chıldren usually try to hit me rather than Angel). Hard to frighten the children when their parents think that it is fıne though. We get a little more help with the dogs. One time 3 dogs come barrelling out of nowhere to attack and an old lady also comes running from a nearby field: I have never seen such an old lady runnıng so fast. She has picked up rocks to throw at the dogs. With the extra artillery the dogs stop attackıng.

Wild children and frightened animals aside, it is fun to be in Turkey. Some children are delightful and we cannot stop to ask for directions without adults trying to herd us into their houses for a chai. The military are good to us as well, plying us with orange juice, pouring out our water which has almost reached boiling poınt in the hot sun and replacing it with cold water, and doing their best to communicate. They are so young - boys doing their military service.

And the landscape is rugged and beautiful. Mount Ararat (5165m) looms over us so close we can almost reach out and touch it. Impressıve from Iran but magnificent to be so close. We end up going around the mountain to get back to the Aras valley and have the pleasure of cycling in Ararat's shadow for over 100kms. Noah's Ark is not visible, but I am sure it is up there somewhere in the uppermost snow of that old volcano!

DIA 266 - Hoda'afez Iran

Makoo

Good-bye Iran. One month of generous and dogged hospitality is coming to an end. Off we go to Turkey where I suppose we will have to start paying for things again. One becomes quickly accustomed to being treated like a VIP. So many people concerned about our welfare, about how we are enjoying Iran.

This could be very very good but sometimes overwhelming. Like a few nights ago when all we wanted was to set up our tent and to go to sleep. We found a place near the Aras River reservoir. It was windy, nearby bushes hummed with tiny flies and an anthole swarmed with enormous ants. The flies stayed put in their respective bushes. Angel put a small rock over the anthole. The ants quickly made another hole, but the rock kept them thinking and they left us alone. Unlike a local fisherman who drove up in a battered ute. When he realised that we did not understand Farsi or Turkish, he proceeded to pantomime various threats to our comfort and safety. The flies and ants would bite us. the wind was too strong, it was going to rain, the Azerbaijanis would start shooting at us from across the reservoir. We said we would move to placate him but our hearts were not in it, and we only made it 100m. The only way to get him to leave us alone was for me to take off my headscarf - this strategy can always be used as a last resort.

So we are looking forward to being a little less interesting to the locals. I am also looking forward to reclaiming my arms, legs and hair...giving these body parts a litte more airtime. And having men address me in the street rather than walk, drive, ride their motorbikes right past me to talk to Angel. Talking to me, looking at me, or in any way affirming my existence is disrespectful. Hopefully less disrespectful in Turkey. (Some Iranian men were able to break the mould - all power to them!)

Goodbye to Iran's wonderful history, goodbye to this transit region for so many travellers on the Silk Road, this land of magnificent curvy architecture and deep blue inscriptions, of eye-poppingly exquisite rugs and cinnamon and saffron tea. And goodbye to gender apartheid...May one day black headscarfs and chadors be toppled as symbols that a girl is not a whore, and may more and more girls take their rightful, colourful place in a country so steeped in colour.

Hoda'afez Iran, and thank you so much for your amazing hospitality.

DIA 262 -265 - The Aras Valley

Ustebhin - Jolfa - Paldast - Makoo Dt = 9841 Km

The Aras Valley. We go up and down, up and down. The river sometimes winds beside us, sometimes below us. It gushes and surges: a proper river, even in summer. Millenia of travellers have passed through this valley. Traders, soldiers, holy men. Small mountains rise steeply on either side for kilometres. The looming rock looks like loose granite in danger of sliding down onto our heads in many places.

Across the river is Azerbaijan, then Armenia, then Azerbaijan. There is an east-west ceasefire line east of the Armenian border. The two countries still have not resolved the territorial dispute of the 1989-1994 war. Near the ceasefire line villages lie abandoned. It is terrible to think of the villagers, the fear, desperation and sadness of fleeing their homes. Where are they now? The wind whistles through their houses, the roofs are off. We watch the eery emptiness soberly from the other side of the Aras.

There is a strong military presence on the Iranian side. Bored soldiers camouflage well against dark grey rock. We jump as they call to us. Military posts are built of light brick and resemble small medieval forts. There are also lookout points on the other side. Inside Armenia there is movement: a few cars, a small child. There is a railway line too. Built by the Russians? It was the Russians and the Iranians who carved out this border in the early 19th century. There is also evidence of many tunnels. Indeed, there are more buildings in general on the other side of the river than in Iran, which is home to a few sleepy villages and a winding road remarkably free of traffic.

Sometimes there is more space on the Iranian side before the hills rise up steeply, sometimes on the other side. When there is no space on either side, the wind is especially ferocious, coating us with dust, and skidding us across the road.

Apparently, Noah came through the Aras Valley (Gihon Valley in the Bible) with all the animals, bumping into Ilan Dag, or Snake Mountain, before reaching Mt Ararat. As I ride along I like to imagine a huge Ark with animals scampering around, playing with each other, eating each other, the enormous craft ploughing its way miraculously upstream. Even in a great flood, these steep jagged mountains would have the potential to scuttle a ship. Lucky for the animals (which were not getting eaten) that Noah was a relatively good skipper!