From Delhi to Dublin

The End

2008-08-19T09:24:00.000-07:00

Stage 27: London to Dublin (539km: Total = 13,600km)
Day 1: 125.0km Oxford
Day 2: 125.1km Bagworth
Days 3&4: Drinking days
Day 5: 51.2km Rugeley
Day 6: 62.0km Ash Magna
Day 7: 60.6km Corween
Day 8: 69.6km Bangor
Day 9: 45.5km DUBLIN

"How far to Oxford? Is it about 60?"

"No mate, it's more like 80"

You'd have thought that after travelling through 25 countries, I may actually have picked up some practical skills for travelling; a bit of common sense, or something similar. I guess it's not quite as bad as the day I set off on this trip, but it was still pretty damned stupid.

I was wondering why the hell my friend had told me 80, when I was absolutely nowhere near to Oxford after cycling 80km and was quite possibly only five eights of the way there. I'd left Croydon (south of London) just after midday to be sure I didn't arrive too early, but now with the rain hammering down and sunset a not-too-distant prospect, it suddenly dawned on me that I had again been the idiot.

Still, I reached Oxford just a little before it was too dark to see, cycled to the train station only to find that the phone boxes were out, cycled to the main street to find a phone to call my friend, cycled to the train station to meet my friend, then walked back past the main street with my friend to go stay the night in one of the colleges of the university.

A good time was had by all...

...after I had eaten.

Of course, cycling 50% more than I was planning on doing on day one meant I could hit Leicester the second day, which is exactly what I did. I called in to see Adam and Eleri, who I had stayed with for my first 3 months living in the arse end of the arse end of Leicestershire. Think of a town called Coalville, think of what a lovely place that must be, then think of a village 8km outside of Coalville. That is where I stayed.

But the sun was shining as I approached the house, and so once again the excitement of seeing familiar territory consumed my tired muscles as I rounded the last bend and began the descent into Bagworth.

3 nights were spent there, catching up with old friends and maybe, just maybe having a drink or two. I can't really remember.

Adam joined me over the final distance. I was in two minds before about what this would be like. Having travelled for so long with only Mr Broom for company, an extra pair of ears for my random ramblings was more than welcome, but with the finish line so almost in sight, I almost wanted to put my head down and make a final sprint for the ferry.

All I can now say is a big thank-you to Adam for coming along. Without him, I would have gone hell for leather towards Holyhead; with him, the final stretch was done in 5 days. A good amount of time to appreciate the joys of cycle touring and to reflect on the previous 9 months. Months where temperatures ranged from -5ºC to +37ºC; elevation from +3000m to -400m; accommodation varied from a tent by the side of the road to the house of a Tribal Lord in Pakistan; and food changed from the spicy curries of India, to the sweet, syrupy baklava of the Middle East. The one constant was the warmth of reception that I received wherever Sicandar, Mr Broom and I ended up.

I won't bore you with details of the final section of rolling hills leading up to Welsh mountains coming down to Welsh islands and across to Scandinavian shipping. I will show you the pictures though.

Adam cooking dinner. After one day, he'd had enough of what I'd been eating for 6 months. We cooked chicken the second night. I'm not kidding...CHICKEN!

Entering Wales

Sicander and his new friend Winston

We got some unwanted attention from our neighbours. Hoosh!

Look-at-me-cycling-Adam

Welsh us

Final Welsh pass

Look at the sea! There's the sea! I see the sea!!!

Winston and Larry (the lamb)

It was easy

Look at the ferry! There's the ferry! I see the ferry!!!

Look at the ferry door! There's the ferry door! I see the ferry door!!!

Where's India?

So what does it feel to be back?

I don't really know how to answer that. I'm just taking things slowly at the moment. I will say what it doesn't feel like.

It doesn't feel like a big achievement.

That may sound strange to some people, but it's the truth. The way that I've dealt with this trip the whole way through has been to always try and break it down into smaller chunks. When I left Delhi, I focussed in on Rishekesh. When I was getting soaked in Serbia, I focussed in on Belgrade. Each stage by itself is no massive achievement. Now that I'm home, the only achievement I feel is the one for finishing the stage from Leicester to Dublin; it's not that big a deal.

What I do remember though, and what I hope to never forget, is the feeling I had as I first wheeled my bike out of the house and made my hurried departure out of Dublin. That feeling I had as my front wheel wobbled its way down the street towards the ferry. The feeling I had as my front right pannier fell off my bike as I exited the HSS in front of a rather large truck.

"Go home Kieran. You're not supposed to do this. You're not supposed to be here. You don't want to do this. Just turn around. Get back home. Just go home."

Back then, the trip seemed massive; I couldn't comprehend it. Now, it seems like an ordinary little jaunt on a bicycle; a little 5 day trip (repeated over and over again).

"The only mountains are in our minds"

I saw that comment on someone elses fundraising page. It's a load of bullshit. Will is sure to let slip that there's a couple of mountains in Nepal, and I'd chip in there myself and nonchalantly mention that there's a mountain or two in Turkey and Austria. But behind the managment crap and feel-good motivational spirit of that phrase is a small element of truth.

As we cycled off the ferry, I thought of the long uphill back to the house. We cycled along the coast to Glasthule; it wasn't as far as I had remembered it. We cycled up the hill to Glenageary Dart Stataion; it wasn't as steep as I remembered. We cycled up to the house; it wasn't as far, or as steep as I remembered.

I was home.

Every rain shower. Every day over 30 degrees. Every day under 0 degrees. Every broken spoke. Every puncture. Every 10% gradient. Every wrong turn. Every stone thrown. Every bug in my eye.

All systems go

2008-08-04T08:40:00.000-07:00

Stage 26: Paris to London (512km)

Day 1: 145.8km Verneuil
Day 2: 115.1km Bynd Lyons de Foret
Day 3: 119.5km Noyelle sur Mer
Day 4: 131.9km Near Folkestone (England)

"Hhhhmmmm", I thought to myself, "Alasdair seems to have a bit of a buckle in his back wheel. It looks worse than yesterday."

"Hey Alasdair, it looks like you have a buckle in your back wheel. It looks worse than yesterday. Stop a while and lets have a look at it."

Alasdair stops, we look at the back wheel. "Shit man, it's rubbing off your brakes, must have made cycling pretty difficult! We'll try fix it". Out came the spoke tightner. "Oh! You've got a broken spoke. If only we'd actually gone out and bought some spokes after we'd spoken about buying them in Paris, we could have fixed it up here and now. But not to worry, it's not that big a dilly of a pickle. We'll straighten the wheel a bit and pick up some spokes at the next bike shop we pass. Most large towns here seem to have them. It'll be sorted."

We didn't pass another bike shop, but cycled round Calais and managed to pick one up before crossing into England. It was all sorted.

Unfortunately, that conversation and those events never occured. Instead, it went something like this...

"Hhhhmmmm", I thought to myself, "Alasdair seems to have a bit of a buckle in his back wheel. It looks worse than yesterday...I should probably say something...But we're making good time...The wind is behind us...and the weather is awful. I don't really want to break the rhythm...and if we stop, the wind may turn. May as well make hay whilst the sun shines and get to Calais, it's only another 50km or so. We can sort it out on the boat".

I overtook Alasdair so I no longer had to watch his rear wheel wobbling in front of me.

On the boat...

"Hey Alasdair, I think you have a bit of a buckle in your back wheel. Let's have a look at it...oh shit, you have a broken spoke. We'll straighten it out when we get off the boat".

While looking at the broken wheel off the boat...

"You see, here's the spoke that's broken, but don't worry, I cycled 80km with a broken rim in Slovenia, it'll be ok for a few more kilometres. Hang on a second...wasn't the broken spoke you had on the boat the one with the reflector on it? Oh...you have 2 broken spokes...wait...no...you have 3 broken spokes. Ok, let's see what we can do. I think we can straighten out the worst of the buckle, hang on a second...(I get the spoke tightener out of my bag). Ping! Ok...right...em...you now have 4 broken spokes! Shit! Ok...right...em...what can we do?"

We stood there assessing our possibilities.

"Right. So it's saturday? What time is it? 8pm. That's French time? ...that makes 7pm British time. Any bicycle shops open in Dover at 7pm on Saturday? Probably not...

"Ok, what if we wait a day. What day is it tomorrow? Sunday? Any bicycle shops open in Dover on a Sunday? Probably not...

"Hhhhmmmmm"

And so, myself and Alasdair parted ways next to the National Express bus stop 0.8km into Britain. He caught a bus to London.

It had been good cycling with Alasdair. Cycling with another person had lifted my spirits by quite a way. The days had passed quicker and I didn't notice the hunger and tiredness quite as much as I had on the stretch from Switzerland to Paris.

Full credit should go to "the man". His fitness coupled with an absolute stubborness to appear even fatter than me had enabled us to get an average daily kilometerage of 125km over the 4 days we cycled together. That is a lot, quite a lot; particularly for someone who hadn't cycled more than 50km before joining me!

Our first day out of Paris had been a long day. 146km is an incredibly distance to do on one's first day ever cycling with panniers. Taking us 9hr 05min, it also meant that Alasdair's first day was the longest day I've spent in the saddle thus far this trip. Previous to this, 8hrs 58min had been the undisputed record holder. We arrived into Verneuill at 10 minutes past 10, about half an hour or more after sun down. I don't think we could have gone on much longer!

But we had a rest day spent with my aunt, uncle and cousin where we got cleaned up and pampered with good food and good wine. It is a pity we couldn't stay longer, but with a new deadline to be back home by the 17th of August, I felt we had to push on.

And push on we did. A case of tunnel vision brought on by the realisation that I was very nearly at the end of mainland Europe kept the revolutions high as we pedalled north from Verneuil across the rolling hills of Normandy and beyond. The roads were generally quiet and the wind gods were favourable as we strove to reach Calais in 3 days.

Reach it we did, though the weather turned nasty on the final afternoon. But my destruction of well loved songs continued unabated and we soon found ourselves on the ferry surrounded by English accents. It felt strange...very strange.

Following our bus-stop farewell where Alasdair had held up a white hankerchief and let the tears fall unashamadely down his chubby, rosy cheeks, I cycled off into the (nearly) setting sun to find a campsite next to a concrete listening post atop the cliffs between Dover and Folkestone.

I awoke at 04.50 UK time (I was still able to work off French time, so it wasn't as bad as it may first appear) to start my approach into London. Images of flat plains directly into London were quickly dispelled as I huffed and puffed my way up and down the hills in Kent.

Plans to attend Climate Camp in Kingsnorth (http://www.climatecamp.org.uk/home) had been shelved after our rapid approach to Calais. I had hoped to stay for one night, but the desire to get home prevailed and I found myself cycling passed where it was due to be held at about 7am on the morning of the 3rd. For hours, I was in turmoil. Do I stay or do I go? But unfortunately, like the actions of the masses when it comes to climate, I gave in to convenience. It was more convenient for me to cycle directly into London, then to wait an extra day; just as it is more convenient to take the car than to walk or cycle.

So London I have reached. Well, Croydon at least. The next stop is Leicester, and in doing I should pass through Oxford for a night on the way up.

Dave (former flatmate in Leicester) in the Louvre. He came out for a cheap weekend in Paris.

Alasdair outside Verseilles on our first day

We got a proper sending off escort from my aunt and uncle

A good little singsong

2008-07-24T06:02:00.000-07:00

Stage 25: Basel to Paris (576km: Total = 12,417km)

Day 1: 81.6km Before Le Markstein (France)
Day 2: 122.7km Near Mirecourt
Day 3: 135.6km Beyond Montier-en-Der
Day 4: 131.9km Beyond Esternay
Day 5: 104.5km Paris

The final day of cycling was actually quite good. There was a hint of a tailwind, so I can't take all the credit for myself. I'd like to, but I can't. The tailwind gods should be given their due too, so thank-you tailwind gods. It's not that the rest of the days were bad, they were ok, especially Day 3. But a slight headwind was present for most of every day, starting soon after 8am and generally growing throughout the day causing a corresponding, but inverse, change in enthusiasm and energy on my part. Don't get me wrong, it was no Jordan or Israel, but flat rolling hills of monocultures of wheat just doesn't do too much to inspire me. Day 3 I managed to let my mind wander a bit, so it passed quickly enough, but I noticed that at 2pm I was still just waiting for 6pm so I could get off the bike and camp.

It's a combination of things I'm sure. The closer I get to home, the harder it gets for me to focus on the next stage. Instead of just thinking about reaching Paris, I'm constantly thinking of reaching Dublin instead. The only thing is that cycling doesn't get easier the more you do. 1000km is still 1000km whether it's at the start of the journey, or the end. The only difference is that at the start of the journey, you expect 1000km to be hard. Towards the end, having already done over 10 times that distance, your mind tells you differently.

-Don't stop me now (Queen)
-Karma Police (Radiohead)
-Whiskey in the Jar (Thin Lizzy)
-Dirty old Town (The Pogues version)
-The Wild Rover (don't know)
-The Irish Rover (Pogues again)
-Fairytale of New York (another Pogues)
-All the Lonely People (Beatles)
-The fields of Athenry (don't know off the top of my head)
-Basket Case (Greenday)
-Longview (Greenday)

finished off with:

-Ireland's call

and

-Amhrainn na bhFiann

All these songs have been belted out in a rather tuneless fashion to stave off boredom and to keep me moving along. (In Italy, I was half way through the Fields of Athenry whilst cycling through a tunnel [the acoustics were really quite good], when I got this rather quizzical "hello" as I exited. There, parked out of view from the road [but easily within hearing distance] was a german camper van with a german camper vanner with a rather confused look on him. I muttered a quick reply before quickening my pace and finishing the verse out of earshot round the next corner.)

But day 5 was ok. It helped that I passed a field other than a staple of some kind or another; an entire field of 6 foot high marajuana plants. Picked just one leaf to press and keep for posterity. I figured there was no real point in picking more given that there must probably be some fairly stringent regulations on THC content to allow an entire field of weed to be grown without fences or security or anything like that.

Still, I've reached Paris. Getting into the city was a bit of a bitch. I'd managed to stick to quiet roads for most of the way towards this capital, but the map I had just showed a number of autoroutes all leading into the centre. This was backed up by most people's directions which usually included the word "autoroute" whenever I stopped to ask. They always got a bit stumped when I then politely pointed out that in actual fact, although I was a foreigner, I was reasonably sure that bicycles weren't allowed on autoroutes. Luckily, I met one man who directed me towards the "Bords de Marne"; a cycle track I could then follow which brought me towards the periphary of Paris.

Seeing the Eiffel Tower was quite a moment on this trip. Since leaving Delhi, everything has been new; every city has been new, and along with it every street. On arrival in India, it was a bit of a comforting experience to wander through Connaught Place in the centre of New Delhi and recognise the layout from the previous year. There is something comforting in familiarity. I've even noticed that when I visited restaurants in Iran and elsewhere, if I'd been there the previous day, I'd always automatically try and sit in the same seat and have the same view as before.

Finally, after 8 months, I got to see some familiar sights again. I grew excited as I cycled up the street where my aunt's flat is. There was the park I'd first seen when I was 8 yrs old; it had actually been my birthday and I had been wearing a badge that I'd got with a birthday card (I'd felt INCREDIBLY old; after all, I was no longer 7). There was the door I'd been forced to stand outside because I'd forgotten the code and had to wait until someone living inside had walked out before I could get back in. There was the lift, the first small lift I'd ever been inside (and maybe the only lift besides the ones in Dun Laoghaire shopping centre). It all came flooding back, all the more so because I am so unfamiliar with seeing familiar items (my bags and bike are no longer items, they are actually a part of me!).

Not only is it the start of familiar territory for me, it should also be the end of solo cycling. Alasdair McFatty Fat Fat Nicol has finally decided that German is a dead language (or at least that the classes are dead for the summer) and should be bringing himself and his belly to Paris on Monday from where we will be striking out towards my aunt's other place in the country before heading north to Callais. People in London and Leicester have also expressed interests in doing stages, so let's just hope they're as good as their words (Chris Nightingale, Oliver Walton, David McCabe, Adam Short, Frank Henry Kerr Allison Esquire).

