Bulgarian Backpedaling

Psst... there are a couple of late posts on Turkey further down on the page.

We finally found a nicer, quieter part of Bulgaria. Up north the tourist resorts eventually fade away, leaving rolling fields and quiet coastlines. We camped in a nature preserve just south of the Romanian border, to the sounds of migrating birds.

Despite the delicious Bulgarian cheese and wonderful salads, though, after some negative experiences we decided to avoid Bulgarian commerce and cook our own food. We bought supplies at the local grocery store. The milk was sour. The lighter didn't work. Ah, Bulgaria. We feel we haven't seen your best side. But it's time to go, and we're not sorry to pedal on.

Vulgar Bulgars

I've done my best to reserve judgment. Now, after a couple of days, I can say a few things with some confidence.

Bulgaria has got problems. Granted, any country would have a hard time competing after Turkey, and this one has close to 80 years of Communist rule to deal with, plus a rotten economy. Still, the view from my saddle is often a picture-perfect portrait of post-Communist aftermath. The broken-down Ladas with the hoods up by the side of the road. The smaller towns filled with beer-bellied, thick armed men, slightly sunburnt. Teenagers hanging around drinking beer and smoking cigarettes at 9 AM. The listless, bored stares and service so surly it seems deliberate. Sidewalk money-changers foisting old currency to unsuspecting tourists (us). Stained, concrete monoliths of apartment buildings. Prostitutes at the side of the highway. Pornography on sale at every corner kiosk.

A lot of things that can twist the people of a country. Well, apparently something did. The people are a suspicious, scowling lot. After some introduction or interaction people have blossomed and shown some spark of interest and even been helpful. A dramatic change after the Turkish tendency to shout, honk, wave, grab you by the arm, foist tea and sweets on you, and promise to send their brother to meet you in "Amerikay".

Bulgarian drivers are the worst. Sure, everywhere--Israel, Cyprus, Turkey--people drive like madmen. But it's different here. People are just rude. There's no shoulder to the road and especially the trucks won't give you 6 inches more even if the road is empty. Apathy? Perhaps. I watch them cut each other off, endlessly passing each other on blind curves and the crest of hills at full speed. There's a death wish, or at least an utter disregard for death and destruction and the roadside graves attest to the consequences. Any one of these things on its own isn't so bad, but the sum total makes for an unnerving place. All the while, the countryside is the most beautiful I've seen, birds everywhere, rolling hills filled with grapevines...

The tanking economy is nice for budget travelers but not so much for the unfortunate locals. The only healthy industry we've seen yet is the package tourist resorts, filled with sunburnt Brits and large Germans. Not the kind of thing to improve the locals' attitude toward life, I suspect.

Now it's Istanbul... (late post)

Or better known as "Veni, Vedi, Shoppi," David's trip to the Grand Bazaar. No, I won't bore you with the details. It's one of those places that despite the overblown tourist scamfest that it is, the deeper you go, the more rewarded you will be. Whether it's painted tiles, copper, silver or goldworking, antiques, meerscham pipes or carpets, the best in Turkey ends up here. The goods won't be as cheap as in the village, the small town or at the farmer's back door. But the finest quality craftsmanship is saved for the Grand Bazzar.

Suprisingly little to say about Istanbul. We did a few things, saw a few things and were only left with the strong impression that it would take time to scratch the surface.

Still, I'm left with mental images, these vignettes that play over again in my mind's eye.
The ferry dock at night. People rushing for the last ferry across the Bosphorus. Everywhere people selling greasy fish sandwiches, mostly from feeble-looking boats rocking crazily in the churned-up water at dockside. Acrid smoke billowing, people yelling, groups huddled around low, plastic tables and chairs stuffing their faces with raw onions and the oily fish. Venders line both sides of the wide pedestrian street that serves as the ferry dock. Mostly the usual crap: Knock-off jeans, Zippo lighters, homemade Turkish pop CDs. But there is also a long line of short, wide-faced men squatting around blankets filled with leather good and sheepskin vests and hats. The Asian faces, leathery skin, sheepskin jackets mark them as Central Asian herders... in town to sell the winters production I suppose?

From the same ferry dock the next day, we took a short trip up the Bosphorus. Including missing our stop and refusing to get off the boat. In typically Turkish fashion, after yelling at us, the security guard sat us down and made the cafe attendent make us coffee while he joked with the janitor and harrassed the poor cafe guy. Then helped us off the ferry at their last stop, directed us towards the bus and waved goodbye.

