Into The Great Big Open

Around The Planet By Motorcycle

I’ve been home long enough to decompress and readjust to what passes for my normal life. The 10 months I spent on the road almost seem like a dream, a series of mini-adventures (and occasional frustration, malaise, loneliness and homesickness) that happened in a movie, in another lifetime. I get a lot of the same questions about the trip, so let’s knock out some answers for my patient readers, and the idle curious:

The numbers: 18 countries, 23,000 miles (estimated, see below), 10 months, 4 ferry rides, 2 airplane rides. 1500 games of Freecell. Two sets of tires, two sets of drive chain & sprockets.

The bike: Performed wonderfully. Only the speedometer cable drive in the front hub broke while in Kazbegi, in northern Georgian Republic (thus the estimated trip miles). The top rack broke (and was welded back together) in Mongolia. The windshield broke and was discarded after several falls in Mongolia. Before departure I failed to ensure that the seat was adequately comfortable, and paid dearly. The Shinko 705 tires were installed in Vancouver and lasted until Almaty, Kazakhstan; the Metzeler Tourances that replaced them lasted all the way home! Chain & sprockets, also installed new in Vancouver, were replaced in northern Jordan, and are still on the bike.

The rider: Not bad, all told. Two cases of diarrhea, one case of flu, various aches and pains from lots of saddle time. Picked up a cigarette habit on the ferry to Russia, and quit once I returned home. Psychologically there were bouts of homesickness and saturation of my brain with memorable sights and experiences. By the time I left Egypt I was full up on travel, so much so that I barely gave the pyramids at Giza a second look as I rode by them on the way to Alexandria.

Equipment, what worked and what didn’t: I am pleased with what I brought & how I packed it all, with a few exceptions. I used my helmet cam once, in Korea. My AA battery charger (a complicated, programmable model) vibrated apart in the middle of Mongolia. I only used my 9′ tarp & collapsible poles once. Most of the camping gear I used was consumer grade stuff from REI, Coleman, and the like, proving a personal theory that top-shelf, ultra light, hi-tech, expensive gear is not needed for what is essentially an extended motorcycle camping trip. My Asus netbook, purchased used, worked flawlessly (and indeed I’m banging away on it right now). My tent, stove,  riding jacket and motorcycle were also secondhand purchases.

Safety and security: The biggest threat to my safety was the seemingly homicidal driving habits throughout Asia, the Middle East and Egypt. I was made to feel very welcome in the Middle Eastern nations; I would stop for gas or to ask directions and a half-hour later would find myself drinking tea with complete strangers. I would hear the words “You are welcome in Turkey/Syria/Jordan/Egypt” at least once a day. In Tblisi I was shaken out of bed by a bomb blast a block away, when the government opposition party’s headquarters were blown up. And in Kazakhstan at a roadside chaikhana, I met three rough looking fellows (lots of prison ink and gold teeth) who were driving a huge, white Mercedes sedan. They were sure I had lots of money, and at one point I saw them having an involved discussion while gazing into the capacious trunk of their car. The thought popped into my mind, quite unbidden, that they were trying to determine if I’d fit in the trunk…

Costs: Air freighting the bike from Vancouver to Incheon, and then from Lisbon to Baltimore each cost around US$1300, with my personal flights costing about half of that. Daily living costs from Russia to Egypt ran about US$30/day, with costs going up in cities and touristy areas. Surprise costs included purchasing an unexpected transit visa for Russia (US$250), and replacing a digital camera that was stolen in Mongolia. Once I entered Europe, costs went up to US$80-US$100 per day and beyond, again depending on how “large” I was living and how many tourists were around.

Favorite country: A trick question! I liked different countries for different reasons. Mongolia was tops for “adventure” motorcycling, with its lack of infrastructure, wide open spaces, and decidedly non-Western culture. Favorite foods were in Korea, Italy and France (although recalling the smoky street food stalls of the Middle East get me salivating). The people of the Middle East were the friendliest, and the Russians the kindest (although Russia was also the only country where I was the recipient of an extended middle finger). Italy and France had the best motorcycling culture and some of the finest mountain roads. Uzbekistan’s Silk Road madressas in Samarkand and Bukhara blew me away. Georgia hit me hard (in a good way), with its unique language, culture and intriguing history.

Approximate dates of travel:

  • Canada: 6 – 10 Aug, 2010
  • South Korea: 11 – 19 Aug
  • Russia: 20 Aug – 2 Sep
  • Mongolia: 2 – 25 Sep
  • Russia: 25 – 28 Sep
  • Kazakhstan: 28 Sep – 15 Oct
  • Uzbekistan: 15 Oct – 6 Nov
  • Turkmenistan: 6 – 9 Nov
  • Azerbaijan: 10 – 13 Nov
  • Georgia: 13 Nov – 19 Dec
  • Turkey: 19 – 25 Dec
  • Syria: 25 Dec – 5 Jan, 2011
  • Jordan: 5 – 25 Jan
  • Egypt: 25 Jan – 19 Mar
  • Italy: 20 Mar – 8 April
  • France: 8 – 11 April
  • Andorra: 11 April
  • Spain: 11 – 26 April
  • Portugal: 26 April – 10 May

“And did you travel anywhere else while you were in Portugal?” Can’t answer this question without getting into The Story. The Customs & Immigration official was amazed that I’d go on such a trip alone. I didn’t bother mentioning that, statistically, I was just about to enter the most dangerous country on my route. With a THUD of a rubber stamp I’m back in the land where I understand the menus, speak the language and know the traffic rules. There wasn’t any shock to this…I just slid back into the familiar sights and smells, like hooking up with an Ex. Sitting behind the wheel of my rental car, I did crack a grin at the thought of simply driving: No bulky riding gear. Tunes, snacks and a beverage within easy reach. Cruise control. I wouldn’t even have to bother changing gears. After parking, a button on the key fob would make my possessions relatively safe. I was struck by how easy it is to travel by car. (There was a GPS/nav system, but I didn’t want to complicate matters.)  The plan was to drive to western Maryland to spend a week with my mom & siblings while the bike was in transit. I enjoyed the home cooking, the massive DVD collection, the claustrophobic chaos that can only come from three generations living under one roof. After a few days I drove to my old home town in West Virginia, and unexpectedly found myself at a party surrounded by friends I hadn’t seen in many years. It was a  somewhat surreal experience, but I couldn’t have imagined a more heartwarming welcome. A few dozen scenic miles south in Marlinton, I had an excellent visit with Jeff and Sarah and their growing family. (Sarah is one of those women that other women tend to secretly hate — even 7 months pregnant, she’s tending a huge lush vegetable garden, not missing a beat, making it all look  easy.)

After a few days, I drove back to BWI airport, dropped off the rental car and after a few hours of rigamarole, was reunited with my moto.