They have been named, will they be shamed?

Given the merciless bullying that I received from Mick and others on the general state of my own belly, I even decided to stop eating quite as much as before on the last leg. Can someone really cycle 13,000km and actually gain weight? I figured I didn't want to be the exception to the rule. However, upon reaching this city, I've decided that I actually quite like having rich, creamy butter spread over still warm french baguettes with a liberal smothering of chocolate spread. For some strange reason it just tastes nice.

So screw all you scrawny bastards, the belly is here to stay.

Entering France with Mick

France. Such an uninspiring landscape. This was even before the monocultures began.

Detour after detour

2008-07-14T07:42:00.000-07:00

Stage 24: Innsbruck to Basel (653km)

Day 1: 115.6km Beyond Schongau (Germany)
Day 2: 77.7km Augsburg
Days 3-6: Berlin
Day 7: 87.7km Beyond Memmingen
Day 8: 144.6km Beyond Sevelen (Switzerland)
Day 9: 112.2km Beyond Winterthur
Day 10: 115.1km Basel

It was all the stupid bint's fault; her and that child. If she hadn't been so damned clever and stupid at the same time, I could have done it. Even though it was the end of a long day, I'd taken precautions; I had my passport in my pocket and had taken a piss before entering. I could have done it, and I would have done it. But instead, I get this woman jumping out at me on a quiet dirt road asking that stupid question. A stupid question in German would have been fine, I could have answered it without stopping with a little shrug of my shoulders and one of the only phrases I know (ich spreichen kein deutch). But a stupid question repeated in English resulted in a cessation of my forward momentum.

"Is this a dead end street or not?"

I stopped and looked at the four full pannier bags on my bike with my sleeping bag perched on the top of the back two. When I purse my lips, I can see the hairs of my beard on my upper lip. I'm fairly sure I didn't look your typical Lichenstinian banker out for his early evening cycle on familiar streets.

"I'm afraid I have absolutely no idea" I reply with my left foot planted firmly on the ground. "I just saw the sign saying this was a cycle path and am now following it."

"Yeah, I saw that sign too. I guess I'll just continue on"

"You do that"

I lifted my foot, cursing the brilliant linguistic skills of continental people for the remainder of that non-dead-end-street.

Lichenstein was going to be the one country I had cycled across, but never set foot in. Whenever that little banking country's name was mentioned in passing (and I would ensure it was mentioned often), I would be able to stun people with this little titbit of Craven trivia. I could then sit back and watch as they gave two little chuckles of mock amusement before they backed slowly way thinking to themselves "My GOD! The man's cycled from India to Ireland and that's the best he can come up with".

Of course, it was all ruined by that idiotic woman and ugly child. So now I have only a story about how I failed to cycle across a country and not set foot in it. It may actually be a little more interesting...

So after leaving that last post on a bit of a cliffhanger, I decided to head north into Bavaria to the home of Thorben who I was at university with. On my way, I experienced first hand that generosity towards strangers does not necessarily stop at the borders to the EU. After finishing up on the internet (I managed to write the whole blog on the free internet, but had to go to a paying one to upload photos. A fair compromise I believe) I made my way to a campsite on the outskirts of the city. A storm was brewing, and I didn't quite want to be camping in a big open field during another electric storm. There I met Charls, an Austrian who was now living in Switzerland. I managed to decline the offer of a free meal in the campsite restaurant, but not the €10 he insisted in pressing in my hand the following morning. I managed to buy a couple of baked delights with it, so thank-you Charls.

I must now retract my previous statement about the Alps being a close second to the Himalaya. True, they are impressive, but it was a premature outburst. From Innsbruck, I had only one more measly pass (at 15%) to sweat up before a long descent out of the mountains brought me into the rolling hills of Bavaria. I had been expecting another 150km of mountains, and although the countryside was nice and green, there wasn't quite the thrill of mountain cycling present. Still, I made it to Augsburg in a day and a half.

Thorben was the first pre-cycle-journey-non-family-member that I had met thus far, and it was good to see another familiar face. His mother was also a fantastic cook who didn't shy away from the use of large amounts of potatoes!! I left Sicandar behind to rest as Thorben and I caught a lift up to Berlin.

Berlin was a great city and I caught up with a couple of other friends from St Andrews along with Thibault and Monika who I'd cycled with in Syria. The more continental cities I get to see, the more I come to realise just how rubbish Dublin actually is. Even stepping in a massive pile of dogshit on my final night didn't mar my views on the German capital (It did help that I was wearing Alasdair's shoes at the time!).

A return to Augsberg on Monday evening was followed by a relatively late departure towards Lichenstein on Tuesday. Thorben's mother was my guide through the forest towards the main road and she absolutely destroyed me on the slight uphill inclines. I had a thought at the start of the trip that cycling 12000km would make me fit; instead I find that my 36 inch waist is now 36.5, I've put on a kilo, and I sweat an awfully lot more! I guess eating enough food for 2 people may be contributing towards this conundrum slightly.

It was on the end of the second day out of Augsberg that I reached Lichenstein and succesfully cycled through it with putting only one foot in it. I even hit the capital city and cycled passed the football stadium where I think Ireland was once held to a 0-0 draw, before the Lichenstinians went for a lap of honour. It might have been Lithuania, but I'm fairly sure it was the bankers (and that was even back when Ireland was "good").

Two days was spent crossing Switzerland along a more northern route that wasn't in the high mountains. The detour to Bavaria and Germany, although being fantastic had broken my rhythm somewhat. The 2 days back to reach Lichenstein (more just to add another country to my list than anything else: Switzerland was the 25th so far this trip) again took its toll as I was, once again, travelling in the "wrong direction". I needed to get some forward momentum going again, and I needed to reach Basel.

So here I am now, staying with Mick, a friend from Ireland. It took a little bit more effort than I'd previously estimated. I'd passed a roadsign at one point saying 90km to Basel on the main road, before passing another on the cycle path 2km further down indicating 110km to the same destination. Since entering Austria, I've been undecided on the merits of the excellent network of cycle paths that crisscross these countries. My current views: good for a lazy Saturday afternoon cruise, crap for a cycle tourist; though perhaps that's just crap for a cycle tourist that doesn't have a cycle map! Though I am grateful to the two Swiss cyclists from Zurich who cycled about 2km out of their way to direct me onto the national cycle route and told me what routes I'd want to follow. It did help a lot, and was nice to be away from traffic for a bit.

Quite how long I'll be here, I'm not entirely sure. I'm meeting some more friends in Paris on the last weekend of July, so that's when I've got to be there. There's a possibility I may head a little south to meet up with Danielle, the Swiss motorcyclist who was on the ferry from Israel to Cyprus, but right now, I think that it's one detour too many. Of course, tomorrow could bring along a completely different frame of mind. We shall see...

and once again I've shaven off my jesus beard. I was tempted by a goatee, but then slapped myself across the face and reminded myself they're just poncy.

Scaling the Berlin Wall

Thorbs and me

Thorbs's mother...well in front of me!

Caesar, the Italian cyclist in fantastic wedgie-defying shorts

Lichenstein

Before

Goatee

The return of the chin

The Big One

2008-07-01T05:59:00.000-07:00

Stage 23: Zagreb to Innsbruck (760km)

Day 1: 111.3km Near Sumnik (Slovenia)
Day 2: 56.3km Ljubljana
Days 3-4: Rest days/drinking days
Day 5: 114.9km Nr Rocinj
Day 6: 107.7km Beyond Gemona (Italy)
Day 7: 105.1km Beyond Oberdraubu (Austria)
Day 8: 86.2km Near Fusch a.d.Gr (The Big One)
Day 9: 94.7km Beyond Gerlos
Day 10: 84.0km Innsbruck

Right, so it's hot, I'm tired, I'm sitting on an EXTREMELY uncomfortable seat, half-crouching at the computer with a German keyboard that I'm unable to change to the normal layout, but we'll see how it all goes. Why is the seat so uncomfortable? Well, in an effort to stick to my €10 a day budget (an effort that gets harder by the country; especially when one is surrounded by Apfelstrudel and other such delights) I have found myself at a free internet kiosk that is naturally designed to keep you there for as short a time as possible. But maybe, just maybe I'll be able to beat the system.

So a fair amount has happened since the last "proper" update. Jimmy, you get the prize, I should have known someone would pick up on that, and I should have known it would be you.

I left Zagreb in the sweat-inducing heat that I shall always now associate Croatia with and had a nice easy cycle up to Ljubljana. It follows the river for the whole way, so it was flat, with a nice cooling breeze from the river. I camped one night, and my only visitor was a deer that ran at the smell of me, crying the very un-deer like cry that I'm sure all deer make, but that sounds like a horse being strangled and vomitting at the same time. It did make me feel better because I had heard that sound in the darkness 4 days previously and it had scared the hell out of me.

Two nights in Ljubljana turned into three. I usually arise at 6am on the day I'm meant to cycle. This time, the day I was meant to cycle, I came home at 6am! A night out partying with my couchsurfing hosts required a day sleeping to recouperate. Ljubljana is a fantastic city even if just sitting doing nothing resulted in sweat running down one's back. Thank-you to all you guys that made my stay there such a fantastic one.

So, having spent longer that I'd planned, and with the heat remaining comfortably in the 30's, I was looking forward to finally entering the Alps. The air would be cool, the scenery beautiful, and once I'd popped out the other side, I'd almost be home. Unfortunately, I hadn'd thought about my equipment. Over my first pass, I hit a rough section of road and looked down to see a massive buckle in my back wheel. "Shit! Another spoke gone", is what I naturally thought, but a quick check showed all to be intact. It was then that I saw the massive crack in my rear rim where 2 spokes had almost been pulled right through. I managed to adjust the others so that the wheel didn't rub off the break pads and continued on 40km to Tolmin to where I hoped there would be a bike shop.

There was a bike shop and it did have rims, but in the words of the bike shop man "these rims are awful". A call to Ljubljana just informed the man, who then informed me, that none of his suppliers had any rims that would be any better. So it was back on the bike to head 40km south of my intended route to Nova Gorica, where maybe, just maybe they would have a decent rim.

I reached there the following morning. Yes they had a better rim, yes they had DT spokes (i.e. good ones) with which to fix it. No, they couldn't fix it today. No, they didn't think there was a camp site in Nova Gorica. So, it was over the border into Italy to try my luck.

With "no ablo Italienno" being about the only Italian I knew at the time (or at least, the only Italian I THOUGHT I knew; I think it may actually be Spannish!), it took a bit of time to find a bike shop on the Italian side of the city (the two parts seem to run into each other). Yes they had a rim. Yes they had DT spokes. How long would it take? The man pursed his lips, my spirits fell, and he said "in about an hour".

Sold.

90min later, €54 lighter, with my bike set and ready to go with a new map of the Alps in my front left pannier bag I set off North back into the mountains. The area around Tolmin had reminded me exactly how much I love mountains and I was anxious to get back into them as quick as possible. I was not disappointed and camped in the shadow of a rather impressive peak.

But more was in store as I crossed into Austria the following day. I've enjoyed all the scenery I've passed through thus far but, with the exception (maybe) of SE Turkey and the area around Daramshala, the Alps have once again blown everything else out of the water. Obviously the Himalayas are the king, queen, jack, and 10 of hearts of mountains, but the Alps are a close second. Plus, on this trip, I only really got a glimpse of the foothills of the Himalaya. This time round, I'd have a decent enough time to enjoy the hills.

I hit 3 passes the first day, before reaching the top of "The Big One" on mz second day in Austria. I believe it to be the highest pass in Austria and skirts round the highest mountain: the GroSSlockner. It stands at a rather modest 2504m. I've been higher on this trip, I think I hit a 3000m pass or two in Iran, but you start on a plateau, so it doesn't feel so bad. This time round, I started at about 700m, climbed to 1200m, before descending to about 800 or so. A gradual climb over 30km up the vallez ensues before a final ascent from the town of Heiligenblut. It's 16km from here to the pass. 16km of road at a 12% gradient.

Road gradients meant nothing to me before this trip. Some were uphill, some downhill. Others were vaguelly flat, while there were some that were sneaky bastards as they appeared downhill, but were actuallz very slightly uphill. But 12% is steep. Quite steep. And there was almost no let up the entire way up. My lungs were screaming after about 500m and all I could do was tell myself there was "only" 15.5km to go.

It took 4 hours to reach the pass. Four hours of hypnotising myself with the sound of my breathing to forget about the pain in my legs. Four hours of staring at the road 4m in front of me telling myself to "just reach there". Four hours of waiting for the hairpin bends where the gradient reduced enough to take my hand off the handlebars so I could take a drink of water, or wipe the sweat out my eyes.
Will, I respected you before for crossing the Himalayas. I respect you even more now.

But after four hours, I reached the top...only to be afforded with 50% of a view, though it was a cracking view. The other 50% was on the other side of a short tunnel. As was a 300m descent followed by another 200m ascent. More fantastic views awaited there, I got to enjoy them for a full 45min as I waited for the 16 hair pin bended road to reopen after the classic motorbike racing that had caused it's closure. In all, over the 3 passes I hit that day, I think I climbed about the full 2500m.

It took 4 hours to ascend. It took 4 hours to descend. Why? It was those bastard punctures again. Sneaky punctures, with no obvious cause. Eventually, I had to fix both tubes again and cooked my rice on the side of the mountain while I gave them time to set.

That night I curled myself into a ball and thought it was the end of my adventure as the thunder and lightening crashed overhead. I counted the timings as the storm approached, and counted them as it departed. But for a full 10 minutes, all I could think about was the Aluminium tent poles, the open field I was in and the 4m between myself and the higher trees. Was it close enough? I thought about getting out and lying flat on the ground outside, but it was absolutelz pissing it down and I didn't really want to get wet...particularly if my tent didn't get struck by lightening. Then, I'd just look like a wet, almost naked fool.

Had a 600m climb yesterday on a 9% gradient that I pushed myself up repeating again and again "it's easier than yesterday". A pleasant descent followed by some valley cycling, often along quiet cycle paths has brought me to this city where I intend to finalise the next leg of my route home. I either head straight for Switzerland, or I go up to Bavaria before coming back on myself to head into Switzerland.

I'd better decide fast because the turn-off is in about 10km.

Oh yeah, and before I congratulating you on actually reaching the end of this post, can I just say the cycle paths in Ljubljana are the best I've ever come across. I usually avoid cycle paths like the plague. Cars don't see you and you lose right of way at every road and driveway you come across. But in Ljubljana, the bikes have right of way at crossings, and the traffic lights for bikes are the same as for cars. So basically, you have the same rights as a road user, only you're off the road.

congratulations. here's some photos.

2 of my hosts in Ljubljana

Entering the Alps (slovenia)

Entering Italy

Italian mountain

Entering Austria

My reaction to...

...this sign (at the base of the Hochter pass)

Sicandar taking a rest up the ascent

At the pass

The descent

Austrian Mountains

More mountains

...and a lake

A kingdom for a rim

2008-06-27T09:38:00.001-07:00

Wheel broke. Wheel fixed. In Italy. Going to Austria. Internet thin on the ground.

Kit

2008-06-21T04:06:00.000-07:00

I was going to put this up at the end; but since it's been requested...

Essential Kit:
- 1 x Bicycle (preferably with two wheels)
- Mr Broom

Non Essential Kit (but it helps):
- 4 x pannier bags. El Cheapos on the front; Vaude on the back
- Brookes leather saddle
- Schwalbe Marathon Tyres
- Granny gears (22 teeth on the front helped reduce uphill cursing by 83%. FACT!)
- tent (one man, lightweight - would recommend larger)
- sleeping bag
- inflatable roll mat (punctured once, in process of delaminating; foam could be better)
- camping stove and fuel bottle (multi fuel stove; Israeli imitation; known to spray petrol in various directions)
- 2 x small cooking pots
- First Aid kit
- Canvas poncho (groundsheet/rain-keeper-offer/bag-coverer/shade-provider)
- Duck tape
- Collapsible bucket (Ortileb)
- Penknife

Non Essential Kit (keeps you fit carrying it uphill):
- Bike tools (rear cassette remover, spoke tightener, pliers, Allan keys, bike pump)
- Bike parts (spare tyre [used], spare inner tube, break pads, 2 brake cables, 2 gear cables, spokes, spare chain [used for removing rear cassette]
- Bike oil and grease
- Bike cleaning paraphernalia

Luxury Items (just to spoil myself):
- Clothes
- Jacket
- Camera
- Solar charger (for camera)
- Torch
- Book
- Journal
- MP3 Player
- Short wave Radio
- Mug
- Water purification tablets (haven't been used since India)
- Sun glasses
- Alarm clock

I may have forgotten a couple of things. Just remember that all you really need to go cycle touring is the Bike. Everything else just makes it that slight little bit easier.