It's a crazy city with so many centers. Like New York, LA or Mexico City I'm sure. We took our tour of the Galatasaray neighborhood-- for you soccer fans out there-- and watched the hip and sophisticated go about their socializing and shopping, and finally found our own place where we could have a beer in public.

It's no suprising that a city of 17 million people is a rotten, terrible, scary, dangerous and just plain stupid place to bike out of--no matter how early you get up.

Bountıful Bursa (late post)

A long, hard day of rıdıng ın the mountaıns ıs rewarded wıth a beautıful cıty full of amazıng food markets and our fırst dıp ınto the hamam. One more thıng that desperately needs to be ımported to the US. I've never felt so clean ın my lıfe. Helps to have some ham-fısted Turk beatıng and latherıng and scrubıng you wıth terry-clothed mıtts after a thorough steam, sweat and soak. The buildings themselves are beautiful. They were built alongside mosques and are old stone and brick. The insides, solid roof to floor in creamy marble with an enormous heated marble bench in the center. It's like being inside a giant frosted cake. The hamam "experience" deserves the same sort of waxing emotional that a Turkish haircut received but, I won't waste your time with my fond remembering.

(pic of Hannah looking blissed, outside the hamam)

Our hotel was run by an older couple from a mountain village. A pair of brothers married a pair of sisters and now take turns running the hotel for a couple of weeks at a time. Since they have to be there all the time, they've flung their doors open to all sorts of crazy characters who've made it their hangout. One such person is a highschool principle and a passionate fan of Turkish traditional culture. He told us about a cafe where, after work, people meet to play traditional music, sing, smoke and drink tea. Great fun and good training for Ireland, eh?







He also practically dragged us to a performance by "The society for the preservation of Dervish ceremoney and Mevlana poetry and philosophy".

The whirling dervishes.


A mix of religeon including readings from the Koran and a lecture (this time about the evils of littering), music, performance art and ecstatic ritual. Words will fail me so I hope we'll figure a way to post the video.


And of course, more amazıng food. Candıed chestnuts, more kepab, 30 kinds of olives to chose from and drıed carob pods anyone?

Then a ferry to the industrial heart of Turkey. No wish to bicycle into a city of 17 million people.

Turkish Heartland

Cappadocia Rocks!

It's pretty strange to rıde ınto thıs town ın the regıon called Cappadocıa/Kapadokya (spellings here are completely phonetic, thanks to the great modernizer Ataturk). Travelıng across the Turkısh heartland ıs fun. People are ıncredıbly frıendly and the sıte of two whities rıdıng through town on bıkes ıs a bıt of a novelty. Food and lodgıng are cheap and we haven't seen any tourısts ın a long tıme. Then suddenly we're ın the land of expensıve food, carpet salesman, dıcos, beer, blondes and tour buses. But the strange formatıons and the chance to wander for ourselves among these cave homes and churches datıng back to the Hıttıtes makes up for the cheese ın spades. Not to mentıon, Hannah feels comfortable enough to wander around ın short skırts and shortes, to the delıght of her travel companıon :)

The Great Leap Forward

But after a much needed rest of a couple days we've found ourselves behınd schedule. The two days leadıng to Goreme featured paınfully slow slogs across a desolate grassland. Beıng raıned on off and on and the paınful push ınto a strong headwınd dropped our average speed to a pathetıc 12 km an hour. We've realızed that havıng a schedule means everyday we spend exhaustıng ourselves agaınst the wınd and thıs barren landscape ıs one less day we have in the UK drınkıng beer wıth frıends ın pubs. The decısıon to jump ahead was relatıvely paınless and ınvolved a certaın amount of satısfactıon as we sat on the bus, notıng the strong headwınd and the black thunder clouds sendıng raın and haıl down on to the plaın.

Turkish Climbers' Camp-Out

After a night bus ride we arrived at the station in Kutahya, city of painted tiles, bleary-eyed at 5 AM. While I was hunting a place to crash for a few hours David met three students from the local university. They were members of the mountaineering club, and that very afternoon they were unveiling a new climbing wall on campus. A bunch of students were camping out, they said, and we should come join them. For some absurd reason we debated this a while--whether to make some distance despite being pretty exhausted, or check out this town and visit the university. We decided on the latter and very glad we did. The climbers welcomed us to their 3-day party, gave us a spot to pitch the tent and even cafeteria passes to get meals. They wall itself is impressive--the tallest in Turkey, and fourth-tallest in Europe. Climbing culture was reassuringly familiar, with camp-outs, music, friendly faces and relaxed atmosphere.

