A different reality
Click on arrow on the right to see the next photo.
Lights begin to twinkle from many small villages around me, stars emerge from the twilight, the last of which reflects off the snow on the peaks beyond. The dry, dusty plains stretch out towards the Caspian Sea and rugged brown hills block the way to Azerbaijan. The rocks beneath me strut from the earth in rolling formations while scrubby bushes cling to life on the barren tops. Lizards dart from crack to crack as birds soar past on a graceful journey to their nests. Our tents gleam like jewels in green, red and yellow, accenting the beauty which surrounds them. A small gravel road weaves through fields of golden wheat, slowly making its’ way back to civilization.
As darkness falls, headlights appear on the horizon, growing steadily into a roar of engine noise as they near. My stomach growls as I await the feast which they have promised to bring.
The 1980′s Landrover bumps into view, with a final bounce and a short toot of the horn it comes to rest some meters from my tent. I’m introduced to a new member of the entourage, the rest of whom we met 2 hours earlier. The smell of alcohol on his breath explains the slightly erratic driving, they bring with them roast chicken, cucumbers, tomatoes, bread, pickles . We add our watermelon to the feast. In a gesture to show their gratitude, these gentlemen drove 25 km back to the town to buy us dinner after we turned down their offer to take us to their places to sleep for the night. Our reason being that this was certainly the most beautiful camp spot so far on the trip. Our acquaintance, Hanif who we had been introduced to by a lone cyclist who found us looking lost in Tabriz two days earlier, was run off his feet translating long sentences of gratitude stated in every possible manner. The theme was mostly what an honour it was that they could meet foreigners like ourselves and to serve us as best they could. The more they drank, the more they repeated themselves, finally they agreed that they must take us to the hot springs the next morning. After telling us that we meant so much to them and applying a soppy kiss to both cheeks, they left us to sleep in peace. They did not turn up as planned the next morning which, for better or worse, allowed us to move on, Hanif back to Tabriz and Stefan and I on towards the Caspian Sea. Before he leaves we make a quick call to Mohammad, as we had done two days before as we entered Ahar.
His car stood still in a large roundabout, he greeted us with a warm smile and a few words in English. He insisted that we stay in his home which we accepted. We followed his car the 3 or 4 km to his home. After a short introduction to the rest of his family, they left us for religious reasons. His wife not feeling comfortable to have us in her home while she was there.
For us, this feels very strange, but that’s just the way it is. After sharing dinner on Persian rugs on the floor we all slept in the living area. Being a mountain man himself, Mohammad invited us to join him to a castle the following day by car, we kindly accepted. Situated on the peak of mountain, it is easy to understand how Babek Castle withstood decades of attack from invading Arabs. This picturesque monument is very significant to the Azari people of northern Iran and Azerbaijan.
Training for Iran
Click on arrow on the right to see the next photo.
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
Click on arrow on the right to see the next photo.
“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
Click on arrow on the right to see the next photo.
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
Click on arrow on the right to see the next photo.
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
Click on arrow on the right to see the next photo.
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
Click on arrow on the right of the photo to see the next picture.
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.
Flying along nicely
Click on arrow on the right to see the next photo.
“Eject, eject” he says. I pull hard on the two well used red handles between my legs, there is a loud noise as the hatch shoots upwards, I soon follow. Fortunately this is just a simulator and I’m thrust just a metre upwards, no rockets no parachutes, no crashes. This is the Mig 21 flight training school for the Bulgarian airforce, I shouldn’t really be here as a foreigner, but my host has snuck me in to have a look at his work.
Sofia is a construction site, building in concrete and steel rise like mushrooms in a field, the earth around each one remains broken, not yet paved into one continuous mass of man made urbanisation. Cars of all descriptions swerve left, right, left, up down as they negotiate what seems to be a forgotten aspect of the city planning. Prehistoric trams and trolley buses lumber arduously down the boulevards, pedestrians hope skip and stumble over uneven surfaces while unfinished buildings stand like tombstones to a new found economy in this country. For Rent signs in English and Bulgarian adorn many a window, just waiting for some life to enter their four walls. The centre is bustling with all walks of life, suited businessmen rushing to their next meeting, over dressed women who look more than ready for Saturday clubbing and teens dressed heavy metal outfits. My ears are met with the constant honking of horns as newly graduated teens whizz by, screaming in unison in a euphoric babble about leaving school behind.
My passport arrives on the second day, this is my ticket out of here, I leave towards the east on potholed boulevards, passing the airport I turn left and continue on the old road to the coast. From a leafy rest stop on my left a fancy BMW speeds off, to my surprise 3 scantily clad girls wait for their next customer. I would love to know their life stories, but I realise that they are just doing their job. I pass several others as I climb into the mountains.
While stopped to make some adjustments a pot bellied Bulgarian on a racing bike stops to assist, Koprivshtitsa is the best place in the world he tells me. Wow, must be good. Arriving in the late evening, the cobbled streets , walled houses and the clip clop of horse hooves take me back to another century when most of Bulgaria looked like this. Quite a contrast from Sofia. Since this is a very touristy place I’m asked to pay for a room rather than shown a piece of grass for my tent, no problem. I’m woken early to the clatter of a truck hub being dragged past my window by an ancient grandma. This will soon become one of three wood fired stoves for the feast at lunchtime. I pack my things and sit and help to peel 20 kgs of potatoes. Peppers, carrots, parsley, chicken, oil, fat, salt and other ingredients appear and are added to the mix. There is heated discussion about how each thing should be done. I’m happy that I don’t understand any of it.
