Corrections

Stage 16.3 Limassol to Girne
Day 1: 125km Girne

things i have noticed lately about your blog: the beard is still in evidence; you give the thumbs-up sign WAY too often; there are too many photos of various skeletons; i haven't seen a photo with you and someone of the female of the species for a very, VERY long time

A lovely comment left from a so-called-friend. In an effort to please everyone, I shall endeavour to make changes as recommended. Unfortunately, since my clothes are faded white from the salt in my sweat, and I look and smell lıke a vagrant, women tend to keep a respectful distance.

The cycle out of Limassol reaffirmed my enjoyment of touring cycling 97.682439%. I got tingles down my spine as I descended 10km, having to only turn the pedals 6 times round over this entire distance. Unfortunately, this newly refound enjoyment was whipped away for the final 20km as I swerved and struggled along a flat road at 7km/hr. The bastard wind that had pretended to be my friend earlier in the day was almost full in my face, and the more I swore at it, the stronger it blew. Bastard Wind.

I arrived into Girne at about 5pm to find that there were no ferries that night, but possibly the following morning (provided the winds died down). Girne is not the centre of budget accommodation, but I managed to find a place for about €17 (my general budget ıs €10/day) that was also housing 4 professional footballers (2 from Nigeria, 2 from Ghana) that were trapped on the North Part of the Island waiting for the transfer window to open in Turkey. They had to wait at least a week until the window opened, and now in Cyprus, couldn't afford to return home to wait. I think they'd been there for some time.

82 Turkish Lira (around €50?) got me on the morning ferry to Taşucu, on the southern coast of Turkey. 'Whatever you do, don't miss Cappadocia' is what I've been told at least twice, so I'm going to miss Cappadocia. Just don't feel like cycling there, simple as that.

p.s. ıf Turkish Cyprus is a country, it was number 10 of my trip.

Maybe my command of the french language...in greek...will help the ladies see passed my sweat-covered exterior

A McDonalds carton by the side of the road.


A reflector post by the side of the road. Beside it is a carton of Fanta. I do not lie; a carton!

This one's for you, Struthers!

Why oh why?

Stage 16: Jerusalem to Haifa (and Lisamol) (312km)
Day 1: 99.4km
Day 2: 125.2km where Jordan River enters Sea of Galilee
Day 3: 87.2km Haifa

Why was I cycling back up the section that had been such a wonderful downhill the first time round? It was just plain wrong. Cycling back the same way is never good, and cycling back UPHILL is even worse. It was about 4km too, so I had plenty of time to ponder the question over. Why...why...why...why...why, in time to the (new) pedals turning.

Fear had something to do with it. When almost everyone you meet tells you the way is dangerous, even though you don't believe them, it still lodges there in the back of your head. The what-if questions start to appear. What if it is dangerous? What if it does get dark and I'm still in there? What if someone decides to pull a gun on me, and this time it's not a joke?

But I knew it would be fine. The people were friendly and it was just the Israeli opinion on Palestine. I'd just cycled through Ramallah and all the Palistians I had met were as friendly and courteous as all the other Arabs I've met in the Middle East. One guy walked with me for about 1km to take me directly to the tomb of Yassar Arrafat before shaking my hand and walking back, probably the 1km to where I'd met him. There was no reason to be alarmed. Also, fear hadn't stopped me going into Pakistan or SE Turkey when most people were telling me it was a bad idea. So that wasn't the only reason.

I think I was just tired. I was tired of one set of people telling me the way was blocked and dangerous, and the other set telling me how there were no problems, that the way was fine. I was tired of coming across unexpected roadblocks and tired of roads being on my map, but no longer in existence; blocked off by some concrete blocks and razor wire. I was tired of the wind.

I just wanted to be able to get into a rhythm that has been missing since entering Israel. The wind has been the main factor, but the heat has also had a large affect. The 3 days coming up from the Dead Sea had been very, very tough. Each day, I couldn't have gone further even if I'd wanted to; the wind through Jordan and Israel had just worn me down.