Forwards to Zagreb

2008-06-21T02:44:00.000-07:00

Stage 22: Belgrade to Zagreb (682km)
Day 1: 118.6km Badovinci
Day 2: 101.1km Near Seko
Day 3: 123.5km Banja Luka
Day 4: 102.2km Nr Benakova
Day 5: 126.4km Few towns beyond Slunj
Day 6: 110.1km Zagreb

3 days ago I hit 10,000km. That makes me happy. Very happy indeed.

A combination of rain, good company, laziness, food, more laziness and more rain delayed my departure from Belgrade. All in all, it meant I did not actually get going until the Sunday morning (I had originally planned on leaving the previous Tuesday!). 10km along the road I heard the all-too-familiar sound of a spoke breaking. A sound I encountered only once in my pre-Istanbul (I'm beginning to think of my trip in two stages) journeying, this was the 4th I've had since entering Europe. The problem isn't just the fixing of the spoke, it's the fixing of the puncture that invariably occurs a couple of kms down the road. No matter how careful I think I am in replacing the spoke guard within the rim of the wheel, I always end up with a puncture.

This time, it was almost bang on 100km after the spoke had been replaced that I got the puncture! I changed tubes and made it the remaining few kilometers to within 500m of the border with Bosnia.

Next day, as I stopped for lunch in a field slightly off the main road, I was sure I was going to be robbed. 2 men in a car pulled off the road and stopped the car next to me. They both got out, and as I went over to greet them with my ususal "dobar dan, nay govarim Srbska" (good day, I don't speak Serbian - I was actually in the Republic of Srpska where I stayed for most of the trip through BiH) I noticed the knife wounds on the arms of the shorter, stockier man, the recent bruises on his legs, and the massive scorpian tattoo that adorned his neck, right behind his ear.

Luckily, the smaller, thinner man (and for this reason the one I considered more dangerous - small people always have to prove themselves) spoke reasonably good English, so I was able to explain my trip, say how beautiful the Republic of Srpska was (I never heard one reference to "Bosnia" in this part of the country, and I made sure I didn't make any faux pas myself), how beautiful the women were, etc.etc. In the end, after inquiring if I had a computer for navigation (whereupon, I pulled out my rather tatty and torn map), they bid me adieu and hopped back into their car. 5min later, the police pulled off the road and asked to see my passport. On seeing I was just a tourist and couldn't speak a word of their language, they drove off.

I stayed with Boris, the friend of my cousin's in Banja Luka and cycled off into the rain the following day. I was asked a couple of weeks ago about which was worse: hot weather, or rainy weather. I hummed and hawed for a bit before evading the question by saying it depended on the type of rain. Well, after another thorough soaking along dirt roads, hiding once again beneath trees as the lightening struck about 1km away, I decided that although hot weather wasn't ideal, it was better than rain.

But it wasn't all bad. Soaked to the skin, and finally coming across an asphalt road with houses on it, I found shelter in a small barn where 10 workers were gathered round a small fire. They laughed at the steam that proceeded to come from my general direction as I crouched by the warmth. They were mine clearers working in the area. One of the guys spoke some English. They'd been there for about 3 months clearing one mine field (the whole house was surrounded on 3 sides by mines). The guy himself had worked in Afghanistan for 4 years clearing old Russian mines. One of the other men round the fire had been working with him in Afghanistan too. Now he had only one leg as the other had been blown off in a field that they believed they'd cleared. He still worked on account of the good pay. As we stood talking, one of the workers left to pick mushrooms...from within one of the minefields!!! The guy I was talking to just shook his head and said he was a bit crazy.

The rain eased and I again headed off. Along the road one passes many signs denoting the presence of mine fields. Fairly sure that not every mine field would be marked, I decided it might be prudent to take a bit of care in finding a camp site that evening. I had already taken to avoiding long grass on account of snakes, but figured that on that particular night, I'd be sure I slept in a farmed area. At this point, I had left the Republic of Srpska, and was back into Bosnia "proper". I found a number of flat, green, open spaces that would have been ideal were it not for the bombed and burnt out houses situated right next to them; who knows what atrocities had occured, and I decided I would prefer not to sleep in their shadow. I asked a farmer if I could camp in the area and he pointed up the hill behind the house. It looked recently grazed, but I still couldn't help but try and avoid stepping on mole-hills!

2 days of hot weather brought me into Zagreb. I stopped briefly at Plitvička Lakes; the reason for me taking the route that I did, but the necessity to walk along paths to see them and the hideously large number of tourists and tour buses ensured I didn't linger for long. The parts I did see were very beautiful though.

Spoke broke on final day.

Bastard.

Looked into replacing the set, but, being a Saturday, no-one was interested; would have to wait 'til Tuesday.

Currently staying with the second cousin of the husband of my first cousin. Heading off tomorrow towards Ljubljana. Hoping my spokes hold strong...

My aunt Gilly, cousin Suzie and first cousins once removed, Hugo and Maxim

A lived-in house in Bosnia; a mixture of bullet holes and shrapnel damage. I have also been shown the imprints of grenades on the road.

A desecrated memorial (I think it's Serbian; the memorial that is)

Attempting to dry out my belongings

Lived-in-house. Burned-out-house. Side-by-side.

Not what I thought a minefield would look like!

Back to Belgrade (subterranean cycling)

2008-06-10T08:53:00.000-07:00

Stage 21: Sarajevo to Belgrade (370km)
Day 1: 90.3km Meded
Day 2: 52.6km Pass beyond Mokra Gora
Day 3: 153.9km Near Pepelijevac
Day 4: 73.1km Belgrade

Having to make a phone call back to Dublin delayed my departure from Sarajevo until nearly midday; well, a phone call and a bit of eating. The sky was looking a little omnious, but at least it wasn't any of the +30 degree days I'd been experiencing up 'til then. It was a bit of a climb up out of the city and I soon turned off the main road towards a town called Pale, where a minor road was set to take me out towards the Serbian border. The political layout of Bosnia i Herzegonvina transpires to be even more complicated that I had previously been aware with autonomous regions without borders contained withing the larger country. So, soon after leaving the city limits, I was back to reading Cyrillic like a local dyslexic within the republic of Srbska within Bosnia (and Herzegovina).

The road rose slightly but steadily out of Pale until I reached my first major tunnel. It was only after entering it did I realise that not only was it 1km long, but it was a 1km long tunnel containing only one lane. Additionaly, it was a 1km tunnel with one unlit one lane. Around the first corner, I decided that a torch would be a good idea with there being nothing but darkness ahead. I had just about retrieved my torch when I heard the jet-engine roar of approaching traffic coming towards me in this 1km long, one lane wide, unlit tunnel. I cowered in the inky darkness, pressed up against the sloping side of the tunnel as the traffic slammed on its breaks upon seeing my feeble flashing LED headtorch. The cars and truck just managed to squeeze past and I was left alone in the darkness, able to see a dim section of asphalt about 1m in front of my tyre as I cycled slowly onwards.

The tunnel marked the highest part of the road, and I followed a river for the remaining part of the day, allowing me to cover more distance than I had originally thought I could in the half-day. The asphalt soon faded from the road and I was left cycling along a reasonable dirt surface, devoid of almost all other traffic through a steep sided, narrow limestone gorge. The only issue was the subterranean cycling!

Not even using the sophisticated back of an envelope, I estimate that I cycled a further 4 km underground as the road passed through steep limestone spurs. Many of these were only 100-200m long, short enough to see the other side as one enters, but at least 4 or 5 them were over 400m; pitch black cycling with only a small headtorch through small tunnels on a dirt road. It was a fun day.

The area approaching Vishegrad in Eastern Bosnia lacks an abundance of camping sites given the steep hillsides, so I found myself camping above one of the many tunnels just before the village of Meded.

I was held up again the following morning with a broken gear cable before I had even left the town of Meded. I replaced it and was back on the road within an hour. In the town of Vishegrad, the thought of replacing my fairly worn, ripped and faded cycling t-shirt with an updated model was thwarted by the female owner of the clothes shop. Through the medium of international sign language, she indicated that I was not allowed to handle the textiled items within the shop on account of my incredibly grubby hands. I obliged.

There was a little concern that I may have difficulty entering Serbia due to the Kosovo stamp in my passport. Someone had made me aware on this blog about entering Serbia through Kosovo, which had been my initial plan (so thanks for the heads up), but my host (Clare) in Kosovo had said I wouldn't have any issue if I left Kosovo, and re-entered Serbia from elsewhere. This indeed was the case, and I breezed through yet another checkpoint.

I ate my lunch, shading from the sun under a large tree. An hour later I was again sheltering under a tree, this time in full waterproofs as the thunder and lightening was striking less that 2km away. It was about a 10km ascent from the village of Mokra Gora to the pass. Halfway up, I reached into the back pocket of my waterproof jacket to retrieve my camera, only to reach into a pool of water! At the pass, with the rain still hammering down, I sheltered at some picnic tables beneath A-frame roofs and made the executive decision that I wasn't going to continue. I sat out the rain listening to BBC world service on my little radio.

That night I spurned the attic of a nearby abandoned stable for a small little wooden hut, built on stilts, with one small window and accessed through a trap door. I slept, unsure whether anyone would come a knock, knock, knocking on the trapdoor. But my sleep was generally uninterrupted. I'd like to show you a picture of the accommodation, but my camera had decided to be uncooperative following it's soaking.

I covered a long distance the following day. Aided by a slight tailwind and some cycle-friendly gradients I finally managed to break the 150km mark. I thought about going for the 160km, but figured I couldn't possibly deny myself a further challenge to aim for over the remaining distance. An approaching storm also pushed me on my way. It gained on me on an uphill section before the town of Valjevo, with the rain coming to within a few kilometers, before I embarrassed and humiliated it's slow progress on the downhill section.

The final approach to Belgrade was along flat rolling plains, and I found myself in the city soon after lunch. I made my way to the house of my aunt. The following days have seen me eating well, sleeping well and enjoying the company of my Yugoslav relatives. I've had my bike tuned up for free from an excellent bike-repair man (Slobodan: 064 231 3645; www.bajs.co.yu) and even found myself the subject of a TV interview for Serbian TV! Also, having removed some Serbian hard currency for the purchase of a new camera, my old one decided to do a Lazareth and jump back to life!

With the weather appearing to be hotting up these last few days, I'm soon to be back on the bike heading towards Zagreb and then the mountains of Slovenia, but taking a route through northern Bosnia into the lake district of Croatia. I've been informed it's a much more beautiful route, albeit a little longer.

A relieved me coming out of the 1km unlit tunnel. Little did I know that there was much more in store!

Think of this the next time you throw your plastic bottle in the bin. All the white stuff is plastic bottles.

Wet me: sheltering under the A-frames. The last picture before my camera decided that enough was enough

Sicandar with the TV crew in Belgrade

Here, there and everywhere

2008-06-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

Stage 20: Mitrovica to Sarajevo (813km)
Day 1: 96.1km Near Arinjet
Day 2: 101.2km Beyond Dardhe (Albania)
Day 3: 85.5km Near Qyrsac
Day 4: 116.8km Near Danilovgrad (Montenegro)
Day 5: 83.8km 3rd town in from border (Bosnia [and Herzegovina])
Day 6: 100.2km Near Doll (Croatia)
Day 7: 97.9km Mostar (B&H)
Day 8: 0.0km
Day 9: 0.0km
Day 10: 131.9km Sarajevo

Before I start on how my entrance to Montenegro simply highlights what an ignoramus I truly am, I forgot to mention 2 episodes involving interactions with the locals in Albania.

The first was having two 12yr old male kids run after my bike on an uphill section repeating the phrase "fuck your mother" (sorry mum) a few times before they ran out of breath and had to stop (who teaches them these phrases?). Mr Broom stayed in his resting position, but he was ready should they have come within striking distance. Having heard about Ms Murphy's encounters with the local youth and my experiences in Jordan, it made me wary of the younger generations, but as it happened, it was a one off incident that was soon offset by the friendliness of everyone else.

To illustrate the point, on my final day cycling from Schkoder to the Montenegran border I had just 80 leke left in my pocket (about €0.70). I stopped to buy 2 apples adding up to a grand total of 70 leke. I handed over the change to the woman who then proceeded to shove a bananna into the bag, indicating that it was a present from herself. A man then entered the shop, had some words with the woman, she then insisted on returning my money (against my protests), whilst throwing an additional two nectarines into my bag. Apparently, the man was paying for my fruit.

So, with this final Albanian send off, I arrived into Montenegro. Not wishing to repeat my fiasco with the currency in Bulgaria, I hatched a plot to change money in a bank, thus ensuring I had the right currency to begin with. In my wallet I had both euro and Serbian dinars (used on the northern side of Mitrovica). I knew that Montenegro was a part of Serbia until about 4 years ago, and so would have used dinars. Surely they hadn't invented a new currency in the meantime? Still, I would go through with my little plan to avoid embarrassment.

It was a warm day, and the moment I walked through the doors to the bank, sweat beads started to form on my brow. Since Bulgaria, I have been getting along with the simple, multifunctional phrase "nay (insert language here)" to introduce myself. I usually accompany it with a little helpless smile and just hope that the person takes pity on me. Now, standing at the counter, I faced a problem. What language did they speak in Montenegro? Was it Serbian; was it Montenegran; or, since they call their country Srna Gora, was it Srna Goran? What was I going to say?

With the sweat now pouring down my face and looking pretty disheveled from the previous 3 nights' camping, I decided to say nothing. I withdrew €30 from my pocket and just waved it in front of the woman, repeating the word "change" in alternating English and French pronunciations.

The lady leaned forward and said something in her own language. I smiled helplessly, shrugged my shoulders and said "nay..." before tailing off into embarrassed silence. She had a little conference with the ladies behind her, while I stood there wiping the sweat from my face before leaning forward and asking in almost perfect English:

"why do you want to change euros? We use euros here"

I just had to laugh...and run out the door.

50km onwards, I set up camp in a secluded spot just off from the road. Up until then, whenever people have asked the question "how's your arse?", I've been able to reply that it's just dandy and praise the goodness of Brooke's saddles. That particular day, after the rough roads out of Albania, I had to exhale slowly as I peeled myself from my sitting position.

Tent was up and food was cooked when a young boy came to inquire if I was planning to camp there for the night. I replied in the affirmative, provided it was ok with him; he could speak a little English. He shook his head, pointed to the grass and said "long grass. many snakes. short grass. no snakes. you camp there". After a little deliberation, I decided to take his advice, along with his and his sister's help in moving all my stuff up to their other field. I slept, safe in the knowledge that there was a reduced chance of having my hand bitten in the morning when I reached into my bags.

It was a long day the following day, consisting of 70km of uphill climbing. My hands, feet and arse were still tender from the previous day and I made slow progress. Still, I reached the border with Bosnia (in another stunning location) and descended into a deep valley where I set up camp in an open stretch of land, next to the river and between two small villages.

I wasn't prepared for exactly how beautiful Bosnia (and Herzegovina) is [I've already been reprimanded once for leaving out the H part of this country!]. I followed a lush green valley for a while before striking out over some hills to the Croatian coast, getting scared by snakes by the side of the road (I thought it was roadkill until I surprised it from whatever it was doing).

Dubrovnik is a beautiful and very expensive city. I debated for a while about jumping in for a swim before deciding the issue on a lick of my forearm. It was already salty, so I stripped off and dived off the rocks at the foot of the castle walls. It was only when I got out that I saw the fresh water shower installed in the old walls. Croatians are such clever people; no wonder they won the war.

