Having struggled for hours in the traffic to reach Istanbul, our departure was somewhat more relaxed as we climbed aboard a quick ferry to the small town of Yalova on the mainland of Turkey. It was the hottest day of our trip so far and the cool sea breeze was soon forgotten, as we headed up a nasty climb soaking our new Gardnertom.com Tshirts in sweat.
The following morning was no easier with the three of us arriving exhausted at a small crossroads situated amongst olive groves, just in time for lunch. Hungry, Russ and I went on the hunt for food, arriving back with a sack of tomatoes and some bread, which to be honest was on its way out. Upon our return, Tim was busy chatting to a young guy by the name of Tarik. Having just got back from America after working for a few months he greeted us in perfect english “your friend said you were looking for some food”, “yeah, just some bread, cheese?”, “Do you want meat?” before we could reply, “ill get some, please sit down” our gatherings looked pretty insignificant compared to the spread which was produced. Home cooked Meat, bread, dolma all washed down with a walnut heavy sweet Baklava.
Our bellies were on the verge of exploding as Tarik invited us for walk around his uncles olive oil factory before we headed off. The afternoons ride did work off a small amount of the Gargantuas feast. We camped that night in a beautiful valley of pine trees, sitting around a small fire before again indulging in the leftovers which Tarik insisted we stuff in our panniers.
Our morning snack stop saw a new introduction, when we were caught by french cyclist Vincent who was heading towards Israel. His bike was heavily loaded with all sorts of bags to which i would try to work out, how much more stuff could one man need. It was good to swap stories from the road, especially about his 5 week-long injury from a fall in Italy. Now, upon hearing about his fall i was thinking this could mean only one thing, a decent from the Alps, trying like us to break the sound barrier however, he later explained he had got his front wheel caught in a railway crossing, fallen off and broken his collar bone. I couldn’t help but kind of laugh.
It was becoming clear that we had slightly under estimated the size of Turkey, if not more the short days, which meant our routine had to be fine tuned down to finest detail just to produce any sort of forward movement on the map.
Leaving Vincent in Eskeshere over a plate of Burek which has seemed to remain a staple since Croatia the road took to the open plains of central Turkey. It was truly an awe inspiring landscape as the road cut through a tree less platue and the days began to blend into one. Temperatures would plumit at night from the hot days to freezing so, a fire was essential in the evening and in the morning to thore off cold hands from handling tent poles.
Extract from Russell Kriby
A day in the life of a cyclist in Turkey
5.55 am
Tim gives his own wake up call, this is an alternative to the call to prayer, usually in the tune of a 90′s dance hit.
6.00am
Begin to remove layers that I am forced to wear due to packing an insufficient tent, coupled with an insufficient sleeping bag.
6.10am
Force the zip that has frozen shut during the night to reveal Dan already busy boiling a pot of water with three tea bags on the petrol stove for our morning cup’a'builders (quote Dorrington verse 1). Eat breakfast (musili is the usual but scrambled or boiled eggs and cooked tomatoes have been sampled*)
*with marmite if you are Dan.
6.30am
Having finished breakfast (10 minutes after the others) I change back into my cycling gear, the cold sweat making it easy to slip into my padded cycle shorts.
6.40am
Pack insufficient tent into insufficient tent bag (which will later in the trip blow away in the wind) with excess ground sheet and guy ropes spilling out of the top. Bunjee everything onto my rack and apologies to the efficient pair who are waiting with me.
6.45am
Hit the road and wait for the sun to break through the cold and thaw fingers, toes and ears.
8.00am
Stop in small single story village to have chi in a small run down hovel with an all essential stove. Listen to an enthusiastic Turk list all the countries he has trucked through ending in Stan. He then asks us questions in Turkish that we don’t understand but scroll through the answers to questions he could be asking…..English…..Syria…..25/26 years old…..Carpenter/English teacher/Recruitment Consultant turned Sports Hospitality marketing and sales person (oh, you don’t understand). Go to pay and discover it has already been paid for.
8.30am
Return to the road. This could be lake side olive groves, snaking sheer drop mountain passes or straight flats stretching to the horizon which disect arrable planes, depending on the region of Turkey we find ourselves in. Let mind switch off and drift lucidly before being snapped into concentration (with a wobble of the bike) by the horn of a passing lorry followed by a beaming smile and a wave of encouragement.
11.00am
Stop in road side town to eat Borek (mince meat surrounded by filo pastry) or Corba (a bowl of soup with a picnic basket size tub of fresh bread which disappears quickly in the presence of a hungry pack).