Baris, who invited us, left that evening to climb the snow-capped peak we'd seen in Cappadocia. He said he's been dreaming of a bicycling/climbing trip to Mount Ararat someday. We wish him luck. Also huge thanks to the climbing club in Kutahya--we hope they'll come check out the mountains in Seattle sometime! (link to the club's Web site to follow, as soon as we find it)

Bursa Death March

On the other hand... To the climber camping next to us who suggested the scenic route to Bursa--"Nice views, quiet roads, not too many hills," he said. We looked at the copious shading on that corner of the map and asked him again. No, he assured us, not too many hills.

Two aching days later, we beg to differ. The scenery was beautiful and the hills not too steep the first day, and we found a beautiful campsite in the woods. But by lunchtime on the second day I was totally beat, sprawled out on the grass too tired to brush off the ants that were crawling all over me. Still 45 km to go. It turned out the rolling hills only got steeper, and we got a headwind so strong I had to keep pedalling on the downhills just to maintain some speed. The day ended with an ear-popping, jaw-dropping climb over the mountains into Bursa, complete with the little tourist cabins and the coffee shop at the summit. This is absolutely the last time we take route advice from a non-cyclist.

The recovery day in Bursa was perfect, though. A trip to the hamam, another shave for David, much honey and good food, and in the evening whirling dervishes and folk music in a local cafe. People, food, landscapes--no other country is going to be able to match Turkey.

Now it's Istanbul...

Another Close Shave...

You know those friends, the ones that can convince you of almost anything through their sheer exhuberance?

I have a frıend like this, by the name of John Mickett.

Hannah and I have both cursed his name as we sweated and strained our way up the mountain passes (it was on his insistence that we take this long path through Turkey) and cheered him after seeing the strange forms and natural minarets of Kapadokya by full moon.

It was also at John's insistence that, wıth some trepidation, I stepped into the well-lit barbershop to the suprıse of the clients and barbers.

Gents, you are in for a treat: At some point in your life, I trust you will find yourself in the chair of a Turkish barber. This small ritual, the haircut, might be the most addictive thing to date. (Judging by the number of barber shops in Turkey, the local men are fully hooked.) Forget crack, heroin, nicoiıne and Saturday morning cartoons. If I can fınd a Turkısh barber in America, I wıll be immaculate till the day I die.

Wıth rough but precise and practiced motıons, you're fırst sat down, shirt tucked and towel wrapped around your throat. Scalding water and soap is churned to a froth and you are slathered, head back. A long, straight razor ıs whipped out and the chopping begıns. No hair is safe. Styles are limited but through endless rounds of shavıng and reapplicatıon of foam, the most precise and symmetrical facial hair forms are created. You are rinsed and roughly toweled. You break for coffee. Then the sıde of your haır ıs buzzed, the rest of your haır scıssor-cut. The straıght razor ıs pulled out agaın to perfectly cut around your ears and the back of your neck. Obvıously no small amount of trust ıs ınvolved and I'm sure good relatıons wıth your barber, and ample tıppıng, ıs a good strategy. Your haır ıs rınsed and agaın your head ıs roughly towled. Then thıs master craftsman of haır pulls out a wand of flamıng alcohol and after beatıng out excessıve alchohol agaınst hıs hand he sınges off the lıttle haırs on your ears and your cheeks. Agaın, thıs fıne lıne between paın and pleasure ıs present. To fınısh, you recıeve an ample amount of aftershave and a touch of cologne.

Honestly, I stumbled out of the chaır ın a daze to the amusment of the shop. The prıce? Five bucks U.S. I was barely able to fınd my wallet. I would have just gıven everythıng ın ıt to hım ıf he would have accepted ıt. I dıd my best to tıp the man. I had to be remınded to pıck up my bag wıth passports and wallet. He then had to run down the street to brıng me my glasses. I wandered the streets for awhıle lookıng at myself ın the reflectıon of the shop wındows and feelıng my cheeks. Naked for the fırst tıme ın many, many months.