Lying in the sun I started thinking about all the people that must have died in that attractive city during its bombardment. Already, on my approach to the city, I'd passed by several houses with bullet and shrapnel holes. I thought about my trip through 18 countries and 4 major religions and the fact that I haven't met one malicious person yet. I thought about the book I was reading (Balkan Express by Slavenka Drakulic) and the Serbian news article that was reported in it:

"and we looked down the well in the back yard. We pulled up the bucket - it was full of testicles, about 300 in all"

or the Croatian doctor's autopsy report that "the victims were forced to eat their own eyballs before they were killed".

I thought about what the alternative must have been on offer to make someone eat their own eyeballs.

I wondered what makes people do this kind of thing to each other.

Don't get me wrong; I didn't come to any conclusions. I went and bought an icecream, sat in the shade and thought about how hot it was.

I returned to my bike to find a deflated tyre. A spoke had broken 5km before the city and I had decided to change the tyres. Turns out my prevoius puncture repair job hadn't quite made the grade and leaked. I replaced the tyre and set off, camping in an olive grove 5km before the border with B&H with a beautiful absence of nocturnal scurrying.

5km Croatia, 15km B&H, 25km Croatia before hitting B&H again; the borders in this part of the world are weird! I was heading towards the city of Mostar in SW B&H where I was going to stay with Francois, a South African guy I'd met in a hostel in Jerusalem. It had been a good day, and at 1.30pm I was about 20km from Mostar. "I'll be there in about an hour" I fatefully thought.

I finally limped into Mostar at about 7.30pm. Another spoke had gone on a perfectly flat section of perfectly smooth asphalt. I removed my bags, turned my bike over, removed my rear wheel, deflated my tyre, removed my tyre, removed my inner tube, removed my rear sprockets, removed the offending spoke, replaced the spoke, replaced my rear sprockets, straightened my wheel, replaced my inner tube, replaced my tyre, inflated my tyre, replaced my rear wheel, turned by bike over, replaced my bags, hopped on, cycled off. I got 200m before I realised I had a puncture. I'd replaced the inner spoke guard incorrectly!

I removed my bags, turned my bike over, removed my rear wheel, removed my tyre, removed my inner tube, fixed the puncture, replaced my inner tube, replaced my tyre, inflated my tyre, replaced my rear wheel, turned my bike over, replaced my bags, hopped on, cycled off. I got 200m.

This happened FIVE times. I couldn't believe it. Eventually, when it went for the 6th time, I jumped into the nearby river to cool my throbbing and overheated head (it was 34 degrees outside). With a cool head, I did everything super slowly. This got me 15km before it went again. I did it one last time and managed to reach Mostar. In all, I used 8 patches!!! I don't know what it was. Either I'm a muppet, or it was so hot the glue needed longer to set. The jury's still out, though I prefer the heat story; makes me look slightly better.

I spent a wonderful 2 days in Mostar, drinking coffee, eating food, jumping off waterfalls. It was fun, and I met a lot of good people through Francois. Thank-you guys to all I met there!

130km to Sarajevo: 90km of uphill. Luckily, it was not as bad as I was expecting, though there is a 5km stretch at a 9% gradient; I was thankful for my low gears. Like the rest of B&H that I've seen, this stretch was again something special with high limestone cliffs and snow covered peaks in the distance. It took about 12 hours to complete from door to door.

Once again, I met up with Francois and some Mostarites who had come up for the day. We strolled round the city and ate ice-cream.

Next stop: Belgrade.

It's not quite the most direct route home, but it's fun!

Statue in Shkoder, Albania

Albanian plain, north of Shkoder

Bosnia and Herzegovina

Croatia

Dubrovnik Street

Source of the Buna river near Mostar. Darko and me.

Francois and Cory, my hosts in Mostar

View from Mostar-Sarajevo road

The place where World War I was started

Francois, Ines and Mirjana with Sarajevo behind

Albanian Adventures

2008-05-30T09:59:00.000-07:00

"Adventures" is a little bit of a strong word to use for my Albanian leg of the journey given that gun stories appear to be a thing of the past, but I needed an alliteration and due to my vocabulary pool being as dry as some of the sandier sections of the Sahara, I figured it'd have to do. I also read on a cycle website about a dearth of blogs on Albania, so thought I'd have to dedicate at least one post to my (albeit short) journey through this very beautiful part of the world.

I was a little worried about entering Albania. I'm not really sure why. The Albanian's I'd met in Kosovo had been prefectly nice and fine and not threatening in any way, and even in countries where I've been informed by the media beforhand that I'm likely to be strung upside down and have my throat slit while the locals hold out my still-beating heart in front of my plucked out eyes, I've met wonderful people. So really, an absence of information on Albania should have been a good thing. Maybe it was the report of Dervla Murphy getting robbed of her belongings by a group of little people (they were 5-yr olds according to the person telling me the story; I haven't read it for myself). Or maybe it was the Macedonians who I'd met in...Macedonia...that had, shall we say, "reserved judgement" on their Albanian neighbours.

So there was a little concern lodged there in the back of my mind as I cycled away from Mitrovica (40km north of Pristina) in the sunshine. Well, as I cycled away from the appartment of the daughter of a friend of the family in Mitrovica in the sunshine(she's a human rights observer for OSCE: a "pillar" of the UN as I learned during my time there). As I reached the city limits of Mitrovica the heavens opened and I got a severe soaking as the thunder clapped overhead and I wondered why I'd got so drunk two nights previously that I'd been too hungover to leave yesterday and so now found myself cycling through some relatively inhospitable weather.

I guess I should probably write a quick note on Mitrovica itself. If separation and bitterness was absent elsewhere in the short section of the Balkans I'd been exposed to up to that point; it was evident in Mitrovica...sort of. People weren't throwing rocks at each other and hurling abuse, but the city is divided by the river, with Serbs on the North (with minority Albanian groups) and Albanians on the south (with minority Serbian groups). I was free to walk and explore both sides, encountering nothing but friendliness, but things would probably have been different had I been from one of the two main ethnicities inhabiting that fair city. A fairly non-descript bridge joined the two that has seen some of the worst riots in the country in past years, but only hosted a couple of UN personal when I toddled over. Foreigners working there tended to have a preference for the northern Serb side due to the increased quality of night life present (though technically they're not really supposed to socialise up there [due to security issues]; so keep it on the hush hush!).

So there I was cycling out of Mitrovica, my body protesting to the strain, rain pelting down, and not really knowing what awaited me in the next country. I guess you could call it a good day. I camped in a forest that night.

Why should I mention that?

At night, when I was younger (I'm not talking two years ago here, give me some credit, it was a little bit longer; at least five or more), I used to tiptoe past my parents' bedroom door to get to the toilet. It wasn't because I was a considerate son and didn't want to wake them up, it was to avoid the two-horned-helmet-wearing viking, complete with battleaxe, that I envisaged lurking round the corner ready to decapitate me. I guess you could have said I had an active imagination.

Now, I stride to the bathroom without a care in the world but the remnants of my active imagination still lurk in the depths of forests where every little scuffle and scurrie outside is a red-eyed, four-legged evil lizard-shaped monster ready to tear into my tent and start devouring my toes. I still wake up in the morning, but it's not quite such a restful as sleeping in an olive grove.

I crossed into Albania near the town of Djakovo (Kosovo). There are two border crossings within about 20km of Djakovo; a southern one and a northern one. The southern one was marked on my map; the northern one was not. "Road is bullshit" said the Albanian man working on the fruit stall just outside of Djakovo. He didn't know much English, but I figured that the use of the word "bullshit" indicated that it was going to be a dirt road. I'd figured that beforehand, but had wanted to see Northern Albania, so was ready to take the hit. However, the new option of an even shorter, non-bullshit road proved too tempting and I found myself cycling towards the border crossing that was absent from my map.

"Albanian border officials are amongst some of the most corrupt in the world", I read somewhere on the internet. Elsewhere, I'd read them trying to charge 10 euro to enter the country when the official tax is one tenth of that sum. I got handshakes, smiles and a request for 1 euro before discussing amongst themselves the best route I should follow to the town of Puke (that's the way it's spelt, though with two little dots over the e). They then got the man most proficient in English to point me in the right direction.

The road down from the border was flawless. I descended into a lush, green valley with high mountains off to my right. Men were cutting grass in the fields with scythes and donkeys and carts were travelling along the road. I continued towards the town of Bajram Currie. Outside the town, the road branched with the bypass of the town being the better surface. I went with the smooth road. Big Mistake. I was not to enter a town with a bank or a shop for a further 90km and so had no official way to change money. "Towns" marked on the map were either a cafe with an electric substation (where I did actually manage to change money with the man in the cafe, before another patron bought me a coffee), or a cafe with a collection of small houses clinging to the steep hillside, spread over a large area.

I crossed the lake (a big one in NE Albania where one can catch a ferry to Tirane [the capital]) by the town of Fierze, which I had passed through before even realising it.

That's where the asphalt ended.

35km of dirt roads followed where my average speed dropped from 16km/hr, to around 9km/hr. I have a feeling that in one year's time, the road will be good, workers by the side of the road were building walls and drainage channels, but for the time being it's not! I camped on a small level bit of ground near the town of Dardhe (where I'd manged to buy some bread in a small cafe/hotel there).

The road the following day was good, with a smooth surface and almost no traffic. I hit the main road that runs from Kukes in the east (near the main border crossing with Kosovo) and Shkoder in the west. It was a mixed bag up until the town of Puke with about 50% being perfect, laid within the last year, and 50% being poor to criminal (for someone who used to work in an Asphalt plant at least!). From Puke to Shkoder the road was about 70% good to 30% poor to average. I camped near the top of the final downhill to the plains.

Good road to Shokoder, poor road out of Shkoder. It runs for 36km to the most beautiful border crossing location I've come across.

Kosovan clouds

2 men attacking a bunker with a sledgehammer. These bunkers dotted the surrounding landscape on my approach into, and through Albania

Into the Balkans

2008-05-16T03:49:00.000-07:00

Stage 19: Haskovo to Pristina (726km)
Day 1: 61.4km Beyond Boyno
Day 2: 97.8km Nr Shiroka laka
Day 3: 118.1km Nr Gospodintsi
Day 4: 108.0km Beyond Zelendol
Day 5: 113.7km On road to Probistip (Macedonia)
Day 6: 134.9km Skopje
Day 7: 0.0km rest
Day 8: 91.9km Pristina (Kosovo)

Learning Cyrillic is easy...provided you speak Greek. I do not speak Greek, but being a geek in school provided the means to study Applied Maths out of hours and thus garner a cursory understanding of Greek letters. For example, Pi is P, Roe is R, Lamda is L, Phi is F. Then, all you have to do is remember that C is S, X is H, H is N, a backwards N is I, backwards R is ya and a B is a V. Add this all together with a few new symbols and you're soon reading Cyrillic like a local; COPTEΔ.

Of course, finding a bona fide mathamagician to go cycling with in Eastern Europe can be difficult given that: 1/ they hold a morbid fear of the outside world; or 2/ they want to learn German (shamed and then named Alasdair Andrew Pauline Nicol; shamed and named), so it's just as well that most signs are in two languages. My cyrillic map of Bulgaria lay dormant in my bags for most of the trip.

Bulgaria was everything I had hoped it would be. Green hills, green mountains, green forests; all reminding me somewhat of home. Of course, all this green came at a cost and I received my first true rain of the trip so far on my second day out of Haskovo. Decked out in full waterproofs with plastic bags over my hands and yet more plastic bags inside my shoes, it wasn't as bad as I had feared, though I don't know what would have happened had I woken up to yet more rain!

The terrain was hilly, and in some places steep, but Sicandar's new gears exceeded expectations. For all those of you content on eating salads and driving cars, disregard the rest of this paragraph. For those who wish to jump on a bike, eat baklava and pastries 'til you're ready to vomit, take note; it will make your gluttony even easier to swallow. I changed from a 28 tooth front ring and 32 rear, to a 22 front and 30 rear (I had asked for a 34, but I was 1000km further on the road when I realised I'd been cheated out of 4 metal teeth!). The difference is unbelievable. It is like having a helper monkey run along behind the bike pushing on uphill sections. No longer do I have to zigzag up roads that themselves zigzag up hill sides. And while making uphills easier, it's even added 2kph to my uphill speeds (and when you were going 5.5kph, this is a big increase; some might say a 36.36% increase, but these people should generally be ignored).

The people in Bulgaria, although friendly, are more reserved than those I've experienced in Asia and the Middle East. Gone are the days when I am approached by passing shepherds when I stop to camp and offered food and accommodation. Although it is nice not to constantly have to act out what you are trying to say, I think I do miss that open friendliness.

The roads were good, even in seemingly remote regions. As soon as I believed myself to be in the back-of-beyond-bulgaria, the illusion of remoteness was shattered either by a truckload of cement from my former employer driving past, 96 French registered old-style Renaults complete with support vehicles, or by a roadsign (in English) with a Dublin phone number on it. Still, I did get to see a 4-wheel-drive lada, so it wasn't all bad! I think that Bulgaria is a country I will be returning to. I could have crossed it even further if I refrained from stopping every so often to run over suspension bridges. There's just something cool about them!

I've been only 2 days in Macedonia...

And that was as far as I got. 2 days ago. So what happened? I went drinking, that's what. One thing I kind of knew before this trip, but was still a little unsure of was that people are good. No matter where you go, people are good; I think we often forget that in "the west". And Macedonia is no different.

I found myself invited by my host, Igor, to a group shaving (it's not a local custom, just a student one) followed by lunch and drinks. There I met a group of Macedonians, fantastic to the last. Once again, I was surrounded by people I didn't know 2hrs previously, feeling 100% comfortable and loving every minute. What impressed me most was their attitude to the Balkan war.

Before arriving into former Yugoslavia, I had an image of seperation, bitterness and distrust between the individual states. It would appear not to be the case. "A senseless and stupid war that should never have happened" was how one person described it. I couldn't help but think of the animosity that existed between Ireland and England until very recently.

So, severely hungover, I climbed back onto Sicandar to continue the journey into Kosovo. The roads were flat and in good condition, but I was still extremely thankful for a strong tailwind. Again, rather than a war-torn state in depression, I find an apparantly peaceful country with friendly inhabitants (though I don't include the employees in the guesthouse I'm staying at!).

Tractors appear quite rare in SW Bulgaria. I passed several fields where horses were doing the ploughing and crops were being planted by hand

Entering Macedonia

Zoran, the senior Macedonian cycle champion on the left and Frederick, the junior Macedonian cycle champion on the right!

Sicandar was in the shop (I feared my bottom bracket had gone again, but luckily I was wrong), so I went behind his back

Igor, my host in Skopje

I wonder what happens when tanks break the speed limit?

Statue in Pristina

Flags

Illustrations

2008-05-16T03:42:00.001-07:00

My joy at leaving mosquito infested Greece led me to forget the bad events that happened leaving Turkey. After 7350km and only one puncture I had to bid farewell to my rear tyre when it decided to burst. I don't know exactly what happened to it, but I think that overinflation on dirt roads may have been a contributing factor. Whatever the reason, I'm just glad I carried a spare!

The other not-so-pleasant event was my Israeli-imitation-MSR-Whisperlite-multifuel-cooker deciding to spray petrol in my eye. It hurt like hell. Still, as a wise man once said:

"If you're going to be a cheap bastard, expect the shittiest portion"

And here are a couple of photos...

After just 1 puncture, this is what happened

Vaude and Adrian

Whipping the sniffer dog into a frenzy

Entering Bulgaria

Vania, my host in Haskovo

This is the sign that made me laugh: Bulgaria meets the EU

Learning Bulgarian

2008-05-10T05:48:00.000-07:00

Stage 18: Istanbul to Haskovo (Xackobo) (391km)
Day 1: 92.4km beyond Gumuspinar
Day 2: 103.1km beyond Uskupdere
Day 3: 90.6km near Rizia (Greece)
Day 4: 105.3km Haskovo (Bulgaria)

What a wonderful way to leave Turkey, a country that has been so, so, so good to me (three 'so's is roughly equivalent to two 'very's). The countryside was rolling hills, but not monotonous, the roads were good, and a light tailwind helped me on my final two days. I even met two other cyclists travelling the other way who spoke English. Adrian was heading to Cape Town, and Vaude to somewhere in Asia (he didn't yet know). These were the first cyclists I've spoken to since bumping into Thibault the far side of the Dead Sea. I passed two Russians in Cyprus who couldn't speak English, and I passed one guy in Turkey who simply waved as he sped downhill in the other direction to me. He was lucky he was travelling fast; having not spoken to anyone in about 3 days, I wanted nothing more than to pelt fist-sized, pointy stones at him!