11.30am
Go to local ‘supermarket’ to buy lunch (usually consisting of bread, cheese, tomatoes and olives) and dinner items. Get followed round the shop by someone who points to every item to make sure we don’t miss anything. The Turkish are obviously taught from a young age that the western world are born partially sighted.
2.00pm
Stop on the road side to eat lunch and to dry our tents (two sufficient, one insufficient) in the beaming sun. Attract attention from anyone within a two mile radius. Old man with moustache and hat too small for his head gestures to us with his arm bent at 12.10 (upper arm being the hour hand and forearm as the minute hand…clearly) to say “what on earth are you doing?”
3.00pm
Ride through quiet village….too quiet….we know it is coming. Dog attack. Decision time. Sprint if you have a clear lead on the dog and you can clear his territory or, particularly if you are heading uphill, maintain a steady speed and reorganise ourselves as a three abreast war chariot that is outwardly impossible to break down but is inwardly sh*tting itself whilst waiting for a frothing mouth barking machine to pounce. The dog which has a neck like a barrel and a mouth like a Japanese kitchen knife set finally is outside it’s village comfort zone and retires to a round of nervous lycra clad laughter.
4.00pm
Sun begins to set. Circa 50 miles covered at various gradients. Find a suitable camping spot. Top trump catagorys include:
- visibility from road
- wood quantity
- surface quality (flat ground in Turkey is nearly all ploughed)
4.15pm
Tea. Of Course. What else.
4.30pm
Collect fire wood, erect tent and stare jealously at Tim and Dan taught structures knowing they are in for a better night than me. Dance to ipod tune for warmth. Watch the others dancing at varying speeds in our silent disco (yes, it is as weird as it sounds)
5.00pm
Make dinner consisting of mountains of carb (pasta, rice, bulgar or potatoes) accompanied by stewed veg (variations of aubergines, onions, tomatoes, cauliflower, chilies, peppers and garlic). Desert for closure – Baklava if possible.
5.30pm
Eat around the fire. Finish last. High brow chat descending to low brow chat.
6.30pm
Watch Match of the Day downloaded on the lap top at the previous internet spot (Istanbul in this case). Gary Lineker and the boys provide T + D with their homely fix and the debate begins….who should Arsenal sign to sure up the back line? how late will United score their latest equalizer/winner?
7.30pm
Time for bed (rock and roll lifestyle). Add layers to get the top half total up to ten. Sleep, fart (due to excess carb diet), turn onto my other side.
8.30pm
Sleep, fart, turn
9.30pm
Sleep, fart, turn
10.30pm
Sleep, fart, turn
11.30pm
Sleep, fart, turn
etc, etc…..
Our destination since leaving Istanbul was the Fairyland landscape of Cappadocia.
For days we would look at the map with one of us asking:
“so where are we roughly”
“Um here”
“and where’s Goreme again?”
“um, over here”
But, exhausted and with 120km bashed out on the last day, we wheeled our bikes into a hostel before the kind owner brewed a couple of coffees as we sat content in the warm. Exploring this strange almost sci fi land the following morning, we ended up on indiana jones style adventure. Weaving our way through dark passages we would step out into small crevasses and climb up dry streams before again descending into a small corridor off darken walkways.
Strolling back we bumped into english cyclist Neil Webb (not to be confused with the 1989 Man Utd player). Looking for a place to stay we guided him to our hostel and spent the evening discussing plans for Syria before later arranging to meet up in southern Turkey to cross the border into Syria.
With our rough route planned, we aimed to avoid a lot of the high passes as we headed out towards Syria. The road descended into a beautiful valley lined with sandstone pinnacles along the eastern and western cliffs. As the day progressed and snow-capped peaks became visible by the afternoon, it became clear that this wasn’t going to be an easy few days ride to the border.
The road was probably our toughest yet but at the same time one of the most spectacular, steep gradient combined with rough tracks meant Russell’s skinny racing tyres crept slowly on the down hills as one valley turned into another. In return the Turkish people seem to show even more hospitality towards our efforts, with a miner’s canteen inviting us in for lunch and another man simply handing us a pomegranate from his passing car which all lifted our spirits.
The town of Feke brought us back to the main road and finally the long descent to the flat plains. Stopping on the decent to find a campsite we rolled our bikes off the road and into a field, thinking nothing of the building at the top of the hill. Tents up a man suddenly appeared, Russ and I headed over and handshakes ensured before we descended into our usual game of charades, impersonating a camping cycling tourist to explain the situation. We were greeted with a gesture which resembled no. Confused as we were the man left and another appeared with slightly better english “chai, you come” “Camping” Russ replied “yes, yes. Chai come” with dinner prepared we said we would come up afterwards.