The crated bike at the Forward Air facility at Baltimore-Washington Airport.

But I couldn’t ride off into the sunset just yet, and not just because it was cloudy and raining. I wasn’t allowed to uncrate the bike at the Forward Air offices, so I had to rent a small moving truck. (This involved hitching a ride into Baltimore proper with a hotel shuttle. The kindness of strangers continues to impress.) With the bike forklifted into the truck, I drove back to Hagerstown and with help from my younger brother, the bike was uncrated & unloaded. She’d made the journey unscathed, and the freighting company in Lisbon had done a bang-up job securing the bike and my riding gear. A few more days of R & R, and I was itching to make miles!

The first stop on my route home would be Blacksburg, Virginia to spend a few days in the loving bosom of the Leland family. Not being one to have an idle mind or body, Jarrod dragged out a canoe, called some of his amigos and we spent time paddling on the brown, swollen New River.

Paddling on the New River.

Not surprisingly I ended up in the water, busting my shins bloody on the rocks.  (My first injuries of the trip!) Later, back in the Leland garage I took the opportunity to change the motorcycle’s crankcase oil and filter, and give the drive chain some love. With psychic batteries thoroughly recharged, I headed west, stopping in Beckley, West Virginia for more hospitality from a friend who has known me for decades. This included a stop at the famous King Tut Drive-In for chili dogs; I love these local, character-filled eateries.

I continued on a westerly course, stopping at Rockford, Illinois to visit another friend and her husband, catching up on life and telling war stories from the road. Leaving Rockford I realized that the next familiar scene would be when I saw my bus…home sweet home. But there were lots of miles between here and there, and I plied the backroads through Rock Falls, IL; Cedar Rapids, IA; Dodge City, KS; a slice of the OK panhandle, finally back to New Mexico.

Grain elevator in Kansas.

 

New Mexico welcome sign. The bullet holes tell me I'm almost home!

On the morning of my last day on the road, I woke up in a $25 room on the retro hotel strip in Tucumcari, which is not retro in the cool and fashionable way, but in the dusty, sunbaked,  depressed, decaying and declining way that is common in the southwestern desert. It was a long, uneventful slog to Silver City, and I expected the overlanding gods to take notice of how far I’d come without a major mechanical failure and ground me with a flat tire or mysterious electrical problem. But even though my Tourance tires worn to a square profile (they’d lasted since Kazakhstan!) and the bike had spent most of the last 10 months being mercilessly flogged across the Asian landmass, I found myself entering the city limits well before sunset. Turning onto the last street, then the gravel drive, then parking and killing the engine at the point where I’d started was chock full of anti-climax. My friend Randy came out of his workshop, smiled and asked, “Been out ridin’?” I climbed off the bike, gave it a pat and a smooch on the headlight shroud for its yeoman’s service. From a few hundred feet away my cat observed my presence with no outward sign of interest; within a few days I’d be forgiven and employed again as her door opener-closer, food dispenser and water changer. It’s a good job to have.

 

My introduction to France was clean, curving tarmac through snowy crags, descending through tunnels and graceful bends to arrive at a quaint Alpine village. Shops renting skiing and mountaineering equipment were bolstered by a few cafes and wine shops, topped off with  a tourism kiosk sporting maps and local hiking guides. I picked a random cafe and did my best to order the daily lunch special, my tongue taking a battle axe to that fair language. (As elsewhere, an honest attempt at the local language usually yields an appreciative smile and patient translation.)

If the first motorcycling roads in France made a positive impression, my first French meal spoiled me for the rest of Europe. A salad of fresh greens and delicate citrus sauce was followed by a mound of gaping steamed mussels in wine sauce and fried potato sticks (in the US, these are the ubiquitous ‘French fries’). Accompanied by a glass of white wine, and followed by a fruit tart and espresso, with the mountain breeze carrying snippets of conversations past my ears and the classically Alpine backdrop, I was in gastronomic heaven. (And although it is a foul and deadly habit that I’ve since given up, the post-meal cigarette capped it off perfectly. You former and current smokers know the deal.)

My plan for France was to stay in the south, avoiding the fast toll highways while making a fairly direct route for Andorra in the Pyrenees. I was not disappointed with the results! Good paved roads meander through mountains, low hills and rolling pastoral country, interrupted only by small towns and villages where even the most humble roadside cafes offered delicious food and pleasant atmosphere. The motorcyling culture I experienced over the next few days was another unexpected treat. Other motorcyclists would wave or nod. Car drivers would scoot over even in no-passing zones to allow a brisk overtake, and at stoplights would move over to allow lane-splitting to the front of the line. Motorcyclists would raise a boot from a footpeg as a show of thanks. What a change from the ‘road warrior’ traffic mindset of Asia and the Middle East!

Time for a photo.

From Perpignan I turned west for Andorra, and the blue skies quickly turned to clouds and chilly mist.. I regret the dearth of photos from the rest of France.

 

Higher still in the Pyrenees.

The roads in the French Pyrenees were some of the finest I’d ever ridden. I was too busy grinning like an idiot to stop for a few photos, so here are someone else’s.

Although tiny, Andorra is a scenic nation high up in the eastern Pyrenees. Or so I’m told! For the three hours I spent riding through the country, most of the time was spent nervously navigating through pea soup fog on wet, twisting roads. The few vistas that were clear afforded views of towering mountains, tall slender evergreens, and empty ski lodges of stone and dark stained wood. I breezed through the border with Spain, descending to rolling pastureland, stopping for the night at Coll de Nargó.

Coll de Nargó, northern Spain.

I continued on a westerly course through rolling landscape reminiscent of the high desert of New Mexico, with low pine trees dotting the undulating grassy countryside. In the distance I spotted a walled old town, flipped a coin in my head and decided to have a look.

Burgo de Osma from the highway, on the banks of the Rio Ucero.

I quickly found a friendly, 3-star hotel with underground parking, and spend the late afternoon strolling the cobblestone streets.

Streets of the old city of Burgo de Osma.

I found the city very enjoyable and the locals friendly, so I stayed for two nights, resting my rear and throttle hand, catching up on laundry and emails.

Cathedral of Burgo de Osma, begun in 1232, completed in 1784. Statue of Pedro de Bourges (San pedro de Osma).

Another view of the fine cathedral. Lots of "local" tourists were spending a lazy afternoon sipping wine and chatting on the plaza.

Even the smallest architectural details such as this downspout were given an artistic touch.

While in Burgos I’d made contact with a shipping company to see about air freighting the bike from Madrid, only a few hours to the south. They told me it would be a few days before they could work up a quote, so I made my way to Madrid, landing in an overpriced, sprawling hotel near the airport (with the aim of expediting the shipping process). I passed the next few days in the malaise I’d felt in Aswan: no urge to see the sights, weary of being in the thick of the tourist trade, and getting cranky about being in a holding pattern. Finally, after several days, the shipping company emailed me a quote…for sea freight! I was really fuming at this point, a combination of wasting money waiting for a useless shipping quote and beat from traveling for 9 months.