I even got a bit of good news at the internet cafe in Edirne (close to the Greek and Bulgarian borders). The Irish government (or a subsidary thereof), in their infinite wisdom, have decided to fund me my PhD! Woo woo. I now have something concrete to return to: 3 years of looking at mud down a microscope. I'm excited!

Feeling invincible, I made it to the quiet border with Greece. I could have easily gone straight into Bulgaria, but the 40km road in Greece ticks one more country off the list. I breezed through the Turkish side, and returned to Europe proper. Simple.

Not quite. An hour's wait, with my bags open and on the ground in front of Greek customs (I'd made it through passport control) ensued, while I watched the Greek custom officials walk up and down in front of me doing absolutely nothing. Eventually the second most indisciplined sniffer dog I have ever seen was brought out to slobber all over my bags...twice. Another short wait, then the most indisciplined sniffer dog I have ever seen was brought out. Rather than sniff my bags, this one preferred to bite them and drag them across the ground.

The response to my shrug of shoulders (a what the "F" fashion) was greeted with a little smile and a rub of thumb against fingers. I took this to mean he wanted a bribe, so reached deep into my pocket, pulled out my camera and took photos of each of my bags should futher damage occur. 10 minutes passed while the customs guys played with the dogs to get them all excited, then I was informed that I could proceed.

But hey, at least I was in a Christian country. I mean, they're the good guys.

Right?

My perfect introduction to Greece was compounded by the presence of enough mosquitos to force me to eat my dinner in my tent. Let's just say I was glad to reach the Bulgarian border the following morning.

"You can definately NOT use Euros in Bulgaria" was the response of Vania, my host, to my question. It kind of explained the reason why there had been change bureaus at the border showing an exchange rate with the euro, why the shopkeeper in the fruit shop had responded with surprise when I pulled a 5 euro note out of my pocket, why the bookshope vendors in Haskovo had pointed me to the change bureau when I had tried buying my Bulgaria maps (one in English, one in Cyrillic) with a 20 euro note and why the price of petrol seemed extortionate at about 2 euro 20. Somehow, my conversation with the Bulgarian diplomat on the boat from Israel where he had mentioned that prices had increased recently in Bulgaria, combined with my knowledge that Bulgaria was in the EU had convinced me that Bulgaria used the euro, and nothing was going to change my mind. But I guess that one and one does not always equal three.

I met Vania through Couchsurfing. Those who don't know it, check it out (www.couchsurfing.com); quite possibly the very, very best way to travel. An excellent host and introducer to Bulgaria. I've been here barely 24hrs, but am sure I'm going to like this country!

The busy road into Haskovo convinced me that I didn't want to follow it to Sofia, so am using my brand-spanking-new maps to get me through the minor roads, around the highest mountain in Bulgaria and into Macedonia.

ps. lack of photos because I don't think the computer can take it (not that it's an antique, it just doesn't have java or something or other that makes putting photos up here easy. I don't really know because I don't really know how computers work. I see a screen, I see a keyboard, I see a black box and I let the geeks deal with the rest). It's a pity, because I passed a cracker of a sign.

A taste of home

2008-05-05T12:06:00.001-07:00

What more could one want from one's parents besides their unconditional love, a few free meals and a complimentary ticket to the Topkapı palace?

2 bags of Tayto crisps and 3 big bars of Cadbury's chocolate does go a hell of a long way, though I believe I have my sister to thank for that one! Before even mentioning to my Turkish hosts the fact that Tayto crisps are actually made by Carlsberg, they were tucking into their second packet!

Having completed nearly two thirds of the trip, and meeting my parents in Istanbul, I've been lulled into the false sense that I'm just about home. I feel good, but I think that 14 countries and several mountain ranges will change all that.

My week in Istanbul has been good to me. I've enjoyed the hospitality of Deniz, Can and Serbay in their flat in the European side of the city and enjoyed the company of my parents, aunt and uncle in the tourist side of the city. Even managed to fit a big night in that went something along the lines of...

drank cans in a field,
drank beer in a pub,
drank whiskey on a boat,
drank whiskey on the street,
drank beer in a house,
drank whiskey in a house,
drank beer in a pub,
drank beer in a reggae club
fell asleep eating a kebab,
woke up in bed.

Sicandar has even benefited from the long rest. A visit to a bike shop is like a visit to a dentist, So besides a new chainset, chain and rear cassette, I find myself with a new bottom bracket, rear hub and €170 less than when Sicandar's shadow darkened the man's door.

Good times!

But no maps.

Ma, Pa and Me

Jaques, Nicky, Mum and Dad in front of the Blue Mosque

Goodbye to Asia

2008-05-01T00:30:00.000-07:00

Stage 17: Tusoço to Istanbul (1200km)
Day 1: 18.3km NW of Silifke
Day 2: 87.2km Nr Hakora
Day 3: 82.8km Below Başkoye
Day 4: 88.3km Nr Ucpınar
Day 5: 104.5km Beyşehir
Day 6: 93.6km Nr Aksa
Day 7: 135.5km Nr Şuhut
Day 8: 103.1km Kırka
Day 9: 101.1km Nr Dağküplü
Day 10: 120.2km Nr Taraklı
Day 11: 113.3km Nr Kandıra
Day 12: 69.2km Nr Akçakese
Day 13: 82.8km ISTANBUL!!!!

'Ujez Asha-uh-bo-as (Aşağıboğas)?'

Smiles all round as the people realise that the person who has just pulled to a stop wearing a bright red cycling jersey, atop a fully laden touring bike isn't actually a local.

I'll try again...

'Ujez Asha-uh-boas'

Titters of laughter. 'Uh, no Injeleeze speaky'

Muttered through clenched teeth:

'I'm not speaking foxtrotting* English, I'm speaking cotswaldian Turkish'

Here we go again:

'Ujez Asha-uh-boas?'

No, don't get on your phone, there's no need to call anyone. It's a simple question. Ujez means 'where is', and Aşaıboğas should be a town about 10km away that's directly in front of me. I only stopped for verification so that you could point in the direction I'm travelling and I can just continue, safe in the knowledge that I'm on the right path. Oh, you're taking a photo of me now. Fan-fallafel-tastic. Just as well you won't be able to see the difference between a smile, and clenched teeth.

Taking out the map:

'Ujez Asha-uh-boas?

After close scrutiny:

'Ah, Asha-uh-BO-as'

'Yes, Asha-uh-bo-as'

They have a little conference before pointing in front of me.

'Teşekkür ederim' (thank-you)

I make to push off, but only to a hail of protests. Oh yeah, I have to wait for that English speaker to arrive. 3 minutes later, a girl walks over.

-'Do you speak English?'
-'A leetle'
-'I am trying to get to Asha-uh-boas'
-'It is this way', pointing ahead.
-'Thank-you'

I push off, my blood pressure slightly elevated.

I can usually deal with these interactions by the side of the road without a smile fading from my face. On this particular day (Day 10), the smile was never present. It was meant to be a relatively easy 5km descent down dirt roads to the small town of Aşaıboğas where I could leisurely drink some çay before continuing on my merry way. Instead, after having asked for directions, I found myself, following a 10km descent, not in Aşaıboğas but with 20km of rolling hills still to do. I wasn't happy; anger had sat in. This was all after a 1100m ascent in the morning.

It was the kind of rage you get when you're happily padding round your house in bare feet. All of a sudden, as you pass through a door frame, you catch the little toe of your left foot on the side of the frame; just the little toe, none of the others. The anger wells up. It's an anger directed at the door, at your little toe, but most importantly, at you yourself. It was just so easy to avoid. All you had to do was move slightly to the right. You'd seen it yourself, you'd seen you were going to be close, you may have even thought of moving right just a fraction. But you didn't, you thought you could make it, and now the pain is about to hit and the blood begins to boil.

I knew the turnoff I'd gone wrong at, and if I'd only gone right, instead of left, I would have been a full 2 and a half hours beyond where I was right now. Still, I found the best motivation for getting up hills. Anger. You fly up them, oblivious to your body's protests.

I needed to get a big stage in. The Middle East was fantastic, and I don't regret heading on that little detour in any way, shape or form. But on returning to Turkey, I found myself in almost the exact same location I was over a month previously. I think one of the hardest feelings one has to deal with whilst cycle touring is the feeling that you are not actually getting anywhere. Psychologically I needed a boost.

So I decided to head direct to Istanbul.

I'd forgotten how much I'd liked Turkey the first time round. The scenery is sublime (particularly in the south), the people are fantastic and, this time round, the water was spectacular. Natural, unchlorinated springs are dotted round the countryside and have been piped into troughs to feed livestock - perfect for filling up water bottles and dunking one's head into.

There were some steep sections over the Taurus mountains which just confirmed my desire to have a bit of a refit for Sicandar in Istanbul. I've been using a front cog on the bike that has 28 teeth, but ones with 22 teeth exist. I can only imagine that the difference will be like having someone else do the pedalling for you. It's what I'm expecting, so will be disappointed with anything less.

Of all the days, one of the hardest was the final, relatively short day into Istanbul. So much of cycle touring is psychological. If you expect an easy day and have an easy day, it is an easy day. If you expect a hard day, and have a hard day, it is an ok day. If you expect an easy day, and have an ok day, it is a hard day.

The wind was against me. Hills existed that were too small to appear on the map, but real enough to make me angry. A dog had eaten my cheese and salami from my bag the night before and no shops existed to buy some more; I had to eat in a roadside cafe. They were widening the road so it was dusty, but my sunglasses were buried somewhere deep in one of my bags, and I didn't know which one. And worst of all, 60% of traffic on the road were 40tonne lorries transporting aggregate for the road. After 1100km of minor roads, with barely even other cars to worry about, thundering trucks were not what I wanted.

Still, I arrived into Istanbul intact. Made my way (across motorway in some sections) to the river, hopped on a boat, and now Sicandar and I and Mr Broom are in Europe (technically).

Which only leaves the final poignant point to make.

If I was a crow, I'd be home by now.

7289km

*NB this post is rated PG

It was a hilly start to the section

We left our mark on the first snow we've seen since leaving the mountains of SE Turkey

A well in the Lake District

One of the many old-style villages I passed through

The thought: 'wouldn't it be nice to travel over a dirt road' flashed across my mind before I could banish it. 30km of unconsolidated road construction!

Still, there were some nice views from the partially made road.

Sometimes you forget where you are. Luckily, there are usually some subtle reminders.

The land opened up a bit in Central Turkey

Back into hills

Having gone wrong (but not knowing it yet - it's a real smile!)

Crossing the 7000km mark (I never reset my computer at the start!)

Could be the rolling hills of Leicestershire

Still looks blue to me

I blame my parents for actually making me want to do this. It wasn't the cold sea I was hesitant about, more the knowledge that there was no hot water for the shower afterwards!

It's amazing what you can do with a poncho and some string...and a fence, a broom handle with a personality, a tent peg, a small tree, a bungy cord, 4 bicycle panniers and an orange survival bag

Crossing into Europe

Fishing in İstanbul

European Sunset

Corrections

2008-04-17T04:02:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-04-15T04:41:00.001-07:00

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

2008-04-08T22:43:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-04T01:28:00.000-07:00

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

White Cars

2008-03-28T05:46:00.000-07:00

Stage 13: Beirut to Amman (351km)
Day 1: 78.0km
Day 2: 37.3km Damascus
Day 3: 85.8km
Day 4: 83.0km
Day 5: 67.3km Amman

We woke up to find that one white car had been replaced by another, and that the four occupants of the first car (3 men and Mr Kalishnikov) and been exchanged for four men (and Mr Hidden Kalishnikov). We don't know if they stayed there all night, but we guess we did.

For once, the use of first person plural does not refer to Sicander and Mr Stick. No, not at all; this time Kieran had found himself some living, breathing fwends with whom to cycle. Thibaut was French and Monika was Hungarian/Polish. They lived together in Berlin, spoke their respective languages, conversed with one another in German and spoke perfect English. I'd met them in Damascus (they started in Southern Turkey; Monika was going to Tel Aviv, Thibaut from there on to Cairo) and we agreed to set off together towards Jordan.

The ride to Damascus had been tough. I'd sufficiently recovered from the hangover of my night out in Beirut, and sweated out all remaining alcohol on the climb out of the city; 32km of uphill taking about 5 hours to complete! Between the two countries it took almost a full hour to cross from the Lebanese border gate to the Syrian one, with 6km of uphill between the two. I camped about 10km inside Syria, leaving a leisurely 40km day into the Syrian capital. I had thought of staying 2 nights in Damascus, but the possiblility of actually having someone to talk to on the road was too great a temptation and I set off the following morning.

We chose a quiet road to the west of the main route to Jordan and it was nice. Few cars passed us and those that did generally refrained from excessive use of their horns. It was a very welcome change.

It was during lunch that the blacked out BMW stopped beside us. "We are security, we are here for your safety". We gave our details, handed over our passports, said when we arrived in the country, said when we were due to leave. We provided details on where we had entered the country and where we hoped to leave. We gave the dates we entered Lebanon and when we had returned to Syria. We mentioned the towns we had visited in Syria, and those that we were going to pass through on our way out. All our responses were relayed through our translator to a man on a mobile phone, who passed them onto his superior. They thanked us for our time, said what a wonderful free country Syria was, how safe it was and how welcome we were to be there. Then they drove off.

We passed the car about 2km down the road. It started to follow us. 5km down the road it pulled passed us and asked us to stop.

"We have just had a phone call 5min ago to say that the road ahead is corrupted. There is many many roadworks. It is not suitable for bicycles. You must go to the main road. You can follow this motorbike"

Our objections were rebuffed and we found ourselves following a man on a motorbike for about 10km. He eventually left us, much to our pleasure, but 1km further, a white car that had been cruising behind us made us stop. Again, we handed over our passports. This car (with the 4 occupants mentioned above) then proceeded to follow us for 10km; they wanted us to go another 20, but Monika successfully changed their mind with an admirable display of tears. They sat and watched us while we set up camp in an olive grove.

The car the following morning followed us for 15km. It disappeared soon after the final right-hand turn when the only other direction was to the Jordonian border. We had realised the previous evening that the quiet road we had been on was about 30km away from the Golan Heights: maybe that was the reason for the hightened security. In all, we had company for 45km.

We parted ways about 10km into Jordan with Thibaut and Monika making their way to Israel; possibly to report to their superiors (how well do you really know someone after 48hrs??!!). It was still 90km to the border, so I found myself camping outside the house of shepherds where I was plied with tea and ate a yellow dish containing rice and bread. Homemade yoghurt was on offer, as was homemade butter (tasted a bit like rancid lard, but managed an enthusiastic thumbs up as I was encouraged to take a second helping).

Arrived into Amman with a slight niggle in my knee, but hope that my rest day will provide suitable recouperation.

My next stop will be Petra. For those of you that don't know Petra (as I did not about 3 months ago), just watch Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

Monika and Me entering Jordan

A well-scrubbed shepherd boy

Sicander gets a new rider

Getting the sheep ready for milking

German biker in Amman. I guess pedalling your way uphill really makes you think about what you need...and what you don't!

And for all you Aggregate Industries employees out there:

Holcim...in Lebanon

Lafarge...in Jordan. Don't worry though, I spat on the ground in front of this sign. I would have spat on the window, but I'm in a foreign country and wouldn't want to be rude.