The warmth of the room was immense given the chill outside and we were pleased to be invited in by the caretaker. We began to chat, pausing to sip on strong tea. He began to produce a few old coins, explaining that he had found them in the field below the house, when suddenly three more men arrived. More handshakes followed before one of the men, with considerably better english than the rest enquired “What are you doing here” “Um camping for the night?” Tim gestured. A long conversation followed, in which we had somehow become expert archeologists and were here to steal the Roman artifacts which our tents potentially were currently sitting on and these three guys just wanted to meet us and make sure we were ready to split everything 50/50. Obviously we calmed them down, saying we didn’t have this in mind and unlike the coincidental european guy who had camped on this guys site before (17 years ago) and stolen artifacts, we were indeed just looking for a place to pitch our tents.
Chai followed chai and eventually we were put up in a small wooden house complete with electic heater. Seddar, the interpreter/entrepreneur greeted us for breakfast with fried eggs and sausage, a good meal to start any day.
As planned, we met up with Neil just east of Adana and headed towards the border town of Killis. After grabbing a quick kebab, Tim dashed into a shop to spend the remainder of our Turkish Lira on chocolate bars for the border, when three more cyclists showed up. All English and all heading to Syria Cliff, Stuart and Craig joined our express train as we confronted the border.
“No Visa?” dressed in a fitting black uniform with white shoulder tags, the border guard didn’t look pleased to find no Syrian visa preset in mine, Tim’s or Neil’s passports. One hour passed untill the now aptly named Stallone looking character summoned us to the headmasters office “come with me”. Like a gangster don, cigarette in one hand, sitting on a comfy leather office chair behind a solid wooden desk the chief of border controls began his interrogation. “Please sit” we sit!! “why don’t you have a visa like the rest” we all sat there, struggling to come up with an excuse, as if we’d returned to school and hadn’t done our home work. “Sir, we tried in Istanbul but the lady said no but, she did say it is possible at the border in Killis” well it was kind of true, plausible at best. A stern look took to his face as a lent back on his chair, almost engulfing the power trip. I thought to myself, here comes the part when he produces a power speech “I’ll see what i can do maybe yes, maybe no, please wait outside” Stallone escorts us like a bodyguard to a row of chairs which line the front of the building. Four hours we wait untill success, im still baffled as to what takes so long and will probably never know but visa in hand we didn’t care.
One nights camp and the seven of us rolled into Aleppo, bad thing was no one had a guide-book, map or a clue of anywhere to stay. Finding a cafe, four of us headed off to find a hotel. The Spring flower was cheap, fairly clean and close to a few restaurants. Falafel followed kebab as we gorged on cheap tasty street food. Awaking the next morning i felt my food baby from the previous night was not in good health, an eggy burp followed by countless trips to the toilet confirmed a quick bout of Gardia, which id last experienced in Pakistan three years before. The treatment, Antibiotics, bananas and bread and a bed, I put my order in with Tim and Russ and lay down.
With time running out for Russ we had decided to take the bus to Tripoli and onto Beirut. I would lay there listening to BBC world on the TV, hearing that England were racing ahead in the Ashes before falling asleep. Drifting in and out of my dazzed like state, i would often find Tim and Russ returning with the other boys after a walk around the city. Explaining how nice the locals were and how many places they had been invited into for a chat over tea before, lying on there back’s, having gorged on record amount of food washed down with huge fresh milk shakes groaning “oh im so full!!!” “I can’t move” but, sadly i didn’t have any food envy.
With me in a mobile state, we said our goodbyes to the others and got Russ’s bike packed up in varying forms of cardboard boxes before boarding the bus to Tripoli. The Lebanese checkpoint was efficient to say the least and we had just an hour till our destination. “Trablous!!” the conductor said, only a fraction louder than the annoying dvd video. After five minutes i lent over to Russ as the bright lights of a city pass “was that Tripoli” “not sure”. Upon asking we find out it was and change out destination to Beirut, Opps!!.
Beirut was amazing, as Porches and BMW drove recklessly fast passed new apartment buildings, which stand side by side with decrepid relics of the past war. Beirut definitely had a certain buzz and our plan was to explore the city before sampling the nightlife on Russell’s last night however, Tim also took a turn for the worse and our antibiotics team was up to two. Sampling the beach was enough though, i mean its December and were swimming on a sandy beach!!.
With Russ gone Tim and I are heading back to Syria to collect our bike and continue our pedaling towards Egypt. With the likes of Palmyra and Petra on route it should be a good few weeks.
