Until next time…
Photos from the exhibition in Phnom Penh.
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Two months to the day since I rolled those last kilometers into Phnom Penh, I have had quite some time to digest the incredible experiences of my epic cycling adventure. It’s hard to put such a journey into words as each and every day was so different from the previous one, the terrain, the weather, the people, often the food. It’s hard to summarise such a journey, in fact, I don’t think I need to! I think what will stay with me the longest is just how incredibly similar we humans are, everywhere, what we don’t know about each other we are scared of, this is the cause of so much misunderstanding. Traveling gives us the perfect opportunity to know what we don’t have to be scared of. I’m often asked how it felt to arrive, to reach my goal. As I cycled those narrow and busy roads through the buffalo lined, rice paddies and on to my destination I guess I felt mostly sadness that the adventure was over, no massive sense of achievement, just the end of the road….till next time at least.
I hope that you have been able to share at least a portion of the joy that this trip has brought me, certainly the comments I have received from so many have helped keep me going. I have loved hearing from you all! Let the next next adventures begin….
Thanks to your generous donations, around NZ$10,000 was raised. It’s not too late to DONATE to The Cambodia Trust
Supporting A Great Cause: The Cambodia Trust
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It has been my intention to support a charity with this trip since the beginning, it has taken me this long, and extensive help from my friend in Phenom Penh to find the Cambodia Trust. This organisation fits my philosophies and motivations perfectly and I look forward to seeing how I can be involved with some of their projects into the future. Their work is encouraging because they not only give but also train locals which empowers them to continue their amazing work well into the future, with or without the support of the organisation. Their work coincides perfectly with my own in the medical field and my long-term interest in prosthetics and support for the disabled.
My trip has so far taken me from Budapest along the Danube to Serbia and on to Bulgaria. I then pedaled east through Greece to Turkey and on to Iran. I then took a short flight over Pakistan to India where I have just completed 2 months of tough cycling in the high Himalayas. I’m now 10 kg lighter and fit as a trout. Ready to move on to central China and then on to Vietnam, Laos and finally Cambodia. I have so far covered 6,000 km and plan to cycle 4,000 more before reaching Phenom Pen.
My trip will cover a total of at least 10,000 km through 11 countries and at least 100,000 m of mountain climbing. I have passed through areas speaking 15 languages and 8 religions. I will take more than 10,000 photographs and shake hands with an estimated 2000 people. I will drink more than 500 litres of water and just 6 inner tubes. My pedals will rotate more than 10 million times and I will replace my brake pads at least 3 times. Burning about 5,000 calories each day, I will churn through a whopping 1,250,000 calories during the 7 months on the road.
So, with all that in mind, please read more about Cambodia Trust and donate what you can, however big or small your donation is.
Thank you so much for your generous support!
Training for Iran
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I curl up in the fetal position, trying not to let any part of my body touch the ground. Sweat beads on my skin, I’m shaking. My ears are filled with the thrum of large rain drops battering my tent just centimeters from my head. It is as if there is a horror movie playing outside as lightning strikes the ground all around me. My only hope is that we are in a small depression 100 m or so from the highest point. Water rushes under the tent in a rush to the slat lake which disappears onto the horizon. I lie sleepless, just waiting for the worst of the storm to pass. Two or three hours pass before the lightning becomes less frequent and the ground ceases shaking from the roar of thunder. I drift back into dreamland. Of all things that one may expect to happen on your first day in Iran, getting killed by lightning certainly wasn’t one of them.
Iran is separated from Turkey by an incredible set of steep mounts, gorges and rivers which fortify the area from the outside world. Twelve hours after our departure time from Van, the train slowly groans into a continuous lurch through a network of bridges and tunnels which took us through this incredible area. The Oriental Express as it’s known, sounds much more romantic than it is. Lumbering at best and completely stationary the rest of the time, it takes 4 days to travel the roughly 2500 km from Istanbul to Tehran. We take the first possible opportunity to get off once clearing the border and begin what will certainly be a memorable journey through the depths of Iran and everything it has to offer.