I made a beeline for Lisbon, making it in two easy days, and from there sent emails to several freighting companies inquiring about shipping to the east coast of the US. The next day I had a reply from an agent who was himself a motorcyclist. Like nearly every other Portuguese person I met, he was friendly and helpful, and spoke very good English, sparing me the embarrassment of fumbling their language. In the intervening evenings I took to walking the portion of the city within a few dozen blocks of the hotel, finding small cafes to lurk in, and with a small victory dance discovered a sushi joint offering good variety and quality at a decent price.

On the appointed day I rode to the freighter’s warehouse in the industrial district, peeled off my riding gear and left it all in a pile near the bike. They promised to box it up and include it in the crate. I took a last look at my trusty, dirty bike, parked next to blue drums destined for Angola. It was hard (and a little sad) to believe that the next pavement that the tires would touch would be in the USA.

 

 

Italy

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I don’t like to admit it, but by the time I left Aswan, travel was starting to lose its appeal. Waiting three weeks in vain for the Sudan visa, I had lost much of my travel momentum, which is so important during long-term, solo overlanding. So the otherwise charming or exotic aspects of day to day life in Egypt had become tiresome: the noise, dust, litter, rip-offs, and mad traffic were wearing me down. So when I boarded the Visemar One bound for Venice, I exhaled a small sigh of relief, still far from home but happy to be in surroundings that were more familiar.

While docked, opera arias poured tinny out of the ship’s loudspeakers, broken occasionally by announcements made in four languages. After sundown we pulled away from Alexandria and began the 60 hour transit to Venice.

Aboard the Visemar One. I found a kindred spirit in Jamie from the UK. He’d been driving his Land Rover around Europe and Asia for months, and we were both at the same level of travel burnout.

Approaching Venice, we followed a sea highway to the port.

Back on land in Venice. I was traveling without European “green card” insurance and a forged motorcycle registration, which had expired back in February.

Entry into Italy was supposed to be an easy process, but I had two items weighing on my mind. First, I hadn’t had a chance to print out a copy of my “green card” insurance policy, which is the liability insurance  required for driving in Europe. Second, the motorcycle’s registration had expired in February. In the Middle East, this wasn’t noticed, and if it was, a small “fee” could make the problem go away. I was sure the bureaucracy in Italy would be more efficient. Fortunately, after having my passport stamped, the customs officer waved me through the barrier, assuming I’d already talked with the traffic police. Jason Bourne I’m not, but slipping past uniformed and armed officials carries a small thrill, even for something as mundane as missing/expired vehicle documents.

I found a campground in Fusina and spent the rest of the day on laundry and motorcycle maintenance.

Camping in Fusina, near Venice.

The next day I took the ferry into Venice and spent a day gawking at the beautiful city.

Grand Canal.

Beautiful sculpture could be found adorning most buildings.

Picturesque canals are the main thoroughfares.

From Venice I headed southeast along the coast before turning inland at Ancona, aiming for the Apennines. Riding in Italy was sheer pleasure after the chaos of Asia and the Middle East. Pedestrian crosswalks are respected, lane markings are observed, and there is a modicum of respect between road users. Manhole covers are in place.

Enjoying the scenery and twisty roads of the Apennines. Near Monte Sibillini.

Noticing a herd of motorcycles gathered in the parking lot of a hotel/restaurant, I pulled a u-turn to investigate. I parked my dirty billygoat among clean, purebred BMWs, Ducatis and Guzzis and had a walk around. Eventually I was grabbed and brought into the restaurant for a shot of grappa.

Friendly motorcyclists abound in Italy.

This fellow also sent me on my way with two doggie-bags stuffed with leftover grilled meats and vegetables. The gathered bikers were super friendly, and their warm welcome made me even happier not only to be in Europe, but also around others who share the love of two-wheeled travel.

Further down the road I stopped at Sarnano for the night.

I spent a day exploring the narrow streets and sequestered courtyards of Sarnano.

Later I stopped at a random roadside restaurant near L’Aquila. As luck would have it, the place was run by avid motorcyclists; they very kindly paid for my lunch and offered me their computer for checking my email. [It’s worth mentioning that I had received free food and/or drink in every country since Korea! People are kind.]

Kind bikers near L’Aquila.

From L’Aquila, I laid a meandering route to Sulmona, passing trhrough the cloudy, remote highlands of the Abruzzo.

Misty mountains of the Abruzzo.

Sulmona’s picturesque setting among dark hills, with narrow cobblestone streets, lively piazzas and friendly denizens convinced me to enjoy two days there. Sulmona is the birthplace of Ovid, and the origin of candy-coated almonds.

Palazzo SS. Annunziata

Statue of Ovid in in Piazza XX Settembre.

From Sulmona I made a beeline for Isernia, which has the distinction of being the earliest site where humans are known to have used fire (ca. 700,000 years ago). From the outskirts of the city I found the signs pointing me to the museum, and followed them with growing anticipation, only to find the site and museum locked and empty. Under the shade of a nearby tree I flattened out the map and searched it for a new interesting destination. The name “Assisi” jumped out at me, so I formulated a route that kept me off the Autostrades. Two easy riding days brought me to that scenic village, set on a hilltop among lush green fields and sparse forests. I happily set up my tent at Fontemaggio and spent two days catching up on laundry and motorcycle maintenance chores, exploring the sights of Assisi, and listening to the birds singing around the peaceful camping area.

Basilica of St Francis of Assisi

The basilica contains upper and lower churches, both with splendid frescoes and impressive vaulted ceilings. Photography was verboten within the structure itself, so here is a link to detailed history and illicit photographs!

My next destination would be Lake Como and the Moto Guzzi factory and museum. From Assisi I rode north to Cesena, then northwest through the cities of Bologna, Modena, Parma and Milan. I was dumbfounded by the number of scantily clad, nubile African ladies waiting at the bus stops at the outskirts of the cities, before I realized they were not waiting for the bus, but a ride of a different sort.

I finally arrived at the Moto Guzzi factory, a sort of homecoming.

Moto Guzzi factory at Mandello del Lario, northern Italy.

My first motorcycle was a Moto Guzzi, way back in the mists of time (ca. Spring of 2002). Little did I know then, during those first uncertain, wobbly miles that I would one day ride to the factory, from the east! It was a happy moment for your humble author, and I may have become a bit misty-eyed, but there were no witnesses to confirm or deny.