I reach the top of a grassy valley and see out over the plains, snow speckled peaks beyond. I treated to a fast 12 km decent to the valley below in which I proceed for the rest of the days cycling.
I’m greeted very warmly by my host, he shows me in then lends me a mountain bike to go to the hot spring. Stopping for a drink at a spring along the way we arrive at a white, round concrete building in the middle of the fields. He is surprised to find that the spring has been closed off. We use my pocket knife to open the door and text the valve, the water begins to gush freely onto the floor, ever warmer as it wells up from the ground below. After a wash in the water we gorge ourselves on cherries at a nearby orchard before heading for the hills.
Run, run, run! He says, my legs push hard against the ground. After just 2 meters I can not make a progress, suddenly I’m being pulled backwards down the hill, we start to run that way, soon I trip and fall, he lands on top of me and the wing drops. With a bashed knee and nose we give up, the wind is coming from the wrong direction. My dream to go paragliding will have to wait.
From my bed I’m greeted by the sound of rain. Perhaps it’ll be a nice change…
Det lösa sig
Click on the arrow on the right to see the next photo.
“Hello, my name is Sara, it’s nice to meet you!”
A sense of relief comes over me, things are picking up. Entering Serbia 4 days before seems like such a dream now. On the second day my ankle began to swell and cause quite some pain, this led to a short 3rd day, sleeping over in Sombor with my first CouchSurfer for the trip. The conversation flowed freely into the night as I learned first hand about the ups and downs of life in Serbia.
The impressions I received during that evening where embellished by my second CouchSurfer in Novi Sad, who is, by coincidence, a fellow kiwi studying in Serbia. The evening is spent being entertained by comical Serbs and an eclectic mix of nationalities at a nice pub despite combat theme.
I continue, requiring directions, I stop to ask. I’m greeted by an inquisitive eye which has already giving my bike the once over. Without a common language we proceed into his house to look at his bike, there are 3 rooms full! 15 in total I’m told, it looks like more.We are joined by the broken English speaking daughter and I’m given drinks and snacks. Soon the broken (but a little better) English boyfriend arrives and out comes the infamous rakeja bottle, no less than 12 years old. We cheers to life and cycling and I reluctantly pass up the offer to spend the night. They are worried that I will have problems in Belgrade because the US vice president is visiting along with 500 (yes, 500) body guards and an 8 tonne armoured car.
Belgrade is filled with police, every 100 m there are three or four loitering like school boys. It’s amazing what chaos one person can create.
The evening is spent with people I met on my previous visit to Serbia and my CouchSurfer At a small jazz club we discuss how education can be used to change the world until I start to fall asleep (surprise surprise).
I stop to ask a uniformed officer directions, he points ahead and waves me on with a big smile, after lots of starting and stopping I reach the edge of town and begin to wind south through woody hills.
I notice people are not quite as friendly, many don’t respond to my greetings. It feels a little strange but I continue, as evening sets in I begin to search for a place to camp. A small village appears, it seems perfect. I ask the first people I see, without any common language I’m told that it’s impossible, I must go back to the city. OK, I think. I then see a young women planting the garden with her grandmother, she calls for her brother who speaks very good English point to the grass where I can camp. Perfect!
I begin to pitch my tent, the women then comes to me and says “I’m sorry, you can’t camp here, you must leave”. I’m confused, I start to pack again, she sees my confusion and explains that they are from Croatia and it’s not their land, the people from the village are very closed and do no accept foreigners. Cycling back towards town, I feel quite strange, disappointed I guess.
I try a few houses and am either met with nothing, or a no. I really start to think of alternatives, this has never happened before. An old man is chopping wood, I stop to ask. He starts off in German saying that I should come in, and to wait inside the gate. I feel some relief. His grand daughter then appears with a huge smile and says: “Hello, my name is Sara, it’s nice to meet you!”
After asking if I have a passport her grandfather agrees, I again begin to pitch my tent. Sara then suggests that I stay at her parents place instead as she speaks English, so everything in the bags again and I’m on the road again, following her and her father in their car. I’m shown an ideal camping spot under a huge laden cherry tree. Food and a hot shower are then provided, life really does work out.
I tell of what happened in the village, Sara laughs and says that the guy in the village is her friend and will come, which he does. He apologises for his grandmother who he says is just afraid after living through so much. He actually came looking for me after I left to make sure I had found my way.
We head off into town to meet some of their friends and to discuss growing up in a small town in central Serbia, what dreams they have for the future and everything else that is real for them.
I retire to my tent with a smile on my face, a graduation party to look forward to in the morning. It’s been a few years since I was a high school student.
Viszontlátásra
Click on the arrow on the right to see the next photo.
A strong feeling of nostalgia welled up inside me as I peddled over “the white bridge” after having said my final goodbyes to Kalman and Kata. My mind wound back about 3 years to this very same moment as I left Budapest to discover Central Europe, also by bicycle. Since then a lot of water has past under that bridge, Budapest now feels like a second (or third) home after the wonderful half year I spent there. My mind is in another place, filled with past event, as I’m passed by a solitary cyclist, not long after we both stop wondering if we should go left or right, she asks where I’m going. We proceed together for 20 mins before saying our goodbyes. I realise that this short interaction was just what I needed to bring my thoughts back to the epic journey ahead.
I cross the Danube again, finally leaving Budapest’s city limit. I’m free and I’m finally on the road… Life is good!