Looking out of a fishbowl
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“What are you doing in my town”. A moment of nervousness runs through me, “I’m the police chief here so please let me know if you have any problems”. As quickly as the feeling of unease came, it disappears. It is our last night together, in the morning Olof will head back to Ankara and then Sweden and I will make up for the late start to the trip by taking a bus to the east of Turkey.
As the policeman blocks the road to speak to me, the cars build up behind him. With a grin and a wave he continues on his way. A guy on a motorbike, who we met at the first set of lights in town, waits patiently to show us where the only hotel in town is. As the hotel comes into sight, a guy comes over and starts speaking quickly in understandable english about us, him, the town etc etc. We try to keep up, “you coming with me now, we sitting and too much talking, ok?”. Some persistance is required before he gives us 5 minutes to change our cloths and meet him. He worked at hotels at the coast for years so has learned tourist english. This is only the second English speaking person we have met by chance since leaving Istanbul, actually in all of Turkey!
After a huge dinner for 9 lira (about 4 euro), he leaves us to his friends who speak no English but graciously show us around their town, the old market, historical building etc. After 125 km we are totally exhausted, but they do not see the signs and take us on a long walk to the otherside of town to drink tea in the ‘park’. This park is a small grass area surrounded by two factories with a distinct smell of chemicals in the air.
We arrive back at the hotel totally out of it, there is nothing we can do but thank them for being so kind. Sleep comes without a second thought.
Since leaving the coast, the landscape has changed completely. The lush green mountains with blue rivers and rocky peaks have changed to an open landscape which has been carelessly shaped by erosion. The sandy soils taint the rivers gray and the vegetation is sparse and stunted. Water is less frequent and sometimes dirty. The people remain incredibly generous and friendly, we have only paid for a handful of the dozens of teas we have had. We were offered a half finished house to ourselves for a night and provided with a packet of biscuits when we stopped at a petrol station to buy something. At a time when we were both running low on energy a truck slowed to allow us to grab hold for a long hill, with a toot and a wave he continued when we reached the top.
Peering through a bus window, I feel as if I am in a fishbowl. The beauty of this country and people surround me but I can not experience it as we fly past. I feel that I will certainly have to return to experience this part of the country for real, by bike.
Tomorrow I will cross into Iran, providing the unrest is not out of control, I will spend a little over a month experiencing what is said to be the friendliest countries in the world. This is quite a reputation to uphold when comparing to Turkey. May the adventures continue.
Testing the Turkish Reputation
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We feel like we are leaving old friends as we push off up the narrow road into the mountains. This feeling is becoming quite a theme for Turkey. The day started with a 6 am wake up call from the Sofa where I lay, Olof in the room next door. I washed and packed my few things and headed down stairs, ensuring that I wore my sandals for the few steps down to the living area. Someone slept on the floor, probably in order for at least one of us to have a bed. As I entered, the mother ushered me to a low table placed near the kitchen door. Five or six family members milled about in the room. Food and, of course, tea began to appear on the table, cheese, tomato, olives, bread, eggs and of all thing; french fries! We ate and drank as much as we could in the company of the men while the women kept themselves busy around us. It was then back to where our bikes had been stored for the night by car. We happily rode out of town, stopping at a construction site to repair a slow leak.
We had been given specific instructions about the road ahead, the only way was to take the motorway an extra 50 km via another city in order to arrive where we wanted to be. These directions had been given to use by an experienced truck driver. We reached the turn off onto a small road off the main road and headed into what I would become one of my best days cycle touring ever.