Assalam aleikum...from Lebanon

2008-03-21T05:55:00.000-07:00

Stage 12: Aleppo to Beirut
Day 1: 96.9km
Day 2: 76.5km
Day 3: 119.1km
Day 4: 31.2km Krak de Chavaliers
Day 5: 72.4km Tripoli
Day 6: 88.7km Beirut

The white car was pulled up by the side of the road and a man in his early twenties was waving me to stop. I hadn't seen it pass, but it must have done. I didn't really want to stop; conversations by the side of the road are usually conducted in Arabic, which causes a wee bit of a hindrance for me. They say a spiel, I point at myself and say "Irlanda", point behind me and say "Aleppo", point in front and say "Misyaf", point at the bicycle and say "bicyclette". They usually seem content at that. They could well be asking my opinion as a foreign observer on one of the finer points of the macroeconomics of their country, but they'll always get the same response: "Aleppo".

Unfortunately, I was on an uphill section and so couldn't really avoid this conversation. If I did, I'd just get an earful of Arabic, combined with some whistling, followed by high-decible honking as the car overtook me, as well as another earfull from the passenger window as they passed. It was easier to just answer the question on the economy.

I got the usual incomprehensible garble and did my pointing party trick. He caught sight of the bracelet/bangle (whichever is more masculine) on my right wrist. It's an African Trading Bangle that my aunt and uncle gave me a number of years ago. Made from brass and copper, it's worth about US$5 new; US$3 if you bargain hard. People here think it's gold and so are always intrigued by it - it was nothing new. It looks solid, but clasps together on the inside of the wrist, and most people want to see it, so I turned my wrist around so he could see that it just slips on.

It's quite incredible how fast things can change in this world. From being weary and just wanting to be done with this conversation and back on my bike, the blood starting pumping and adrenaline kicked in as he made a snap at the item in question.

With the bike held between my legs, I was a bit restricted in my movements and he managed to relieve me of the bangle before I got my other hand across. I made a half lunge to try and grab it back, but he took a step back and as he did reached in behind his shirt, pulled a gun from the small of his back, cocked it and pointed it straight at me.

"Oh shit!"

I can't remember exactly what I said, but went along the lines of "whoa, whoa, whoa", or something equally profound. The half lunge immediately turned into a rapid backing off (but not very far, given that the bike was still between my legs).

"Durkha durkha durkha durkha durkah" he went (or words to that effect), waving the gun between myself and my panniers.

"Durkha durkha durkha. Durkah durkha!"

"Bleugh" I thought. "That's my bags gone. That's my bike gone. That's my passport gone. That's everything gone. Bleugh".

Then I spied a white van coming down the road. I stuck my hand out and started to wave it to a stop. Another passenger got out of the car that was holding me up; I didn't pay too much attention, I was frantically trying to stop this van.

Nyyyyy-yyyyam

I got the lovely doppler effect as the van sped past.

"Shit"

I turned back to see the two guys in front of me smiling. "no problem, no problem" came a voice from the driver's window.

"yeah right there's no f***ing problem", I thought to myself.

Then I saw that the gun had been put away and the 2nd person had his hand extended out to me.

"no problem, no problem"

The other guy was holding out my bangle back to me; big grin on his face. It slowly dawned on me. This was the old scare-the-foreigner-by-robbing-his-jewelry-and sticking-a-gun-in-his-face gag. How could I have been foolish enough to fall for it?

"Money? Money?" they inquired.

Maybe this still is a hold up? "No, I don't have any money"

"No, no" came the response, as the guy who had the gun reached into his pocket and retreived a wad of SP1000 notes (worth just under 15 euro each). He peeled two or three off and held them out to me. "Money? Money?"

"Er...no thanks"

Hand-shakes all round, and they hopped back into the car, giving an extra loud toot as they sped off.

My legs were a little weak, but the still present adrenaline helped me up the rest of the hill.

That little event happend in Syria on the 3rd day out of Aleppo. The rest of the journey wasn't quite as exciting, so I'll scoot over it rather quickly. I'd headed north out of Aleppo to Qu'alat al Soleuman, where an early Christian had spent the latter half of his life standing on top of pillars, finally dying on one that was 18m tall. I think he was made a saint for his efforts; guess you can't really begrudge him that.

Camped in an olive grove, but was late leaving in the morning, so got accosted by shepherds and had to pose for photos on their brand spanking new mobile phones. Pedalled my way down to the Dead Cities that are Roman ruins of various towns that exist between Aleppo and the border with Lebanon. I managed to get in to the most famous for free by pretending that my PADI diving card was in fact a student card, before camping on the outskirts of the ruins.

The following day involved the hilarities described above. After the hold-up I continued cycling to the town of Misyaf. It was hilly terrain, so I expected that immediately after Misyaf would be olive groves galore, from which to chose the best camp site. I was wrong. 5 towns merged into each other along this road, so for a continuous 15km there were houses either side of the road. Eventually at about 7pm (sunset is at about 5.45pm, it's dark by 6.15pm, I spent the final 45min cycling by moonlight) I found an olive grove where I had to spend 10min clearing rocks to form a flat(ish) spot to place my tent.

The one good outcome was that I then had an easy, short day to reach Krak de Chavaliers, which really is quite marvelous. Ate myself stupid at the buffet lunch and dinner they put on, then headed for the border the following morning.

The ploughed fields, washing hanging from buildings and shops 1km beyond Syrian border checkpoint made me think that I'd entered Lebanon without getting my passport stamped, but it transpired that all these existed in no-man's land between the two nations. Kind of stood in contrast from the signs saying "zone mined" existing between Turkey and Syria that had stopped me from wandering off the road to piss on a bush.

Having heard so much about bombs, fighting and kidnappings in Lebanon while growing up, I had to shake my head and smile as I cycled away from the border and thought to myself "I'm in f***ing Lebanon. Look, there's a orange tree...in Lebanon. And there's a tractor...in Lebanon". As it turns out, it didn't seem much different from Syria. People waved from the side of the road and called for me to stop for chai. I wanted to reach Tripoli, so just pushed on.

Tripoli seemed nice and I wandered round the old part of town. Already, I could see that it appeared more liberal than Syria, with the majority of women eschewing head scarves and wearing low-cut, tight-fitting clothes, though contrasting with this was the very visible military presence. Men in camouflage with automatic rifles stood on corners, and I passed through many checkpoints on the road (though not having to show my passport).

I had prepared myself for 85km of hellish highway cycling to Beirut (my Lonely Planet containing my only map of Lebanon), but spotted an empty road that skirted the sea. Followed this right the way into Beirut, stopping off at Byblos (Jbail) to fulfill my cultural quota for the day.

So far, I've only seen the nice part of Beirut. Supposedly it's split North/South, with the rejevenated centre to the north, and Palestinian refugees to the south. I hope to have a bit of a nose around the south, but after my altercation on the road in Syria, I realise just how quickly things can change, and how vulnerable one can be on a bike, so may not venture too far.

Now going to meet up with two Scottish cyclists I met in Aleppo and who have just arrived. Plan is (hopefully) to get Belted in Beirut!

Camel - Mmmmmmmmmm

Magnus (centre) and Kenny - 2 Scottish cyclists I met in Aleppo, and the 3rd conversation I had in English in 34 days!

Soleman Me

Comfy campsite after cycling in the dark!

A road...in Lebanon

Me and me 'ol pal...in Lebanon

Just your typical pedestrian on a typical Beirut street.

Salaam aleikum

2008-03-13T08:21:00.001-07:00

Stage 11: Sanliurfa to Aleppo
Day 1: 123.8km
Day 2: 83.8km
Day 3: 85.8km Aleppo

I don't ever remember actually deciding to come here. I remember thinking about it, I certainly did that, and I looked into the practicalities, but there was never a moment when I said "I'm going to Syria". It was Will who first suggested it way, way back in India, but we both decided then that it just wasn't feasible. But, after cycling through Gaziantep, I found myself turning down towards the border and now here I am 120km later in the wonderful city of Aleppo.

Why is it so wonderful? There's old buildings and all the rest of it, but people who know me well (and even not-so-well), know I love to eat. There's a saying we have in our family that's basically an excuse for gluttony: "It's better to be a pig once, than half a pig twice". It means you can tuck into that second half of your Terry's chocolate orange safe in the knowledge that you're taking the better option. It would be irresponsible, and downright wrong, to wrap it up and leave it until tomorrow.

It kind of falls short when you go out and buy a second chocolate orange the very next day, and that's basically what I've been doing (6 times over)! But when every shop has pastries stuffed full of walnuts and pistachios, topped with coconut and smothered in syrup and honey, it's difficult to say no. I'm just glad I'm on my bike and have left the bullying pits of secondary school behind or I'd be in for a rough time on my return; I'll tell you that.

It looks like a covered a lot of ground on Day 1, but looks can be deceiving; as can road signs! I'd been following the E90 for over 300km (I just made up that figure, so no-one had better be smart and try prove me wrong and make me look stupid, I just can't be bothered to look it up myself), so when I saw the road branch off, with Gaziantep signposted in both directions and the E90 towards the right, I went with what I knew and turned right. It was only 10km up this road that they decided to place the wonderfully illustrative sign shown right!

I camped that night inbetween ploughed furrows of an olive grove and awoke to a strong headwind. This made me curse my undesired detour even more given that I should have been 20km further down the road that I was at that exact moment (every moment of the day!). I camped about 25km from the border and was, again, accosted by shepherds. This time, after once again declining proper accommodation (spending an evening with locals is an incredible experience, but also a draining one), it wasn't dinner on offer but milk straight from the sheep, which I boiled over an open fire and had with my dinner.

After getting severely ripped off whilst changing money with a respectable, middle-aged man with a moustache (Hitler, Stalin and Sadam aside, who wouldn't trust a man with a 'tache?) and watching the news in an office I made my way to the border.

Cave men didn't have it so rough - they even had satellite TV!

Crossing the Euphrates

Food heaven

Food not-quite-so-heaven

Half time

2008-03-09T09:39:00.000-07:00

Stage 10; Şirnak to Şanlıurfa
Day 1: 102.3km
Day 2: 85.6km
Day 3: 106.5km
Day 4: 104.7km

What a difference 1000m makes; now it's no longer hyperthermia I must be wary of, but sunburn! The temperature gradient has also made one other important contribution to the way I conduct operations; it is now possible to camp.

There is a huge advantage to camping whilst cycle touring. No longer am I burdened with a necessity to reach certain destinations during daylight hours; whenever I see a nice place to camp, I can just pull into the side of the road and set up shop. Unfortunately, there just seems to be a distinct lack of nice places!

Steep mountains gave way to steep hills before Şirnak. These gave way to rolling hills which morphed into a low gradient limestone plateau-esque countryside before a final descent onto plains. Plains became hillocks and I finally find myself in Şanlıurfa. Sounds like there would be a never-ending supply of fantastic camping grounds, but this would be wrong!

An absence of surface water everywhere left me filling up from petrol stations, and the limestone areas came complete with (funnily enough) stones. On the other hand, the flat and fertile plains had every available ınch of land taken up with agriculture. Still, when an adequate place had been cleared of sharp pointed rocks, it was nice to sit next to a small fire, gaze up at the stars and power my torch!

My final campsite was indeed next to a river and although the coast was clear when I arrived, it transpired that my chosen area was the thoroughfare for returning sheep, complete with shepherds. Although I successfully managed to refuse offers of accommodation, I caved easily once food came on the agenda, and found myself back at one of their houses, surrounded by 15 children from 3 different families as they laughed at my attempts to put a mıxture of eggs, potatoes, green herbs and chilis into some bread. The wife of my host was so disgusted at my lack of sandwich-making abilities that she insisted on doing it for me, and the moment the end of one piece of bread had disappeared into my mouth, another was already in the making.

The cycling itself had good days and bad days. The road was abysmal in places and the wind against me for long sections. I've been forced of the road god-know how many times and even witnessed the rear rıght wheel of a car lift of the ground as it skidded 90 degrees in front of me. The man had been attempting to overtake a car that was attempting to overtake me, with the result being 2 wheels in the gravel, a squealing of breaks, black marks on the road, and a car that was almost flipped. The other car (the one that had been overtaking me) merely continued on its chosen path, while the driver of car that had conducted a risky manoeuver at high speeds did what all people do when they're safe in the knowledge they are in the wrong; they try to blame someone else. Gesticulating at the verge and with an irritated tone to his voice I got the impression I was being ticked off for not having the courtesy to struggle through the gravel. I simply repeated my well worn phrase: 'no turkish, no kurdish' (I haven't even learned these in their respective languages - but look how far that got me in Iran), and gave an award-winning smile before he sped off into the distance.

Total distance thus far: 3605km! It means I've passed the landmark figure of 3520km which is the halfway point between Delhi and Dublin (as the crow flies). It's all downhill from here!!!

First green field I've seen since 28th December!<

One of the many sandwiches

SSDD...it was closed. Supposedly the prophed Abreham threw himself/was thrown from the walls of this castle(I don't think I'm making that up, but I could well be!)

The Border Story

2008-03-03T01:51:00.000-08:00

Stage 9: Hakkari to Şirnak
Day 1: 91.4km Ortaküy
Day 2: 102.3km Şirnak

3200km done, but the last 2 days have been without doubt the best so far; and to think I almost took another bus!

I always try and go by local information and advice, so was pleased when I met an English-speaking Kurd ın the Post Offıce of Hakkari. I was ınvıted back to hıs hıs house for dinner but was a bit dısmayed to dıscover that his advıce was to take a bus for the 200km stretch to Şirnak that skırts the Iraqı border ın places. Hıs vıew was that unfamiliarıty of the locals to tourısts could cause problems, never mınd the recent ıncursıons of Turkey ınto northern Iraq. Still, durıng the evenıng, the news was reported that Turkey had fınıshed its operatıons and I decıded that I would at least attempt the journey. I was confident that I wouldn't get passed the first checkpoint so at least I could say I'd gıven it a shot! I knew that minibuses left for Şirnak at 8am, so provıded I was there when they passed thıngs would be just dandy.

20 stray dogs were passed on the 7km steep descent from Hakkari to the first checkpoint; many a stone was thrown and progress was slow. I handed over my passport and prepared myself for the 45mın waıt untıl the minibuses arrıved, but ınstead of a rejection I was wıshed a pleasant journey. The road was open; in for a penny, in for a pound!!!

A truly glorious 50km descent followed through steep lımestone gorges and crossing 2 further checkpoınts untıl I reached the turnoff towards Şirnak. The buses had passed so there was no going back, but almost all reservatıons I may have had evaporated wıth the warmth of greetıng I receıved from the locals I passed. Wıthout exceptıon, my wave and greetıng of 'assalam alaykum' was ruturned with an even more enthusıastıc wave, a smıle and the reply: 'wa alaykum as salam'.

Offers of chai were abundant and thıs turned out to be the 2nd hardest feature of the 2-day journey (the 1st being the inclınes!!!!). Every village I passed I'd get appeals to stop and drınk some tea. Many of these I accepted, but ınvarıably once tea was served, out would come the bread, cheese and olives and a planned 5mın pause would turn ınto a 30mın rest. Wıth short days, long waits at checkpoints and a reasonably respectable dıstance to cover, I often felt I dıdn't have tıme to stop and had to cycle past quıckly (thıs was a lot more dıffucult through the vıllages that were located on ascents!).

At my 3rd checkpoint I was asked if I was aware that there were terrorists ın the regıon. I replied that I was, but still wanted to continue. There was no problem with this and after my 30mın wait was allowed to cycle onto the next checkpoint situated a full 100m away. Here I endured another hours delay, but ıt was a productive one ın which I met the commodore and received an ınvıtatıon to sleep at any of the checkpoints along the way and agreed to send him photos of my journey when I got the chance!

A 25km ascent ıncluding 2 further checkpoınts and a pass at 2080m exısted that took a large proportion of the day. It was on thıs leg that the noise of a motorbike behind me made me look round and I was greeted by the beautıful blue of the saltıre emblazened on the front of a rather fetchıng motorbike. Meet Mick, the other tourist in the region and teacher from Fife, on his round the world trip. The ridge of the hillsıde behınd hım ıs Iraq!