Moto Guzzi’s history goes back to 1921, and in addition to numerous firsts in motorcycle innovation (linked brakes, rear swingarm suspension, first wind tunnel used by a motorcycle manufacturer), they also developed farm machinery, a three-wheeled, 3-wheel drive military machine, and a DOHC v8 racer. Good reading can be found at the wikipedia entry.  The museum is open for 1 hour per day, and I burned the entire hour admiring the museum’s offerings, especially the vintage single-cylinder models that were popular before the present-day v-twins.  After being shooed out by the museum’s curator, I spent more then a few minutes chatting with the staff in the souvenir shop. I bought a few gifts for friends, and they threw in a free key fob for my troubles.

Moto Guzzi museum interior. Not my photo.

I also stopped at nearby Guzzi dealer Agostini, where they gave me a Guzzi hat! Much love from the Guzzi crowd, even though I wasn’t on a Guzzi for this ride. I set up camp at the Camping Continental on Via Statale, north of the downtown area, and stayed there for three wonderful days and nights. Mandello itself is a beautiful, walkable town with a beautiful view of Lecco (a leg of Lake Como) and looming mountains that plunge dramatically to the water.

From Mandello I rode southwest through Torino (Turin) and Cuneo, and crossed into France at a snowy pass.

 

There was more sightseeing to be done in Luxor, starting with a cruise on the Nile aboard a felucca (info link). Like the drivers in Wadi Rum, the felucca captains were a constant presence along the corniche, offering rides anywhere from one hour to several days in duration. One captain stood out from the rest with a unique sales pitch, quoting The Bard himself: “To be, or not to be?” A refreshing change from “Felucca-felucca-felluca-good price-good price for you!” I chatted for a while with this fellow, who was an English student at the university in the late 1960s. He proclaimed a love for the English language, and proceeded to impress me by quoting more Shakespeare with British, French and Italian accents. Even the other felucca captains called him William Shakespeare. We negotiated a price for a one hour ride on the big river, and walked down to the docks to the line of waiting boats.

William Shakespeare and first mate.

The sail was unfurled and the gentle breeze took us out close to the west bank, where instead of hotels and restaurants, locals carried on with life.

West bank of the Nile at Luxor.

Folks were fishing, picnicking, and watering their cattle, and the passing scene was a calming relief from the noise and clamour of urban Luxor. The first mate brewed up sweet tea while the captain and I talked about life. When I told him I was not married, he quipped, “A life without a wife is like a kitchen without a knife!” For any topic he had a poetic quote rife with double meanings. Eventually the sun touched the horizon and the breeze died, so they dug out the oars and rowed us to shore. Back at the dock, the first mate stowed the sail and oars while William and I retired to a nearby restaurant for a Coke (for him) and Stella beer (for me), where we had friendly negotiations about the price for the tour. If you’re in Luxor and want a felucca ride on the Nile, look up William Shakespeare.

The next day I took a taxi to the west bank to visit tombs in the Valley of Kings, and the temple of Hatsepshut. The vast parking lot for the Valley of Kings was empty, and the thrill of having the site to myself soon evaporated when I was set upon by every guide, salesman and beggar that saw me — I would have given anything to have a busload of Japanese tourists appear. The notoriously aggressive and persistent Egyptians pursued me, and I thought I would have some peace in a tomb, but even there a sleeping Egyptian woke up, groggily dusted himself off and  proceeded to give me an unsolicited tour! The pale grey walls of the steeply descending corridor were covered with fine, colorful hieroglyphs, leading to tomb room where more descriptive scenes were depicted on the walls. The massive granite sarcophagus was largely unadorned except for a bas relief of its original inhabitant. [There are dozens of tombs in the valley, and I chose three more or less at random. The aggressive and sometimes unkind nature of the locals put me in a foul mood during the whole time, so I don’t remember which tombs I visited, nor did I take any photos.]

Next up was a visit to the temple of Hatshepsut (info link), which was also empty of tourists but largely also empty of touts.

Temple of Hatshepsut, Luxor. Goddess Hathor depicted with cow’s ears.

Back at the hotel, it was time to pack and head south to Aswan, where I would apply for a visa for Sudan and catch the weekly ferry to Wadi Halfa. That night, Mubarak stepped down from his 30 year pedestal, and the streets erupted with lots of cheering crowds, honking and gunfire!

Along the road to Aswan I stopped for a stretch near an ambulance station. Some fellas were outside chatting and waved me over, the senior guy insisting that I take a seat in his chair. (Never mind that I what I really wanted was to stand for a few minutes — he wouldn’t have it!)

Ambulance driver and another local, chatty and hospitable.

Tea was brewed and we had a conversation in “traveler sign language” about motorcycles and politics. Once in Aswan I followed the corniche and quickly found the Keylany Hotel. The next day I ambled up to the Sudanese consulate and applied for an entry visa. The helpful assistant Hagir told me to come back in “one week, maybe two”. This was not unexpected news, so I settled in to a lazy pattern of existence, passing time reading more books, buying a few gifts and exploring the local cuisine options.

Feluccas on the Nile. After Mubarak fled to Sharm el Sheik, the tourists started filtering back in, much to everyone’s relief.

After a few days, a German biker showed up, heading north from Kenya to Kyrgyzstan. He shared some useful tips for Sudan, and even gifted me maps for Sudan and Ethiopia. And during the second week, two more Germans appeared, both heading south.

Chris (left) and Alfred in the hotel’s rooftop restaurant.

Chris, Alfred and I talked bikes over beers at the Emy restaurant on the Nile (the Stella beer is good and cold, but the food is nothing special. And the evening waiter will overcharge you!)

After a week passed, I started to visit the Sudanese consulate for news on the visa. Each day I was greeted with a shrug, “No news today”. After two weeks, I inquired about the possibility of an “express” visa or “rush fee” — a polite way of offering a bribe. Passing time in Aswan was not unpleasant, but it did become mind-numbing and I felt myself losing momentum for the trip. No express visa was available, so I continued my daily pilgrimages to see the consul.

Sudan was the key to accessing the rest of Africa from Egypt. Libya was out due to their own brewing political unrest. Saudi Arabia was not an option for Americans without a business visa (and from there, the onward options are limited anyway). There are no passenger ships from Egyptian ports to Djibouti. Each passing day brought me another day into spring, and soon Sudan itself would pass from uncomfortably warm to dangerously hot. Another pressing matter was the expiration of my carnet on August 1st, which is not renewable without purchasing a new guarantee. With much more delay I would find myself having to dash for Capetown  and hurriedly exit to South America to avoid the extra carnet expense.

After three weeks, I called it a day and decided to bolt north for Alexandria. There, a new ferry service would take me to Venice. I made Alex in two days, and holed up in a hotel on the corniche.

View of the corniche in Alexandria.