And so, when I came across a checkpoint that I wasn't expecting, and was about to enter another Palestinian Authority Area that, according to my map, I shouldn't be reaching for another 10km, and was told that I couldn't really continue, I just accepted it. I turned my bike around, cycled back up that nice downhill section and took a turning I'd been at 2hrs before (I'd been invited to sit, drink coke, eat chicken and potatoes and drink tea by a Palestinian in the interim before the checkpoint) and started heading the long way around via the Jordan Valley.

The time in Jerusalem had been good. Had stayed with and was shown round the city by Doron, an Israeli I'd met in Petra (thank-you Doron). Topped it off with a sobering visit to the Holocaust Museum.

It took 2 days to reach the northern point of the Sea of Galilee with me camping out above the Jordan Valley half way through my little detour. Surrounded by green hills and light winds, I found new issues to curse at; the humidity was high and small flies in abundance. My eyes were turned into killing machines until I finally decided that it would be ok to wear sunglasses while it was still cloudy.

I was tired before I even got on the bike on the final day to Haifa. I'd had enough, but knew that I'd get at least one rest day once reaching the coast. I got there about 4pm and by 5 had booked myself onto the "ferry" to Cyprus the following day. The ferry is a cargo ship costing 170euro for a one-way ticket to Limassol. A plane would be about half the cost.

"Do you have brothers and sisters? What ages are they?" It was not a question I was expecting from an immigration man wearing jeans and a t-shirt standing in the middle of a car park in front of Haifa Port, but was one that threw me a little during the 10min grilling I got whilst leaving the country. They look at the photo, look at me, turn the page, see the Iran visa, turn the page, see the Syrian visa, turn the page, see the second Syrian visa, then the questions begin. Our passports were then taken from us (there were 5 passengers: a Swiss guy on his motorcycle; a Bulgarian diplomat and his wife returning home after their tour of duty; and a crazy Hungarian guy who defected to West Germany 30 years ago, had been through 2 divorces, had claimed the dole and had been an alcoholic for a few years - no prizes for guessing who I was sharing a cabin with) and returned 4hrs later. Who knows what they were doing with them, but I doubt very much they were idly sitting in a "To Do" tray for very long.

The boat was due to leave at 8pm, so we were pleasantly surprised when we promptly set sail at 11.30pm. After a 10hr crossing we arrived in Limassol Port in Cyprus where we had a brief wait before tying up to the port due to the ship next to us going up in flames. A typical kind of journey I'm sure.

As some people have noticed, the last month hasn't exactly been the most direct of routes home, but I'm finally back on track. The plan is to cycle across Cyprus and to catch a ferry from the northern part back to Turkey. From here, it'll be a (as yet undecided) route to Istanbul, then back across Europe, hitting as many countries as possible so I can bore my grandchildren to tears with stories that begin like: "One time, in Kosovo..."

This wasn't the way to Ramalleh
















This was the way to Ramalleh

















The mighty Jordan River (leaving the Sea of Galilee)
















Swimming in the mighty Jordan River (entering the Sea of Galilee). I didn't swim for very long; tish were splashing about and I wasn't too sure if they were fish that had developed a taste for the fingers and toes of passing tourists.

The Ferry

The Passengers

Burning Boats

The stick is dead; long live the broom

Stage 15: Aqaba to Jerusalem (353km)
Day 1: 31.3km Eilat (Israel)
Day 2: 143.4km Makhteshim En Yahav Nature Reserve
Day 3: 100.4km En Gedi
Day 4: 77.7km Jerusalem


Forget sea-level change, if my funding application is successful I'll change the title: "The occurrence of events to a particular item after discussion, mentioning and/or muttering of said item: a preliminary investigation".