I reached the pass at about 4pm. Wıth ıt gettıng dark near 5, I needed somewhere to stay, so asked at the next checkpoınt I arrıved. Sure enough, the mılıtary were more than obliging, but ınstead of stayıng ın the barracks, I was hosted by one of the villagers. Surrounded by Kurds dressed ın tradıtıonal clothıng and passing round
a promotional video for the PKK on a mobile phone (the sayıng 'one man's terrorist ıs another man's freedom fighter' appears to be very applicable ın thıs regıon), I was treated as an honoured guest, ate fıne food and watched as they played a game not dıssımılar to gın rummy.

After a fantastic nıght's sleep I set off later than normal at 8am. I passed thıs patrol of Turkısh soldıers on the descent and Sicander was comandeered for a brıef rıde up and down. The welcoming greetings I received from the local Kurds was equally matched by that of the Turkısh soldıers ın the regıon. At every checkpoint (and I passed through 11 in total) I was greeted wıth courtesy and friendliness and provided wıth food, chai and water (generally there was always someone who spoke reasonable English). The soldiers I passed by the sıde of the road would often offer chai.

At one checkpoint where English was not spoken, I managed to ascertaın through a serıes of gestıculatıons and repeatıng the words 'Turkey' and 'Iraq', that here ıt was not the ridge that was the border, but the tiny lıttle stream that ran up the valley I was headed. 10min up the road, and out of sight of the checkpoint, I strıpped off my shoes and socks and conducted my own ıncursıon onto Iraqı soil (well, Iraqi rock).

Iraqi Me

A series of ups and downs was the order of the remainder of the day, wıth an unexpected and very unwelcome 20km ascent ın the fınal 30km and I arrıved ınto Şırnak about a half hour after sunset, very, very tired.

The best news: I am now below the snow line.

Woo Woo

Though it is pishing it down outside right now.

Boo Boo

Mick and I stopped for a Coke, and most of the village joined us

Children would run beside me on the bike. One group helped to push, another group decided to pull; they were lucky it was early in the day, any later and they would have had a short, sharp meeting with Mr Stick!<

My first view into Iraq. I believe the first ridge to mark the border, so the second hill from the left should no longer be Turkey.<

The kind of people one meets by the side of the road. Kurds just seem to command my respect.

Looking back, once finally out of the snow!!!

It was a bit dark when I arrived in Sirnak

Warm Turkey

2008-02-28T06:44:00.000-08:00

Stage 8: Orumiyeh to Hakkari
Day 1: 95.6km Yüksekova
Day 2: 79.0km Hakkari

After 2 days in Orumiyeh, the weather cleared enough to make a successful break for the border. Once again, I fınd myself in a place where I know NOTHING of the language; I had to ask the border guards what 'thank-you' was, and still haven't worked out how to say 'goodbye'. I just say ıt ın Farsı; I'm sure they get the meanıng and ıt makes me feel better sayıng ıt ın a language other than English. At least I'm makıng an effort!

Good Iranian Road Sign

Bad Iranin Road Sign

'Turkey, please be good to me' I whıspered to myself as I crossed the fınal checkpoınt and ınto the 4th country on thıs route home. I was thınkıng maınly of the weather, and had wonderful ımages of a 40km descent ınto lush green valleys full of raınbows, good campıng grounds and chıldren running through the long green grass wıth smıles on theır chubby lıttle faces and carryıng burnıng sparklers. The realıty was a 16km climb and masses upon masses of snow. I did get to drınk tea wıth shepherds and eat bread wıth soldıers, so ıt wasn't all bad!

Hanging out wıth my new friends the shepherds

Turkish Soldier

The day ended nıcely wıth a long descent ınto Yüksekova. I'll let the pıctures descrıbe what I found.

These guys are cleanıng the roof. How? By throwıng the snow down on the streets below whıle people are walkıng past. One soon learns to watch where one ıs goıng. I saw ıt beıng done from a 5-storey buıldıng!

The afternoons have been blue skıes wıth barely a cloud ın the sky. The same ıs not true for the mornıngs. Agaın, I'll let photos do the hard work.

The solutıon was to wrap my towel around my face and wear plastıc bags over both paır of gloves! It really worked.

Military are everywhere. About every 1-2km, groups of 2 are camped out by the sıde of the road. I was ın stealth mode (i.e. not singing/shoutıng/ramblıng ıncoherently to myself) as I passed one guy, caught hım by surprıse and watched as he jumped and ınstınctıvely reach for the rıfle that was slung over hıs shoulder. Since then I've taken to whıstlıng!

I've passed 3 checkpoints and had two vehıcles stop to ınquıre what the hell I was doing. On ınforming them that I merely wısh to cycle to Ireland, they bıd me a pleasant journey and drıve off as the ındıvıdual mannıng the machıne gun on the top waves goodbye.

The locals are all frıendly (have to watch out for the occasıonal snowball from mıschevous youths), and ıf ıt wasn't for the strong military presence, I'd say that BBC was simply havıng a laugh. I've asked at the checkpoınts I've passed and they seem to thınk I can make ıt through to Şirnak.

Once agaın, we shall see...

Final Score

2008-02-25T22:33:00.000-08:00

Stage 7: Hamadan to Orumiyeh
Day 1: 86.8km Qorveh
Day 2: 92.8km Bijar
Day 3: 89.1km Takab
Day 5: Rest Day
Day 6: Bus to Orumiyeh (about 300km)

I woke up on the morning of Monday 25th February at the normal time of 6am. I ate my breakfast while staring out the window at the darkness beyond. In the 10min between finishing eating and being ready to leave, the snow had begun to fall.

I'd seen news reports that 3 days of snow were approaching, but had chosen not to believe them. An optimism had begun to settle that I would actually make it to the border, and I did not want to lose it. With only 5 days remaining on my visa, and a 4day cycle to the border, I needed conditions to be perfect. Faced with the harsh reality I decided, once again, to catch a bus.

The previous 3 days had been good. I'd started carrying my water bottles in my panniers, and stones in my pockets. The first is easily explained by the picture; it's a frozen river (I dropped a rock on one river from a bridge about 8m above [because that's the kind of thing I like doing] and it didn't even break the ice)! The second was for the dogs.

Luckily, nygmy bear-dogs did not make a return appearance. My only altercation with them was for one to lift its head from the carcass of a dead animal that 3 of them were devouring to bark at me from about 50m away; though it was still enough to install the fear of god in me! No, the stones were for ordinary, boring dogs. I was struggling uphill as the first band of 3 ran at me. I decided to be meek and mild and slowed down as they circled me, barking and growling while I shat myself. Eventually, a young boy emerged from the house and called them away with the help of a big stick. 2km down the road, 3 more came running. This time I decided to be a man, so reached down, picked up some rocks and started hurling them at my would-be attackers (while calling them names). It worked wonders, and the beasts remained at a safe distance (Dad will be so proud).

My knee, with the help of an elasticated support, has finally stopped giving problems. The terrain was rolling hills, with mucho up and mucho down, but the pain has gone (which is always good). Thank-you to everyone who offered help and advice.

So now I'm in the town of Orumiyeh, 54km from the border. It's still snowing, but I hope it to clear in the next couple of days. Now, all that is left for me to do is to try to acquire a map and ascertain the areas where the Turkish Army have decided to conduct "operations".

Final score:

Iranian Weather 17-12 Kieran, Sicander and Mr Stick
(It's a rugby score, and I at least get a bonus point)

Shadow Me

I wasn't tempted

Takht-e-Soleyman. A Zoroastrian site in the mountains near Takeb dating from 1500BC. I got to see the fire temple this time round, but felt a bit cheated because there was nothing but snow!

All this fell in about 2hrs!

View of Lake Orumiyeh from the bus. Isn't it beautiful?

What's in a name?

2008-02-24T05:39:00.000-08:00

Stage 6: Kashan to Hamadan
Day 1: 115.7km Mahallet
Day 2: 123.3km Arak
Days 3&4: Rest
Day 5: 103.3km Melayer
Day 6: 87.5km Hamadan

Iliotibial Band Syndrome, I believe, is the name for my current condition. That, or a small tear in my cartilage.

After raising my saddle by half an inch, and keeping my bike one gear lower than I normally would, I took on the resemblance of a cartoon character; cycling in fastforward, but travelling in slow motion. At least, that's what if felt like. If anything, I think I covered the distance faster than I would have previously! Day one provided minor twinges and my optimism began to return, but day two changed everything. Again, with 25km to go, twinges turned to definate discomfort. There was none of the facial contortions of before (spinning helped on this front), but gritted teeth and muttered, un-publishable words helped me through the final uphill sections.

The snow fell during the final day in Arak, and I thought "Oh Shit!". But it didn't stick, so I though "Oh Good". I had, of course, forgotten the effects that night can have; I woke up in the morning to find 2 inches of snow covering all. One gets to feel all emotions while cycle touring, on that particular morning it was trepidation. Do I stay, or do I go?

Unfortunately, a bit of an incident had occurred the previous evening. One that left a bitter taste in my mouth and helped influence my decision. It was a metophorical bitterness, but it could oh-so-nearly have been an actual, literal one, with all hell breaking loose as a consequence. Let me explain...

Every country has good and bad people. Iran, it just so happens, has more good than other places; but bad do exist. I never really liked the young men working in the Guesthouse. They would continuously call me over whenever I walked past and continuousy babble away in a language they knew I did not understand. One can always catch the drift of what a speaker is saying by their facial expressions and body language, but this takes patience and energy; I was short on energy and my patience soon wore thin. I started making my excuses earlier and earlier. They did not take kindly to my lack of interest!

The night before I was due to leave I'd noticed that Mr Stick was missing from my bike. I was not impressed. Although I managed to (eventually) retrieve him, I decided that the hall was no place for Sicander, and my room would be better. I only wish I'd made this decision earlier. I went to fill up my water bottles and so tipped the old water out. A yellow liquid came out of one. "I don't remember drinking apple juice" is what (naturally) went through my mind. Then the smell hit me.

Words do not describe the anger and disgust that welled up. Water bottles are sacred; pure and simple! I am sure that when I return home and settle down to study the English translation of the Qur'an, there will be a passage that goes along the lines of "Thou shalt not urinate into the water bottles of passing cyclists or thou could find thyself on the receiving end of a beating from Mr Stick".

But what could I do? These guys were running the guest house. I had no proof as to who had done it. And even if I had, then what would I do? Stand before them re-enacting the urinatory episode to convey to them what I was so angry about. I'm sure they would have loved that. Instead, all I could do was let the adrenaline surge through my body and say to myself "I'm off tomorrow".

So, with a thoroughly washed, re-washed and re-re-washed waterbottle, I set off into the snow. It wasn't quite as foolhardy as it sounds; the sky was blue and I chose the main road which would have more traffic, should difficulty occur. But even still, I don't think I will do it again. The slush covers everything. It even stays trapped between the wheel and mudguards providing audible friction noises that are certainly not welcome whilst struggling up hills!

2hrs later, the ice and snow had been burned off the road and I was glad to have Arak behind me.

One good thing I can say is that tailwinds do exist in Iran.

...and how glorious they are!

Oh yeah. And dogs the size of bears; they also exist. I'd like to show a picture, but there's no way in hell I'm stopping to get one. Some might say pygmy bears, but I'd succesfully argue that they're a hybrid between pygmy and normal bears - Nygmy bear-dogs if you will.

Viva la revolution

I stripped and regreased my hubs safe in the knowledge that quality bike parts were available!

My dodgy knee

2008-02-14T01:41:00.000-08:00

After the monotony of desert cycling, it was nice to get back into the hills as I headed west towards Mahallet. After a 60km climb, there was nothing more welcome than the sign shown to the right! A 30km descent followed into a town I was never going to stay, but passing through was very glad of my decision. It contained the largest collection of fools I've ever met in one place. Maybe it was something to do with the water, or maybe the cloud I'd descended into was an ever-present resident.

A kid tried to take my bike apart in front of my very eyes. A man would not let me go for 5 full minutes while he energetically spoke to me in Farsi whilst waving his arms in the air (though he did give me 3 figs). Two old men RAN over to me while I was stopped asking for directions only to stand there displaying toothy, vacant grins. Finally, I received an invitation to stay at someone's house who lived in Mahallet, only for me to arrive there and find out it was an orphanage - and one where I could not sleep. The only hotel in Mahallet wanted $18, but I successfully knocked $5 off this price. It was more than I wanted to pay, but given my state (it was a final 10km climb to the town), and their strong bargaining position ("if you don't like it, you can go on to the next town 30km away"), I had to accept.

I left early the next morning towards Arak. On the map, I had seen a short cut through the mountains that I could take, but after finally finding the correct turnoff (all the signs were in Farsi), I was informed that the road was closed due to snow. At least, that's what I think I was told, the people could speak no English!

No shortcut made this day a very long one; 123.3km in total, into a headwind for much of it. Iran appears to be shaping into the land of headwinds. Heading north from Toudeshk to Kashan I was pedalling into the wind. Going west from Kashan to Arak, I was again travelling directly into a breeze.

The long distances, hilly terrain and infernal winds appear to finally have taken a toll. The final 25km into Arak were sheer agony. Something happened to my left knee (oddly on a comfortable downhill section) that caused stabbing pain to occur every time I put pressure on my left leg. Given that I pedal at about 90rpm, and it took 1 and a half hours to cycle this final 25km, that adds up to hell of a lot of pain. Luckily, it just so happend that the more I pedalled, the less pain I felt, but if I stopped for a short while (even while free-wheeling), when I started again, the pain was 10 times worse, until it settled down again. As a result, I have taken the executive decision to rest in Arak until it feels better. I hope to head off towards Hamedan tomorrow...or the day after.

I guess it's karma for getting those free painkillers!

The Road To Kashan

2008-02-14T00:46:00.000-08:00

Stage 5: Esfahan to Kashan
Day 1: 98.9km Toudeshk
Rest Days: Yazd and Toudeshk
Day 2: 103.8km Ardestan
Day 3: 116.9km Kashan

Obviously, one day in Toudeshk became two. It was a restful one in which I smoked qalyan, visited a mosque, hoodwinked a free clinic into giving me painkillers and had an interview for local TV.

It appears that Iranian people go nuts for free things. I had previously mentioned in passing to the brother of my host that given my inflexible legs, it hurt after a while sitting cross legged on the ground. With this titbit of information, I was whisked off to the free clinic and told to tell the doctor that my knees hurt due to cycling so I could get some ointment for them. I tried to resist, saying I was fine, but once an Iranian gets it into his head that he would like to do you a good deed, that deed will be done come what may. I emerged from the clinic clutching a packet of painkillers, but was immediately ushered back in to partake in some good old Iranian propaganda about what the foreigner thinks of Iran and the free clinic.

Nothing in life is free! (Though it must be said that the positive view I gave of Iran is indeed what I have experienced.)

So finally, I hopped on my bicycle and began my journey once again. Although a headwind existed for most of the 104km, it was a good day consisting of quiet roads, dirt roads and 60km of downhill! I arrived into Ardestan to find only one hotel charging US$20/night. Not wanting to pay, I emerged from the gates only to be called over to a group of men sitting doing nothing outside a shop. With them speaking no English, and my limited Farsi, I was invited to the house of one of them (not by the host, but by someone else!!). It turned out to be a man with what appeared to be a failing plumbing shop but with a palace for a house (methinks he had another source of income). He didn't appear too interested in trying to speak to me, which made the stay a fantastic one; I was able to sit there and read while he watched TV. He fed me and the following morning I made my way towards Kashan.

King George was bored, that's my assessment of the situation after the journey to Kashan. Since you've seen the photo at the top, you have seen the entire scenery from Ardestan to Kashan; a journey that was 116km in lengths, with 100km into a headwind! A mountain was off to my left; it remained there for 3 full hours. I swore at it, made rude gestures at it and even hurled stones at it, but it refused to move for that whole time. I spoke out loud to myself in 4 languages (English, Irish, French and splatterings of Farsi). I swore at the birds that flew faster than me. I sang to myself, but given that I know no more that single lines to songs, I soon grew bored even of that.