I hunted down a cafe with wifi and caught up on the ferry details. While in the cafe I met an American who was involved in a hydro/solar power project in Upper (southern) Egypt. He was a gracious host and a lot of fun to pass time with. On the morning of my last day, he took me to some of his favorite places in town, helped me find an internet cafe to print some needed documents, and we took a ride on the local tram, crowded in with local students and commuters. Being a long-time resident of Alexandria, he shared amusing and sometimes shocking insights into the local customs and habits. I was grateful for a bit of camaraderie during my last days in Egypt. Thanks Al!

At the port of Alexandria I met a few other westerners who were overlanding through Egypt and taking the ferry onward to Venice. The exit process was surprisingly simple, due to the fact that some of the government offices were burned down during the revolution. Less legwork for worn out travelers!

 

The Jordanian departure procedure was straightforward enough, and soon I was on the fast ferry to Nuweiba on the Sinai peninsula. I’d heard horror stories about the customs procedure when entering Egypt, expecting anywhere from 4 to 7 hours of filling forms, waiting in lines, filling more forms, handing over money, etc. With my loins thus girded, I entered the fray expecting the worst. Within a few minutes I was approached by a uniformed member of the Tourist Police, who guided me through the ordeal. All of the forms and window signs were in Arabic, and all information was recorded longhand in huge antiquated ledgers. I signed forms, handed over sums of money, signed more forms, and finally attached a temporary Egyptian license plate to the bike. Finally a senior guy with lots of stripes and stars on his epaulettes took a cursory peek inside my luggage and sent me on my way. 45 minutes! This is the secret to maintaining sanity during uncertain border crossings: Smile and be polite, expect the worst,  then be pleasantly surprised when it all somehow goes smoothly.

Protests were already underway when I set foot on Egyptian soil, so the short term plan was to hunker down in the quiet diving/loafing resort village of Dahab to see what would develop. Escape plans included fleeing north to Israel, or backtracking to Jordan (which soon had its own protests underway). The road to Dahab snaked through hills of jagged granite shot through with volcanic dikes, and with the help of a local found the hotel that I would call home for the next two weeks.

View of Dahab. Not my photo. Used without permission.

Dahab was virtually free of tourists, and I passed the days devouring books, inspecting the distant hills in Saudi Arabia across the gulf, and sampling the local milkshakes (the best are at the restaurant called Same Same…but the food is nothing special.) On the second day I met Lasse and Chris again, and it was a relief to have company for swapping books and travel stories. Locals were glued to televisions, and other than interrupted ATM and internet service, things remained quiet. Lasse, Chris and I hypothesized on the outcome of the uprising, and over the course of our free time discussed politics from our own countries, books, movies, Lasse’s time in the Danish navy as a submariner, their rock climbing adventures, Chris’ future plans as an archaeologist, and what life would be like when we returned to our respective homelands.

January 25th arrived with a “Day of Revolt” in Cairo, and out went the internet, and soon the ATMs dried up their supply of Egyptian pounds. Small potatoes compared to the folks in Cairo, Alexandria and Suez, whose protests targeted Mubarak’s 30-year regime, police abuses, low minimum wages, and government corruption. [Mubarak’s regime also included 30 years of emergency law, under which constitutional rights were suspended, police powers expanded, censorship legalized, and imprisonment without cause was allowed. ] After 10 days, Lasse and Chris grabbed a taxi north to the Israeli border, and I made tentative plans to ride to Aswan via Sharm El Sheik, Suez, Luxor.

After filling up with fuel, water and a few day’s worth of food, I set out down the coast to Sharm, hung a right and continued up the coast of the Sinai to Suez.

Windy day on the road in the Sinai. Windblown sand partially covers the highway.

Before crossing under that famed canal, I underwent a thorough search of my luggage, including a pass with a wand over me and a furry canine officer to sniff the bike. I was asked twice to show all of the photos on my camera and computer. The military were thorough but polite, even apologetic. In Suez I had my first glimpse of riot carnage, tanks and APC in the streets, and decided not to linger for a photo op of cargo ships passing through the canal. I went further south along the coast and holed up in Hurghada for the night.

Riding the Red Sea coastal road.

I turned inland/west at Safaga (after being denied 80km south at Quseir) and quickly climbed from sea level into cooler, rocky mountains.

Inland road between Safaga and Luxor.

In Luxor I found lodging at the Oasis hotel, a drab, concrete budget option with excellent friendly staff, clean rooms and secure parking for the moto (accessible by walking/clutching the bike up a few steps and through the lobby — another reason to have a light bike with good ground clearance).

Luxor (ancient Thebes) is home to the Karnak Temple complex (link to background info, opens in new window), and I found a taxi driver and negotiated a price for him to drop me there, wait for an hour and drive me back to the hotel. (In retrospect, I could have easily burned two hours there.) Karnak was deserted, save for a few Egyptian tourists and a babbling, giggling group of school kids. The day’s English lesson must have been “Hello! What’s your name?” because each one of the three dozen of them asked me as they passed.

Entrance to the temple of Amun-Re.

Columns in the great hypostyle hall.

Column details. These massive sandstone columns measure 18 meters in height, 21 including the "abacus" (recangular cap stones).

Not only is this a mindblowing feat of artwork and engineering, but all of the sandstone raw materials came from 100 miles south of the site!

When my hour was up (I may have stretched it to 1:15), I found my taxi driver, who asked me to come by his “corner” where he and his brother, cousins and friends hang out during off hours. With nothing else planned for the day I went along, and for a while we sat in plastic chairs, chatted, smoked (no hashish for me, thanks fellas),  and watched traffic pass by. One passing taxi driver shouted, “Hey, a tourist!” — such was the dearth of visitors in all of Egypt. My driver Ahmed mentioned that there would be celebrations for the birthday of prophet Mohammed, and today would be the final day of the week long event. Would I like to go? Sure! So five of us crammed in to his Hyundai taxi and made for the fairgrounds near the airport. Lots of folks were going — packed into pickup truck beds and tractor- and donkey-powered carts, riding 2, 3 and 4 up on scooters and small Chinese motorbikes, all driving like the usual Egyptian madmen. We somehow found a place to park and squeezed through the crowd to find a good vantage point atop a donkey cart with a dozen others.

Crowded celebrations for the prophet's birthday. Our cart was occasionally rocked by the attached donkey, who was having irrestible amorous urges to mount another nearby donkey.

Lots of guys were dashing around on horses and camels, shouting and swinging around long wooden poles. There were a few impromptu drag races, and soon enough, out come the firearms.

Everybody loves celebrational gunfire. Off-camera, someone unloaded a magazine in full auto. Good times!

Fun for all ages. Kids loved to try out their English on the only pale face in the crowd.

In a nearby circle, guys would go through the motions of a sword fight with wooden poles.

Ritual swordfight in slow motion.