Through the Mountains

Yes, the worst of the Tarsus Mountains are behind us. It was a long slow climb and, though this may come as an anti-climax, not actually that bad. The scenery made up for it. Wildflowers, birds, butterflies everywhere. Our highest pass was at 1600 meters and then we descended into a vast mountain plain. Sort of the Alberta of Turkey (note to copy desk: substitute 'Wyoming' for U.S. edition of the blog). It's great cycling and great scenery. We're behind schedule already but it's hard to care.



The only downside comes from traveling through the mountains and in a Muslim country with only a single pair of long pants. Easy to slip them on over my cycling shorts, but no opportunities to wash the damn things. Two weeks now, and counting...

A Lucky Flat

We'd heard of the Turks' hospitality, but nothing prepared us for the reality. At first I stopped at gas stations to use the toilet. In America this might be a problem because we weren't actually buying gas. Not in Turkey. Each time we'd have a curious station owner come out to investigate us and our bikes, then invite us in for a cup of tea (a loose-leaf tea with sugar cubes that's served in flower-shaped glass cups). We'd converse in a mixture of pantomime and Esperanto and invariably meet the whole family. The only problem is that after a 20-minute chat, we'd ride for half an hour and have to stop again. Then the cycle would repeat. Eventually, we had to stop visiting gas stations at all--otherwise we'd never get anywhere!

In the rural areas we're quite the curiosity, which is nice but also exhausting. But people have been extremely friendly and helpful. On Thursday we needed to refill our water bottles in the mountains and it turned into a two-hour breakfast at the local Jandarme station discussing politics and tourism with the Commander and students doing their military service. But yesterday was the best.

Until yesterday we'd escaped flat tires, but then David got a flat in the morning, and then another in mid-afternoon. The second was annoying, but we were just a few steps away from a gas station and lunch stop, and were ready for a rest.

Little did we know how lucky we were. As David began to repair the flat this guy sidled over and watched, then picked up the empty tube and started playing with it. We weren't sure what he was doing (many things become mysterious when you don't speak the language) and a bıt skeptıcal but didn't want to be rude. Then he motioned that he had air to pump up the tire. Next he took the tire, and I followed him over to a tank of water, where he dunked it in water and found the puncture. Finally he went into a little hut in the parking lot and suddenly I understood. It turned out he was a professinal tire repairman who'd had a shop at this gas station for ten years. He took the tire and patched it in a few seconds, then moved on to our other punctured tubes, and gave us pointers on the quickest way to change a tire.

In typical Turkish fashion he refused payment but instead invited us to sit for a cup of tea. Mmm... morning till night, the tea and Nescafe flows freely here. Even David has switched from murky Seattle coffee to the sugary pleasures of Turkish tea.

Ups and Downs in Turkey

Hannah failed to mentıon that I ran ınto her, fell over ınto the road ın front of a cement truck. Luckıly everythıng happens ın slow motıon goıng up a steep hıll. The truck lumbered, the drıver yelled, I kıcked and screamed my way out of the clıps and rıghted the bıke and myself wıth tıme to spare. But of course ıt's love and to Hannah's credıt, she neglected to add there were ın fact two hıgh passes we had to cross. The fınal one had a castle and a monastery perched hıgh on craggy rıdges accessıble only by dırt roads wıth a sheer clıff above and below.

So thıngs are goıng great. We're really just gettıng ınto the rhythm of bıkıng every day now. No more frıends or famıly to buffer the days, just the landscape speedıng by and the usual adventures assocıated wıth meetıng the basıc needs of survıval, food, shelter, etc. The sweet endıng of the day yesterday was a slog among the forest of cheaply constructed apartment towers. Apparently buılt ın speculatıon of some tourıst boom that never happened and now sparsely populated by mıgrant fıeld workers and perhaps the odd famıly or two. We had a day of marvelous weather, a strong taılwınd all day, one marvelously frıendly Turk spared the tıme to help us fınd a place to camp and by the end of the day we were on the beach havıng an ımpromptu dınner party wıth the caretaker of thıs lıttle beach cafe. He sold us a couple of enormous beers for 3 bucks, hıs buddy made shısh kebabs of meat, tomato and grılled salmı and shared whıle they pulled out abottle of rakı and ıce. Eventually after much pantomıme and endless searchıng for words ın our Englısh-Turkısh dıctıonary the local mayor shows up for a drınk and a bıte on thıs empty beach. About that tıme we toddled off to our.. Tree house! Secure, cool and pretty dangerous wıth the flımsy boards for a floor. A truck came along the beach sprayıng DDT for the mosquıtoes, no we weren't too happy about beıng sprayed wıth DDT durıng dınner, but we fıgured at least we'd sleep bug free. Almost--they ate Hannah alıve for a change ınstead... But, our 'dıvıne wınd' abated ın the mornıng and we were able to swım and shower. Soon, the wınd kıcked up to speed us on down the road.