Take Mr Stick for example. No sooner had I extolled his worth to the world (wide web) than he is wrenched unceremoniously from my life. After leaving him safe and sound resting in the shade of my tent, I found him (or rather what remained of him)on the cold embers of a bonfire lit by some Jordonian Philistines. Could they not have seen his immeasurable uses? What really got me aggrevated was that there was about 5 broken pallets lying 20m away! I was absolutely distraught and can only say that when I finally do get round to watching Castaway, I'll identify 100% with Mr Hanks after he loses Wilson.

Although Mr Stick's cycling days are over, his adventure continues; I hurled him into the Red Sea. The world is now his. Long live Mr Stick.

A replacement was in order, so I stopped off at a shop and purchased for myself a new multi-functional travelling companion: Mr Broom Handle. Although some Jordonian police at a checkpoint wanted us to part ways (they showed me a broom with a broken handle and pointed at Mr Broom before pointing at themselves), he is still in my company. Also, besides the best efforts of a taxi driver "Stopstopstop. I think that beyond that checkpoint no bicycles to border", I did manage to reach the border without a reliance on carbon-emitting fossil fuels.

Israel is Europe. The people appear European, the cars appear European and the prices are more than certainly European. The horns are also European. So far on my journey in Israel I have been beeped at 3 times; once because the car itself was carrying bicycles.

I had planned to spend 2 nights in Eilat, but a look on BBC informed me that there would be tailwinds up towards the Dead Sea. The following morning I set off...into a headwind. After cursing the pions in The Corporation for a full 15km, they came good as the winds died down and restarted from the south. Not a strong wind, but it helped.

After 130km, the wind changed to a Northerly and it was STRONG. I struggled on for a short while but had had enough so found a campsite in the lee of an extremely spikey Accacia tree. The wind was still blowing fiercly so I dug a pit in which to do my cooking. No sooner had this been completed than the wind died completely; nothing.

Lying covered in sweat that night in the middle of the desert, I muttered "wouldn't it be nice if there was a bit of a breeze". 2 minutes later I heard a roar as the wind came rushing through the trees. It built up and built up until I was sure the tent was going to blow away. I spent about an hour and a half with my arms against the inside of the tent, pushing against the wind. My main fear was that a twig, never mind a branch, was going to snap of the tree and rip my tent to shreds. Luckily I never mentioned this thought aloud!

The following morning I set off only to bump into Thibaut, the French cyclist from before. Monika had taken her flight back to Europe and he was heading down to Egypt. "I was just thinking of you and if we'd bump into each other" were his words (uttered in a french accent of course).

I camped for free at the free campsite next to the free beach at En Gedi on the Dead Sea, thus obtaining the obligatory float for free. People who say you get nothing for free are wrong.


Was talking to another cyclist along the Dead Sea (not a tourer) and she asked about anything going wrong on the bike. "Not so far" I gleefully replied. Normally when asked this question, I add that little muttered "touch wood" and make a grasp towards Mr Stick (I know, I know. Mr Stick was actually bamboo and thus not wood per se, but I don't really believe in the superstition anyway so it's really neither here nor there whether he was herbacious or not). With our relationship still in its early stages, I refrained from groping Mr Broom. With 15km still to climb to Jerusalem (-400m to +800m), my pedal broke. I got to feel the bearings drop out one by one as I clunked my way to the top of the hill just hoping the whole thing wouldn't drop off. It didn't. However, looking on the bright side, it costs some people thousands in therapy while being doped up to the eyeballs to feel good. It took me just four hours to lift myself out of the largest depression in the world (pictures are of a depressed me).

Am spending 3 nights in Jerusalem before heading north towards the Sea of Galilee.

Sexy Fold

Guess where?

This was my first foray into the old town, and the last thing I expected to find: a tractor faceoff!

At the risk of starting WWIII: It's only a wall people! A mighty fine wall made of micritic limestone blocks, but a wall nonetheless.