We found the taxi again and crept out of the chaotic parking area as dusk settled on the scene. Heading back into town, everyone convinced me to stick around and have dinner. Sure! We parked back at our “corner” and walked through back streets to a street market area, found a small, humble restaurant and seemed to have one of everything. I took my cues from the other fellas and just dug in, eating with my fingers (right hand only, please) and when a dish was emptied, it was replaced with a full one. Fresh crunchy falafel balls, brown beans, tajine, kofta (tasty meatballs), pickled vegetables, and warm flat bread. Delicious and about as authentic as it gets.

We walked on through the street market, someone handed me an orange, and we sat down at a table loaded with tomatoes and got down to the business of serious people watching. Ahmed’s brother asked me to sell something, since I was behind a table. I put my free orange on display and said, “Good price for you! Egyptian price, not tourist price!” (Anyone who has been a tourist in Egypt will know why this was appropriate.) I got a few laughs but no buyers.

Our butts soon got tired of sitting on chicken crates so we headed further into the back streets to where Ahmed, his brothers and friends grew up. Horses stood idle nearby, free from their carriages, and cats pawed through trash piles for nutritional scraps. Scrap wood and plastic was gathered for a small but symbolic fire.

Nothing cements a social scene like a fire.

Local dudes drifted through and stopped to chat and meet the tourist. Children came out of the woodwork to see what was up.

Making friends around the fire.

Eventually when the fire died down we walked back to the corner. I said my farewells to Ahmed’s brother and cousins and friends, and he drove me back to the Oasis. I hadn’t given him any money all day, and what started as a quick trip to Karnak turned into a 7 hour tour of everyday Egypt. Instead of haggling, he just handed me his wallet and said, “Here is my empty wallet…please fill it!” I did, probably with a bit too much, but for me there is more where that came from, for him, with no tourists in town for the foreseeable future, I wasn’t so sure. He wished me luck for the rest of my journey, and I thanked him for the unexpected and memorable time.

The city of Petra was excavated (not technically built) by the Nabataeans in the 3rd century BC,  and from here they controlled trade between Syria and Arabia, levying taxes and extorting protection money from passing caravans. The pink sandstone rock has been transformed into full-fledged city, with religious structures, dwellings, livestock pens, and storerooms. After devastating earthquakes in the 6th century, the city was abandoned. In the 12th century, Crusaders built a stronghold here, but for the next 500 hundred years it lie lost to the modern world, until being discovered (quite by accident) by the Swedish explorer Burckhardt in 1812. (Of course the local Bedouins have likely never considered it “lost”!)

After paying the entrance fee, wincing at the US$85 cost of a 2-day pass, there’s a short walk to the Siq, a 1.2 km slot canyon that leads to Petra proper.

The Siq.

Deeper in the siq, there are channels carved into the walls for capturing and redirecting rain runoff from the rocks. Eventually, something interesting appears through the bends in the canyon.

Despite its name, the original purpose of the structure remains unknown. According to local legend, pirates hid their treasure in the sandstone urn near the top of the facade, which has been pockmarked by bullets.

Further along are the Royal Tombs, ca. 70AD.

Inside, the mineral-leaden sandstone has weathered to show beautiful colors.


The Urn Tomb, ca. AD70, reached by climbing several flights of stairs over a series of arched vaults:

The interior of the Urn tomb is unadorned, decorated only by the colorful sandstone.

The theater (ca. 1st century AD), with seating for 6,000+ spectators. Above the uppermost row of seats are the remains of tombs that were destroyed when Romans expanded seating capacity.

A curious camel makes a move for my banana snack!

I was too busy dodging mama camel to get a photo of the cute baby.

Petra was amazing, and the two days were well spent seeing the usual tourist bits, and also hiking up steep trails to enjoy the sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. And I still didn’t see everything!

Wadi Rum

Further south I wanted to visit Wadi Rum, home of Bedouins and former stomping grounds of Lawrence of Arabia. I found camping at the village of Rum in a large sandy lot surrounded by brown sandstone cliffs, and with a few restaurant and markets close by decided to call it home for a few days.

Typical view of Wadi Rum. Sandstone, camels and 4×4 trucks.

Before I could complete setting up camp, I was approached by several Bedouin offering jeep tours into the desert, from young teenagers with new Landcruisers to soft-spoken older fellas with beater pickup trucks. Riding a motorcycle in sand is not my forte (by a long, long shot), so I signed up for a 3 hour tour with one of the guides with a  beater puck-up.

The first stop was at Lawrence’s Spring, where I scrambled over the boulders and up the slope to take in the view.

View from Lawrence’s Spring.

Further along, we stopped at the natural bridge at Um Fruth.

Um Fruth sandstone bridge. My driver was kind enough to take photos, dozens of them. When I climbed back down he handed my camera back he said with a grin, “Like Japanese! Click-click-click-click-click!”

We stopped for tea at a Bedouin tent, reclining on dark, colorful rugs and warming our hands near the coals of a low fire.  Next stop was Khazali canyon, a deep, narrow fissure containing rock inscriptions and small pools of stagnant water.

Entrance to Khazali canyon (which has bisected Jebel Khazali).

Standing water prevented me from going very far into the defile, but I got far enough to see the inscriptions.

Nabataean carvings in Khazali canyon.

A stop at the sand dunes wouldn’t be complete without getting temporarily stuck.

Sand dunes at Wadi Um Ishrin, about 100 meters high.

It was an excellent tour, and leaving the driving to a professional allowed me plenty of time for photos and gaping at the landscape.

View of the environs of Wadi Rum

Back at camp I met two rock climbers, Lasse from Denmark and Chris from England.  While they spent the day climbing I tinkered with the moto: adjusting the valve lash, checking electrical connections and the tightness of fasteners, setting the spark plugs gap, and generally looking it over. Fortunately, I had help from a feline visitor.

Bike maintenance with help from Accident Cat.

This fellow showed up at camp one day in quite a sad state: Dragging a broken, lifeless leg back leg, a bent tail, an oozing jaw infection and one bulging blue eye the color of bright sapphire. The climbers christened him Accident Cat, and by all appearances he was not long for this world. But every day the cat would appear like an apparition, plowing a crooked groove in the sand where paw prints should have been, meowing for food and attention. I would feed him a can of tuna each day, then fill the empty can with fresh water, and after supping he would nap in the shade of a nearby shrub, only to reappear at dusk for a social visit. Worst was the bulging, bright blue opaque eye, which seemed on the verge of popping out at any moment. But he kept on keeping on, and last I saw him he was pestering the latest campground arrivals, garnering shock, sympathy and food. Long live Accident Cat!

Next stop was Aqaba, where I would catch the ferry bound for Nuweiba on the Egyptian Sinai.

My first stop in Jordan was Jerash, home to ruins that I found more interesting than those at Palmyra. Exploring them had to wait a few days as I dealt with a bout of the flu, complete with sore joints, aching head, fever, sore skin, and lethargy. I found a hotel with campsites 7km west of town, and having time to kill, thought it would be a good time to change out the drive chain and sprockets on the bike.