Oh, dıd I mentıon the pastrıes? Thıs country ıs awash ın sweets and as a hungry cyclıst, I feel ıt's my job to sample every possıble kınd. OK, tıme to run.

Slooow Boat to Cyprus

Note: Technical difficulties with uploading photos so no pictures this time--sorry!

Getting out of Israel by land or sea is tricky since the ferries stopped running a few years ago. David's cousin works for a shipping company but, unfortunately, the boat we were supposed to be on was delayed. On Thursday we learned that cargo boats sailing out of Haifa take a few passengers but they only leave once a week. So we made a quick decision, and early Friday morning we were on a Greek freighter sailing to Cyprus.

Our fellow travelers were a motley crew: a skinny Frenchman who'd been riding around the Middle East on a dusty, 1980s-era BMW motorcycle and a burly truck driver who does the route from the UK to Qatar. Rounding out our group was a Cockney-accented driver for the Associated Press news channel. He was picking up a satellite broadcast van that had been stationed in Israel for the winter, during Sharon's illness. Next the van will go to Germany, he told us, for the World Cup. Their station doesn't actually have rights to the sports--they just want to be on the scene in case there's breaking news related to the tournament. (Yet another reason to have mixed feelings that we'll be passing through Germany in June.) David promised to shout a few ill-considered taunts to help make the station's work worthwhile.

We did eventually arrive in Limassol, on the south coast of Cyprus, and decided to head east around the island. How can I say this nicely... southeast Cyprus is sort of a European version of Cancun, populated by business such as "Tramps Nightclub," the "British Inn," and more than one "Hawaii Sun Hotel." The tourists are mainly Brits on holiday or Russian tourists on shopping jaunts. Outside the towns we passed by sandy bluffs, blue water, and, everywhere, construction projects. Can't say we'd recommend SE Cyprus except as a place to get drunk in the sun, or as an interesting case study for tourism-fueled overdevelopment.

On Sunday morning we crossed the United Nations border checkpoint into Turkish-occupied Northern Cyprus. Immediately things were more relaxed, more agricultural (to be fair to the Greeks, it may also have been that we headed inland). That afternoon we made our first real climb--500 meters over the coastal range. I stopped suddenly without warning on an uphill and David, who was right behind me, didn't have time to unclip and fell into the road. Luckily for me, he not only forgave me, but took some of my heavier gear for the rest of the climb. If that's not love, I don't know what is.

Next, yet another ferry to mainland Turkey, and some big hills. Yikes!

Following the huskies north, to Haifa (late post)

Well, what sort of day was it? Let me tell you. It was the sort of day that when we pushed our fully-loaded bikes up and over the crest of the rocky, steep trail, after two hours of pushing the bikes along said steep, dusty trail with the sun beating down on us, and we saw burning garbage from the dump behind a Druz village, we were overjoyed. I've never been so happy to see burning garbage in my life.

It meant one thing to us: pavement, blessed, glorious pavement. It turns out pushing a bike up a trail to steep to ride and too rough for our bikes is a lot of work. So while the next couple of hours included some agonizingly steep hills and sucking down diesel exhaust mixed with dust under the same hot sun, really, it wasn't so bad--and an ice cream in the village went a long ways.

Must be some version of karma. We scored an empty beach with palapas at a nature reserve complete with a bay, bathrooms and water. You don't need much more. We had our lazy breakfast, a leisurely swim, a visit and wander among the studios and galleries of En Hod, the artists' village.

I should blame all this on my uncle Yuval. I spoke to him and he suggested this 'wonderful' road, to the village. "No worries, it's not dirt, I think it's the old road," hmmm.... The confusion grew with a visit to the Arab village of Ein Khod and vague directions along one of the many dirt roads. Perfect... for someone with a mt. bike, going the opposite direction.

It makes a good contrast to the surreal comfort of going to my grandmother Noemi's apartment. Everything the same, for the last 28 years at least. Even the views, there's some confusion in my head whether what I'm seeing is there, or I've just dug up some old memory.
Not suprising, Israel is a land of old memories, some personal, some, shared fantasies.