Bastard Children

Stage 14: Amman to Aqaba (432km)
Day 1: 98.0km Wadi al-Mujib
Day 2: 92.8km Just short of Tafila
Day 3: 98.1km Bedouin Camp, Petra
Days 4&5: Petra
Day 6: 143.2km Aqaba

Mr Stick is many things: he's a stand for my bicycle, a dog beater, a good listener and a favourable critic of my singing. On the road from Amman to Aqaba a new skill was added to his CV: keeper-awayer of feral children. I don't know what changed, but just south of Amman on the King's Highway that runs down the central part of the country, children turn to demons.

This being a muslim country, I'm sure they are born within wedlock, but they are bastards none the less. One kid spat milk at me while another tried to push my bike over as I was cycling uphill. When I stopped, they ran off. 1km down the road I got the usual "stopstopstopstopstop" and then :"f*ck you" as I cycled past (after I had waved and smiled and greeted the little gurrier).

Then the stone throwing began. Kids see you approaching, and stop to scoop up a couple of respectable sized stones. I had it alright, none hit me. I'd wave and smile at the kids and give my greeting "assalam aleikum", then watch them with eagle-eyes until I was out of range. It did mean not seeing where I was actually cycling, but fortunately there wasn't much traffic on the road. Even with my staring, I still occasionally got a stone fall harmlessly off to my left or right. I went back a few times to confront the stone-thrower with a shrug of my shoulders (french fashion). I didn't get angry, or try to chase them; I'm sure that's half the fun for the kids.

On cycling up one steep section, I spied 4 shepherd kids pick up handfulls of stones and as I approached they started waving their sticks (used to hit the sheep) in a slightly menacing fashion; that was when Mr Stick took up his new roll. I held him aloft as I cycled by (again smiling and greeting them but showing them I meant business) and they kept their distance. No stones came after me, but a few (I can only imagine unprintable) shouts were heard when they were a long way back.

Cyclists I met on the road had it worse; some had been hit by rocks rather than stones. We all got the ubiquitous "money-money-money" by snot-nosed 8-yr-old kids with outstretched hands as we cycled by. I'd love to meet the tourists that do give money to cute children by the side of the road, then give them a serious beating. Nothing good comes from it.


Apart from the children, the cycling was fantastic. For the first time since leaving the mountains of Turkey can I say that the scenery was spectacular. Steep gorges afforderd fantastic views, but gave my calves a good workout. My first night out of Amman, I camped at the top of one and was invited to gorge on a large buffet dinner by 23 German pensioners travelling down to Aqaba in a convoy of 12 camper vans. It was not the last time I met them, or benefitted from their fantastic friendliness and hospitality.

The first night in Petra I had been invited by the germans to stay in a Bedouin camp with them 10km outside the main town. The setting was stunning with red sandstone hills completely surrounding the camp and I got drunk on 8% beer and schnapps made from white strawberries of the Black Forest. Cycling back to Wadi Musa (the town by Petra), my throbbing headache was aggrevated by my first puncture of the trip. Just over 5000km and a steel wire was the source of my woes.

Petra was as stunning as every superlative used to describe it. I'll let the pictures do the talking.







From Petra, I did the 143km to Aqaba in one day. I'd heard stories of 70km+ of downhill, and although these were true, a strong wind managed to make the downhill seem like uphill. Having expected an easy 70km descent into the city, I found myself struggling to even make 20km/hr on steep downhill section, sapping my energy and enthusiasm. Jaded, I arrived into Aqaba 11.5hrs after leaving Petra; 9hrs in the saddle.

Kenny and Magnus, along with the whole contingent of German campervanners, were present in the campsite next to the Red Sea. I drank a few beers to celebrate the crossing of an entire country without once being transported by a motorised vehicle. In Beirut, I took a couple of taxis, and in Turkey, a shepherd drove me 800m to his house for some food; provided I get to the border with Israel (20km away) as planned, Jordan will be the only country in the world in which I will not have had to rely on fossil fuels to travel.

Woohoo!


Sicander was mercilessly bullied by the larger vehicles until I threw rocks at them.

These children were nice. I stayed at this house the night before arriving in Petra

Troglodyte me

Red Sea Sunset