New chain and sprockets

Doing something like this when ill is no fun, but I took my time, triple checked everything and took lots of rests during the operation. The old chain and sprocket set had lasted about 12,000 miles, which is not bad considering that I’d been lazy about chain maintenance. Having sorted that, I moved to a hotel in town to recuperate, and was there for three nights, eating lots of fruit, drinking water and watching movies on satellite TV.

When I felt better, I spent a day in the ruins. There is archaeological evidence of the site being inhabited in Neolithic times, but it came into its own starting in the time of Alexander the Great. Like Palmyra, it flourished under Roman rule, later converted to Christianity, and finally Islam in the 7th century. When trade routes changed, the city lost prominence and its importance and population dwindled.

Hadrian's arch, constructed for the emperor's visit in AD 129.

The hippodrome, where chariot races are still held today! The reenactment comes complete with all of the correct livery for man and horses, and the announcements are even done in Latin. Retired military veterans man the chariots. Sadly, I was not there on race day.

Reconstruction of a hydralically-powered rock saw, the oldest in the world, beating the Europeans by 1,000 years.

Another view of the rock saw.

Collonaded street (cardo maximus) connecting the Northern Tetrapylon (foreground) with the north gate. The handsome town of Jerash is built on a hillside in the background.

The huge Oval Plaza (forum), 90 by 80 meters, with 56 Ionic columns surrounding the paved limestone plaza.

On my way to the Dea Sea, I popped by to see the baptism site of Jesus and the slow, muddy Jordan river. Just a few meters away was the Israeli border, where guards took photos of the tourists, who were taking photos of the guards.

Bobbing in the Dead Sea was fun, and a little strange, with enough buoyancy to make sinking impossible.

This was the "low point" of my trip.

Next stop was Madaba to see Byzantine mosaics, including a 6th century map of Palestine, the oldest in existence. True to form, I arrived after dark and stopped on a street corner to ask direction. I was invited into a shop for tea and a chat with the owner and his friends, and eventually was given precise directions to the touristy part of town.

The next morning I went cross-eyed looking at mosaics!

Part of the 6th century mosaic map, with 157 captions and featuring all of the biblical sites of the Middle East, from Egypt to Palestine.

Tons more mosaics in the extensive Archaeological Park. Also the first documented "wet willy" (bottom right corner).

South of Madaba, I picked up the scenic King’s Highway.

Beautiful desert landscape south of Madaba

Eventually descending into the majestic Wadi Mujib.

Wadi Mujib

At a pullout I bought some fossils for friends back home, and over tea, tutored the young Valentino-wannabe salesman on the best ways to compliment western women.

After a stop in Karak to see the castle, my destination was Wadi Musa and Petra. Got to find the Holy Grail before the Nazis get their paws on it!

Syria

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The road from the border to Aleppo was clearly signed, but once within the blender of thick traffic, roundabouts and one-way boulevards I found myself once again lost in a large city with sunset quickly approaching. My routine is to follow the main flow of traffic to the city center, locate a landmark to get my bearings, and then navigate to the part of town where cheap hotels abound. I was reading my map under a streetlamp when two young clean cut Syrians smiled and approached me saying, “Welcome”. They asked if I needed help, and when I told them I was looking for a hotel, they gladly started to give me directions. I nodded but I think they could see that I wasn’t really getting it, and they decided it would be best if they walked with me (while I rode the bike) a few blocks to make sure I didn’t get lost. While they walked and I idled along we chatted, and I learned that they were students at Al-Jdeida university, studying medicine and law. We reached a junction where the directions became less confusing, and they sent me on my way after taking a cell phone snapshot, saying “Welcome to Syria!”. I found a hotel and was a bit nervous about parking on the busy street, but the doorman said that he would have eyes on the bike all night. I reached into my pocket for some baksheesh money, only to realize that I had no Syrian pounds. I asked the doorman where I could find an ATM, and instead of giving directions he said, “Follow me” and we set off into the busy city night. (Hey, I thought you were going to watch my bike…?) The first ATM declined my money request, but the second one yielded paper fruit. I paid the doorman a small fee for giving my bike extra attention, had dinner in the hotel’s restaurant and flopped out in front of satellite TV.

My first order of business in Aleppo was to visit the citadel. The massive, sprawling complex is constructed on a man-made earthen mound, and although the first fortifications were built here by the Seleucids in the 3rd century BC, the main construction dates from the 12th Century crusades. Here is a beautiful photo that accurately portrays this imposing structure. Near the entrance gate, I sat at a cafe and sipped tea while I pondered my attack.

With a small but dedicated army of Syrian pounds in pocket, I made my assault. Once inside, there were plenty of buildings and ruins to pick through, including an amphitheater.

The view of Aleppo from the battlements was excellent.

Note the earthmoving equipment in the moat. Back at the fortified gate, the top floor is occupied by the empty but beautifully restored throne room.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the covered souk, parts of which date to the 13th century. This was the original shopping mall, with everything under one roof: souvenir scarves and keffiyehs, jewelry, spices, freshly butchered meat, fresh sweets, plumbing supplies, breadmaking supplies, sunglasses, electrical connectors, rope, tools, padlocks, shoes, and ladies underwear.

Some shopkeepers saw my western face and wished me a Merry Christmas! I didn’t escape without buying a few souvenirs for the folks back home.

From Aleppo I headed east to visit the ruins of Rasafa, and about halfway there something I ate in Aleppo decided to revolt. I could feel the sweat pouring out of my scalp and body, and I started desperately searching for the next roadside bathroom. One appeared just in time, and I paid no mind to the fact that the simple concrete structure contained only a hole for squatting, and a faucet with a small bucket of water. (Your author faithfully carries a roll of TP for such occasions, but there was no time to grab it, such was the urgency of the situation! Besides, there was no bin to dispose of used toilet tissue.) Relieved but still feeling queasy, I followed then crossed the wide and lazy Euphrates, and rolled into the city of Al Raqqa, checking in to the first hotel I could find, and promptly dozed until nightfall. When I woke up, my stomach was a tight knot, but I walked to a nearby mini market for a bottle of water. The shopkeeper invited me behind the counter for a glass of tea, and I spent an hour there talking with him about his travels to Africa and Europe as an artist and photographer. He showed me his dusty and trusty Canon AE-1 film camera, and a small folder of photos of his family, travels and some of his paintings and sketches. On a small television he found a channel showing a Hollywood teenage slasher flick in subtitled English, and eventually we were joined by a young neighborhood kid who’d stopped in to buy soap. When the youngster learned that I was American, I noticed that he started watching me very closely no matter what I did, not in a sinister way but with utmost curiosity. When I left I thanked the shop owner in Arabic, but he must have been Iraqi or Iranian, because he smiled and said, “Ah, we do not say ‘shukran’ here”. He said I should come back in the morning for more tea and conversation. The young fellow thought hard for a moment, then his face lit up and he smiled and said, “Tuesday!” Someone had been paying attention in English class!