Immediately after leaving the main road we were greeted by every person we saw, cars tooted and waved enthusiastically and lightning danced across the hilltops. A light rain filled the air with that wonderful fresh smell, the one which takes you back to playing in the rain as a child. “Chai, chai” called a man as we passed the first village, but being just 15 km from the start we decided to wait till the next town which appeared after a few more hills. As Olof selected a few things from the market, a young boy appeared to admire our bikes, he then showed us to a tea house across the street, I ordered two teas in my best Turkish and sat down to fresh bread and tomatoes. The teas, a knife, salt and a newspaper table cloth were placed on the table within seconds and a man introduced himself and sat down, he brought with him some cake and biscuits. A few words from him sent the boy scurrying across the street, soon to return carrying plates laden with olives and cheese. We ate and ate, our tea cups were never allowed to empty. The Germans then cycled past and I called out to them, we had not seen them since early the previous day, there were many stories to share. By now the tea house was full, a man spoke German with Tanya, Olof communicated with the boy using my phrase book and Martin and I discussed our most interesting experience the night before which included dancing at a wedding in a village, being fed a huge dinner at 12.30 in the morning after having just eaten at a restaurant with two couchsurfers and a visit to a lively street market.
As we have now become accustomed to, we were not allowed to pay for anything, it was quite the opposite as we were given cakes, cherries and tomato sauce to take with us, how can we say no? We all left with huge smiles on our faces as if we had known all these wonderful people forever.
At some point we lost the Germans, it had begun to rain more and we were still chatting about the incredible hospitality and generosity of the people, when all of a sudden a window flew open in a house close to the road and a man leaned out, teapot in hand, yelling “chai, chai!” in an almost aggressive manner. How can we refuse such a enthusiastic offer? Chairs appear and we squeeze in around a tiny table, the man, his friend and us. We try to communicate by all possible means, but finally laughter is by far the most effective, and there is no shortage of it when they hear our attempts at Turkish.
With a friendly “Güle güle” (which more or less translates to: go smiling smiling) we push off again. Our smiles just keep expanding. Soon we see bikes of the Germans parked next to the road, they say hello from the second floor balcony of a large home which we hear later will be demolished to make way for a major road through this valley, such a shame.
We finally reach the top of the hill and head down the other side for a 10 km decent to Devrek where we are immediately greeted by a young man who shows us to a nice place to eat in broken English.
It is quite late by now but we want to move on, the map shows a quiet road about 20 km away which we head for hoping to find a place to stay. Soon enough the Germans appear again and we decide to camp together. The small road turns out to be a dead end according to the locals so we head back to the main road. We spot a nice camping place near the river below and as we roll towards it a goat herder shouts her greetings. Her enthusiasm is incredible as I pass her my “Can I camp on your lawn” note, she opens it but we quickly notice that she can not read at all. She points to her house and indicates sleeping, babbling constantly in Turkish at the same time. I instantly accept and we pedal up to the house, her son reads the note and points to the river bed below. But Mum won’t have a bar of it, we must sleep in the house. In a slurry of words she points, yells and somehow indicates that she will milk the cows. I follow close behind, ready to get my hands dirty. She shows me the cherry trees and a mulberry tree, talking nonstop as we go, I respond with “yes, ok, yes, yes, ok, etc” in Turkish, understanding nothing. Again laughter works the best. We return to the work at hand, a screech from her mouth and a sharp blow from the large stone she has just thrown accurately at the cow 15 m away get the beast moving toward the shed. Even the cows know the power of this women and won’t mess with her for a moment. More fiery insults maneuver the cows into milking position, a calf suckling at one side, Fatma at the other. Squeeze and pull, squeeze and pull. This send streams of warm milk at high speed into the bucket waiting below. One false move by the cow is met by a slurry of incomprehensible words which the cow sure understands a lot better than I do. I help with the last of the milking before being ushered upstairs for a hearty dinner of beans, chicken, bread, soup and sliced vegetables followed naturally by copious quantities of tea. Her husband and son are almost silent in stark contrast to the incredible power of Fatma. After Tanya has a long chat on the phone with the daughter in law who lives in Germany we are allowed to go to bed.
Laying comfortably under a colourful duvet in total darkness, Olof and I run through the day, trying to absorb everything that has happened is impossible now, our eyes become heavy and we drift off, recharging for another day.
