Into The Great Big Open

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.

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.

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.

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!)

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.

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, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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

Eventually descending into the majestic 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!

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.

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.