The next morning I visited the ruins at Rasafa, and due to still feeling unwell spent only a few minutes exploring and took few photos. From Rasafa I headed south then west toward Palmyra, easily found the Ishtar hotel (in the upper end of the lower budget range) and checked in for two nights. Palmyra (known in Arabic as Tadmor) is mentioned in texts dating as far back as the 2nd millennium, BC, but grew to prominence as a Silk Road stop under the Romans in the 1st and 2nd centuries AD. In the 3rd century, Queen Zenobia rose to power against the wishes of Rome, and after defeating the army that had been dispatched to deal with her, she went on to defeat the Roman garrison at the capital of Arabia (Bosra), and successfully invaded Egypt. Rome eventually laid siege to Palmyra, capturing the rebel queen as she fled on camelback to seek military assistance from Persia. The following year, more rebellion caused a decisive and overwhelming response from Rome, from which Palmyra never recovered.

Below, the Great Collonade runs the length of the ruins.

The theater, where someone mis-timed a self-portrait.

Column details at the temple of Bel.

More artistic goodness at Bel’s temple.

continue reading…

Turkey

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The coast road was smooth and curvaceous, with the Black Sea’s mellow surf crashing to my right, rugged dark cliffs on my left, dotted with fishing villages, roadside markets and cafes, mosques with missile-shaped minarets, and blue skies overhead. The border crossing procedure was confusing, but eventually US$20 bought me a multi-entry visa, good for 90 days. My vague plan was to follow the coast road’s mild temperatures until I could find the least mountainous point to turn south toward Cappadocia. Once on the Anatolian plateau I knew I’d be gambling with winter weather.

lunch

When the sun touched the horizon, just east of Trabzon, I stopped at a ritzy roadside hotel that had more stars under its name than I thought my budget would allow; the price named by the man at reception confirmed my suspicions. With a slight intake of breath I thanked him for his time and turned to go. He named a lower price which regained my attention, but I still balked. Finally, he asked the golden question: “How much do you want to pay?” Oh, I guess we are in the low season. We agreed on a rate that was insulting to neither of us, and I apologetically handed my dusty luggage to the impeccably dressed bellhop. It wasn’t bargain hostel rates, but I had a well-appointed room with fast wireless internet, satellite TV with a few channels broadcasting in English, and a sprawling soft bed. I flopped out, and glancing at the time on my cell phone was amazed to learn that it was only 4:20 PM. I made the best of it by updating the blog, catching up on emails, ordering tasty and inexpensive room service and absorbing the latest EuroNews on the television.

The following day I made it to Samsun, where I turned southwest and seemed to climb forever before cresting the plateau.

road1

Riding again after nightfall, and feeling the chill of elevation, I found a more modest roadside hotel near Havza. I made Goreme the next evening, passing through Corum, Kirikkale, Kersehir – again riding well into the night. (I’d rationalized my rule-breaking behavior by citing few daylight hours, the smooth and well maintained roads, relative lack of nighttime traffic and very few grazing animals wandering about.) In Goreme’s main junction I stopped for a stretch and to get my bearings, when I spied a well-travelled Honda Transalp parked nearby, loaded to the gunwales and bearing Spanish plates. I found the owner talking with another traveler (Bao, who will reappear later) and we chatted a while in the freezing air. The Spaniard was planning to camp among the nearby caves, even after Bao mentioned that his hostel was offering toasty dorm beds for US$7, saying he planned to travel for another five years(!), and was watching his budget very closely. Hats off to the man!

Goreme is situated in the middle of Cappadocia (say “kap-uh-DOE-kyuh”), a region where volcanic tuff has weathered into spires and chimneys, a few doing a timeless rock balancing act. Over the millennia, locals have carved homes from the relatively soft rock, and today some still use them for storing food and housing livestock. Goreme itself is a quiet village that has been consumed by tourism, but maintains a level of charm, compactness and laid-back friendliness in precisely the way Sedona, Arizona has not. I shacked up at Rock Valley pansion (cheap accommodations in Turkey, sometimes also spelled “pansiyon” or “pension”) for three nights, enjoying the cozy, tidy accommodations with restaurant and bar, the warm company of the husband-wife management team, a few locals, and travelers from Singapore, the US, Germany, and New Zealand. (I highly recommend staying there if you are in Goreme. Follow the signs, or just ask for Mustafa’s place.)

The next day, I joined up with Bao (who comes from Iowa City, by way of Vietnam) for a daylong hike among the hoodoos.

capp3

capp5

A few KMs north of Goreme, the rock has been transformed into a complex village and fortress. Before exploring, the three of us (we picked up another American among the rocks) paused for a yummy lunch of meleman (unbeaten eggs cooked with peppers, onions and spices), bread and coffee.

capp2

capp4

Even further north, nearing day’s end, balancing rocks.

capp6

In the fading light, we hoofed it back to Goreme via the paved road, trying unsuccessfully to flag down several passing (empty) minibuses.

I dawdled the next day, buying & mailing postcards, trying the local espresso & dessert shop (dessert was great, espresso was so-so), and tinkering with the bike. In the evening I met a pair of friendly and very fit Kiwis, Jo and Mike, who’d been bicycling west since starting in early March in eastern China. We lingered in the comfortable common area and shared stories from our respective two-wheeled overlanding adventures, and based on Mike’s questions about my bike I suspect he was hatching a plan for their next adventure! Bao had his sketchbook handy and everyone had a look at his collection of impressive drawings.

The next day I blazed south toward the Mediterranean, making good time, snacking on delightful Turkish sweets from my tankbag, descending from the plateau through myriad tunnels under snowy crags, entering Antakya (biblical Antioch) with daylight to spare. I spent the next three hours battling aggressive metropolitan traffic, having a few close calls, looking for a hotel with a room. At the fifth hotel the proprietor told me that all hotels would be full due to a gathering of the Turkish army in the area. So with no other choice I made east for the Syrian border, planning for renegade camping or the remote chance of a cheap roadside hotel. (I’ve found that scouting for campsites after dark is a frustrating, nearly futile exercise.) About 8km from the border I saw a sign for a pansion, which as it turns out was run by students from the local university. They gave me 4-bed dorm room to myself, fed me a cafeteria-style meal of soup, red beans, garbanzos, tea and bread (always bread). The next morning I spent time with some of the students, the main player being a Kurdish student who insisted that I should take a local bride (another student, who indeed proclaimed her love for me) and stay a while.

Thatguy

But wedded bliss is to wait for another day, it seems. I bid farewell to the kind students and a short ride later, I was entering the Syrian Arab Republic.