Taking on the hills
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The hills are relentless, up down, up down, down up, up up and so on. The roads crisscross the landscape as if it were flat, the steep undulations create a roller coaster ride through the small villages and cities along the Black Sea coast. The land is covered in hazelnut trees and sporadic dashings of grapes, cherries, strawberries. Docile cows, each with a bell around its’ neck, wander the streets aimlessly. At each village we are greeted by enthusiastic offerings of tea and coffee. The children materialise from every angle and rush towards us with a loud “Hello, Hello!”. Sometimes we are joined by a cyclist keen to show his prowess by racing us down the nearest hill. As I pant up the last portion of a long hill I see Olof sitting happily, tea in hand, with some local men sipping tea. A friendly gesture which quickly becomes routine in our days cycling. Feeling much like yoyos the mountain road meets the coast, offering short lived relief from the mountains. Our happiness about being able to travel more than 15 km/h lasts only until the road fills with truck after truck which pass dangerously close to us on the narrow main road. The broken glass which lines most big roads causes three punctures for Olof a nd one for me. Fortunately this road finishes quickly as we enter the city for the night.
Arriving in style
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I hold on tightly and focus on the narrow white line painted on the road. Cars brush past just inches away. I look for a way to escape, but the double barrier makes this impossible, or if not, more dangerous than keeping going. I pedal on, finally after 3 km there is a gap and I can leave the the motorway, I feel quite relieved. The day started off on a two lane road with plenty of room for me and the trucks, I looked forward to getting to the coast and seeing the sea for the first time. After just a few kilometers the farmland turned to factories and the air became thick with smog from the manufacture of every imaginable product. Chimneys big and small belched smoke in a range of colours, black, brown, white, yellow. This mixed with the every increasing fumes from the traffic to shroud the land in a yellowish blanket. My excitement about the sea vanished as my map told me it should be just 1 or 2 kilometers away, I strained to see it, but nothing. Finally I was able to make out a dark coloured boat on the horizon, but still the water was invisible through the smog. The road eventually reached the sea and the turquoise of the Mediterranean became visible, the factories vanish behind and apartment blocks and seaside hotels sprouted like mushrooms out of the landscape. The 2 lane road grew to 3 then 4, 6, 8 and 10. Horns honked, buses swerved, trucks lumbered, fumes belched, engines rattled, brakes screeched, and I pedaled. All this and my speedometer tells me I’m still more then 30 km from the center of town.
As I board the ferry destined for Asia, Istanbul glows all along the horizon, minarets and domed roofs accent the skyline. The big smile on my face is proof enough that I made it in one piece to this fascinating city.
Three countries in one day
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The wind swishes through my hair as I whizz down the hill, the mountains behind me fade into a faint shadow on the horizon. The vegetation thins and changes from a lush green to darker shades of browns and yellows accented by vineyards like an oasis in the barren landscape. The soil changes from near black to lighter hues of red and brown. The air thickens as the humidity increases and the churches turn to mosques, interrupted only briefly by an excursion through orthodox Greece. The feeling of Europe is rapidly fading, the clip clop of Bulgarian horses pulling hay laden waggons, each with a driver who’s face tells the tail of a life of hard work. All this feels like a dream from the distant past as I cruise down a calm Greek highway, passed only by the occasional motorist out for a Sunday drive. The fields of labourers toiling to supply food to the masses are gone, Greece is on holiday perhaps? Or are they all sleeping? I reach the border without finding an answer. Dogs begin to appear from nowhere, lounging on every street corner, just waiting for a lone cyclist to pass in order to give them an excuse to get some exercise. My passport is stamped by a cheerful officer and I’m waived on to a narrow road, tall barbed wire fences on either side. Gun embankments on both side create a real feeling of tension, armed soldiers pace back and forth counting down the minutes and seconds until their compulsory military service is over. There lack of interest makes them no less intimidating, weapons at the ready in case the someone decides they’ve had enough.
Suddenly I feel like a celebrity as people begin to waive and say hello everywhere, in the first 20 minutes in Turkey I was given more hello’s than the entire rest of the trip. I see already that this will be an interesting part of the trip.