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!