I arrived into Kashan tired, hungry and very, very ratty. I told everyone that honked their horn at me in no uncertain terms that I would see them next Tuesday. A boy on a motorcycle started jabbering at me in Farsi. For some reason, Iranians often take the phrase "Farsi balad nistam" (I don't speak Farsi) as an oppurtunity to test the truthfulness of the speaker by speaking very, very fast, for a very, very long time in a language that is not English. After 100km of headwind, this is not what one wants. I wanted to punch him, poke him in the eye, throw him to the ground and kick dirt in his face. Instead, I knew he was being as helpful and friendly as most Iranians are and only wanted to show me the way to a guesthouse. I followed him without a word and he brought me directly to the door before bidding me good day.

I remained ratty for my rest day and although there was quite a spectacular gathering to mark the anniversary of the Islamic Revolution, I could stay only for a short while before the constant bumping of people into me got too much. Some photos are below.

<

Drudgery and Decadence

2008-02-06T06:53:00.000-08:00

That's what describes the 98km cycled from Esfahan to a small village called Toudeshk. Not the decadence part, that came later; no, it started off with just the drudgery. It should have been relatively straight forward; the road was flat and the traffic was light. But a combination of a month of non-cycling, my recent addiction to all things chocolate and a sideways wind made the final half of the journey sheer hell.

It started off promising with a very respectable average speed of about 23km/hr, but in the final hour I was "pleased" to be going over 13km/hr. And speed was not my only problem. Boredom (for the first time) entered the equation. There is nothing more tedious that flat desert with an occasional truck roaring passed. How I missed the adrenaline of oncoming, overtaking Indian buses that had forced me onto the dusty road margins in days gone by. How I wished for the pleasant green of sugarcane!

But I got there in the end and the two nights I stayed in Toudeshk more than made up for the dreary journey there. Mr Mohammed Julali used to see cyclists camped by the side of the road and so started inviting them to stay with him (well, his older brother, if truth be told) instead of braving the elements. The home is a 200yr old traditional house (arched roofs and mud-brick walls surrounding a small courtyard) with a Persian Rug mid-way through completion in the living room and a spare room in which cycle and motorbike tourists are housed. Unlike other hosts, Mr Julali and his family are well used to tourists staying and so the uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, friends and first cousins twice removed are not called to share the experience. A weary traveler can sit by the gas fire in peace, join in the conversation or retire to contemplate life in the silence of the spare room without fear of offending anyone.

After 2 days I was more than easily talked out of cycling the 2 day journey to Yazd (I thought it would be good penance for all the buses I've taken; but 2 days of desert cycling, with only 2 more days of the exact same desert cycling back up the exact same desert road was just too much for even my masochistic self) and I, once again, hopped on a bus. Aboard I was glad of my decision; the temperature outside was shown as -5, and this was at 10am!!

I've spend the last 5 nights living in a converted mansion here in the oldest, still inhabited, city in the world. It is true that the dorm I'm staying in was probably the former wine cellar, and is linked to the outside world by a steep staircase and barred hole (a window gives it too much justice), but at less than 3 euro per night I'm hardly complaining. Plus, I get to recline by the fountain during the day whilst eating dates and figs, drinking tea, and even smoking the forbidden qalyan. It was lemon flavour today.

Though, once again, changes are afoot. The layers of fat I've accumulated over the passed 4 weeks are going to be shocked into submission. Tomorrow, I return to Toudeshk, stay one night, pick up my bike and scadaddle onwards. I have decided that I have waited long enough. It's now or never. Time to hit the road again...

You'll be glad to hear I've run out of cliches and so will just post a couple of pictures instead.

Desert Cycling; not good for one's complexion.

Mr Mohammad Julali with his elder brother Mr Reza Julali and his (Mr Reza's that is) two children.

Dinner in the Julali household

Mr Reza Julali's wife, mother, father and children. This is the first picture in Iran that I have been able to openly take of members of the fairer sex. Not that I surreptitiously photograph women...

Water Cooler in Toudeshk. The towers are for passive cooling - They're set to be all the rage in 21st Century Europe. This was built 200 years ago...

An even older building down an even older lane (this time in Yazd).

When I'm not roaming the streets looking for chocolate, I'm eating it here in my hotel.

True to form, I arrived at this Zoroastrien Fire Temple to find it...closed!

I climbed on a wall to get this photo (locked gates were not going to stop me!). Apparently, all that's inside is a window with a fire behind. True, the fire is meant to have been burning continuously for the last 600 years, but I can just tell myself that the next time I look through some random's window at their fire.

Mundanities

2008-01-30T09:06:00.001-08:00

Without a bicycle, travel in Iran is pretty much same same as elsewhere in the world, which is why i have been a little bit lax in updating this blog. In short, there is very little to report. I could, of course, go into the more mundane aspects of my life over the passed week which has consisted mostly of wandering round various cities trying (but failing) to spend as little money as possible, but not only can I not really be bothered to do so, I don't want to bore you.

In short:

-Applied for (and very easily got) 30 day extension for Iran. Cost: IR100,000 (about 8 euro).

-Bus to Esfahan for a tearful reunion with Sicander (the name i have now christened my bike; but due to a lack of champagne, I merely danced naked round it 3 times whilst waving a burning branch).

-A thorough washing off of the small amount of rust on my beautiful steed.

Drinking tea whilst wishing I was simultaneously smoking a qalyan.

-Wandering the bazaars of Esfahan.

-Pitching up (twice) to the mosque described by some as: "the most beautiful building ever constructed by man", only to find it has just closed (twice) - the photo to right is merely the door to the mosque.

But now it is all to change...slightly.

Yes, after more than a month of overeating and underexercising I am once more climbing into (or onto) the saddle. But, true to my current form, it is only a measly 95km I plan to cycle to a house in small town where cyclists are offered free accommodation in return for speaking english with the owner. I aim to spend a couple of days there before a short bus down to the city of Yazd where I will sejourn for five days before finally, finally, finally attempting to venture north.

Drinking tea, reading the paper; I could be back home!

A mosque in Immam Square (2nd largest square in the world after that one I can't spell: Tianneman [?!])

Old building down an old lane

The J-word

2008-01-24T07:53:00.000-08:00

Hi my freind (Cieran Craven) I'm happy from familarity with you. I enjoyed from be with you and I learned very thing from you and use from your knowledge (you'r information).

I hope that I have were a good host for you. If I couldn't were a good host excuse me.

I'm very unhappy that you want leave my. I wish that you could stay with me more to I speack with you by English to learn English language (you were my teacher. you teach to my English language).

I hope you enjoy from your travel in IRAN and a long it in other places. You be succeed have a good time.

Your Iranian freind: Hossein doodman.

So goes the entry in my journal from a 23 year old, dark skinned Iranian student; a man who prays to Allah 5 times a day. A man who's Western perception of him is that he would like nothing more than to strap semtex to his chest and destroy our way of life. Our way of life where people lock the doors of their car during their 2hr commute to work; lock their houses when they're inside; and don't know their neighbours because they're too busy watching TV.

For 3 days I stayed with Mr Doodman and his fellow students in their dormitory in the city of Bushehr, on the Persian Gulf. For 3 days I was not allowed to reach into my wallet. I slept with them, ate with them at the university, and got tours of the city and hospital (they were all nursing students). They payed for my taxi fares around town and even fully refused to allow me to pay for my bus ticket when I came to leave. I met and spoke with 20-30 of them, and each one of them during the course of our conversations inquired about the reasons why the west thinks they are terrorists. The longer I am here, the harder it gets for me to even come up with an answer that even resembles sense.

There is nothing.

How these people have been labeled as terrorists is completely beyond me. The hospitality and warmth of reception that is shown to every foreign person that enters Iran in unrivalled in the West. It makes me ashamed to think that the Irish are considered to be a friendly race; we have nothing on the Iranians or Pakistanis that I have met so far on this trip. I almost feel disappointed that I am not Iranian and have not shown the same hospitability towards others in my country.

If this were the side of Islam that Jihad was trying to promote, I would be one of the first to pick up a tea-towel and belt.

But fear not of the cruel brainwashing that I must be experiencing here at the centre of the axis of evil, I'm still an atheist.

An un-named Iranian on the left, Mr Ali Salahi, Myself, Mr Hussein Doodman

Persian Gulf

Iranian Sunset

2008-01-16T07:58:00.000-08:00

"Muscat, Oman, Dubai, Saudi Arab, Kuwait, Iraq, Bahrhain, Hormoz, Kish..."

I sat and nodded as the man who could speak no English uttered apparantly random country and place names while pointing out at sea. It was about the only way we could communicate, with country names being almost the same in both languages. I offered my part of the conversation:

"Hindi, Pakistan, Baluchistan, Iran, Kerman, Shiraz, Esfahan, Bandar Abbas, Turkie, Bulgarie, Yugoslavi, Italie, Suise, France, UK, Irlande"

We sat next to each other on the Persian Gulf smoking our qalyun (shisha) and "talking". After 2 days of rain, finally, I got to experience the great Persian pleasure of smoking flavoured tobacco. With smoking banned in all enclosed spaces, it is only in the relatively warm climate of the Persian Gulf at this time of year that a traveller can comfortably experience the flavours of mint, lemon, orange, pistachio and many, many more, whilst also increasing the risk of a long and lingering death.

Long live qalyun!

Will is gone and I'm surviving on the Farsi phrasebook I swiped from a hotel we were staying at. I've sinced moved to a cheaper place where the paint is peeling and half the rooms are unoccupied due to rain pouring down their walls. I'm in a dry room, I'm glad to say.

My bike is in snowy Esfahan, and I am now enjoying the more favourable coastal climate. I'm awaiting the PhD funding application process to commence and once that is nicely out of the way (was meant to be today, but in true Irish fashion, nothing has yet appeared on their website) I'm continuing (by bus) up the coast towards a wee fishing village called Bushehr. I aim to stop off at a few places along the way. Some have accommodation, others I must rely on the generosity of these incredibly generous people. Hospitality towards guests is second only to what we experienced in Pakistan. To avail of it I must make myself look less local and so, I am afraid to say, the moustache must go.

With my consort and bairn

2008-01-12T00:49:00.000-08:00

Strange things start to happen when cycling in sub-zero temperatures in mountains.

For a start, water-vapour from my breath condenses in my beard before freezing. Then, the nozzles of my water bottle freeze closed before the water inside goes almost solid. This is soon followed by the realisation that whenever I stop for even short periods of time (about a minute), it is necessary to stop in at least 2nd or 3rd gear; this is due to the gear cables freezing up and needing to be able to tension them to break the ice. Finally, and worst of all, one begins to rue downhill sections.

Downhill cycling is what drives cyclists. The ecstasy of effortless movement cannot be understated, especially when one has worked so hard to reach the pass and achieve it. But, over the last few days, a feeling not unlike dread has descended upon me whenever I reach the top of a section. Temperatures of minus 4 are bad enough, but when one is motionless on a bicycle and travelling through them at about 25km/hr, they get that much worse. I'd like to say that my fingers and toes go numb, but that suggests a feeling of nothingness, and that is certainly not the case. Going downhill, fingertips hurt. But the feeling from the cold is nothing compared to the pain one experiences when they finally thaw out at the bottom of the section; it is truly excruciating. I wanted to cry the first time it happened and had to stomp up and down, not only to get feeling into my feet, but also to try and create pain elsewhere in my body to take some of it away from my fingers!!! Then it's back on the bike to start up the next incline.

I learned after the first time that my fleece gloves where not enough by themselves and so wore both pairs of gloves from then on. But my cycling gloves lack cover where they are needed most at the fingertips, but it does make the pain slightly more bearable. After the first time, it was only individual fingers that froze and thawed rather than 6 at once as in the first time. Added to all this is an inevitable brain freeze.

The scenery, however, more than made up for the elements. The entire region was frozen solid (even though it was crystal clear blue sky with sun shining) and I hope the pictures do it some justice. The first day was a 96km uphill starter and I arrived into Sepidan cold, tired and hungry. I stopped at a garage to ask for directions to a guesthouse, only to be told there were none. I decided to continue into the town to check for myself. The information was indeed correct, but as I pondered my predicament in a cloud of gloom, a truck's horn shook me from my depression. It was the guy who I'd asked for directions about a kilometre before.

With a series of pointing at myself, himself and making the sign of a pitched roof with his two hands (he couldn't speak any english), he invited me to stay at his house; I gladly accepted and then cycled behind his truck as he (slowly) drove the 3km to his house. There, I was treated as an honoured guest; meeting the entire extended family and talking on the phone to those who couldn't actually be there in person.

It should be noted here that almost without exception, english could not be spoken by anyone. Hamid, the elder brother of Amin (who had invited me to the house), had learned English from a dictionary on a computer and it led to some interesting statments (and he was the best english speaker amongst them):

"I go take douche"
"Are you aweary?"
And my personal favourite - after about 10min of researching on the dictionary:
"You go ireland; you come back in years. You come back here; this house. You bring with consort and bairn."

I believe it to be my invitation to return with wife and kids in a few years time. I'm just glad I've lived in scotland and know what a bairn is, or I would simply have been confused...

This is washing powder

I don't want to ramble for too long about the hospitality of Iranian people, but suffice to say it's very, very good. I've had another person not speak a word of English travel across town with me to deliver me to a hotel here they did speak English. Or there was the taxi driver who (again speaking no English) picked me up, dropped me to the bus station, came inside to speak to the people with me, invite me back to his house, feed me fruit, give me tea, drive me back to my hostel, pick up my bags and drive back to the bus station while i cycled behind. I didn't offer him any money, I know it would have been refused!

The last episode happened yesterday. I arose at 05.30 that morning and was about to depart for the 130km leg up to a mountain town when i looked out and saw snow falling. The town I was heading for was at about 3000m. I think you can guess my reasons, but if not:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7178192.stm

The day I caught the bus

This was breakfast; it's known by the rather cryptic name of "sheep's head stew". Tastes a bit like fish.

And finally, what you've all been waiting for...

When 2 become 1

2008-01-07T22:09:00.000-08:00

What a joy to be in Iran, home of civilisation, and to have a Spice Girl's song ringing around one's head. Luckily, since I don't remember the tune, or most of the words (very similar to Ch-ch-ch-changes), it is not as bad as it might first appear.

Those of you who have been keeping abreast of Will's blog to get a more balanced view of our trip together will already have heard the news; for the rest of you this will come as a surprise (more so for some than others).

1100km of cycling, several days of buses, and almost bang on 2 months since we first met up in Delhi, it appears my unceasing wit and endless pertinent topics of conversation sprinkled with a few irrelevent observations have proved too much for the man. As we speak, his shiny metallic steed is speeding towards the greater Dublin area and he has decided to continue by bus and train.

He elaborates on the reasons and basic themes of his decision at his blog (you can find the link on the scroll on the left, immediately below the place where [should you desire] you can contribute money to the cause for which I'm raising money - plug done for at least another month; I'm appealing for the sympathy vote this time).

All that I will say is that I am indeed sorry to see him leave. It has been good to have a companion who has had the travelling experience that he has and has helped me ease into the cycling life. I aim to continue the trip (almost) as planned. The further north I go, the harsher the conditions will get and I will persevere only as far as I believe safe to do so. It may indeed prove necessary to again have to rely on public transport, but for the time being I shall be doing it on pedal power.

Once again, I am still in Shiraz. This digestion issue that we have both been suffering from is proving to be harder to shift than first believed. I am currently considering the drastic measure of antibiotics. We shall see. I am a firm believer in the body's natural capacity to fight infection, but a few more days of this, coupled with some gruelling cycling may leave me more like an extra in "Schindlers's List" than I care to be.

To help lift my spirits, I am considering shaving my so called "Jesus beard" and styling a hip and trendy moustache instead. This has nothing to do with the revelation provided from the Lonely Planet that full beards are perceived to "show an uncool affinity with the Islamic regime". If I go through with this, photos will soon appear on this blog, so watch this space...

Cheats and Culture Vultures

2008-01-06T01:14:00.000-08:00

I can already predict some of the comments that shall be made before writing this, so in pre-empting them I shall say this: make them at your peril. On my return to Western Europe I shall not be below spitting in your fruit juice when you are not looking, or using my left hand to flick snot into your food with my left hand should we find ourselves dining together; and you do not want to know where my left hand has been while traversing the Indian sub-continent!! You have been warned.

My last post communicated the fact that we had taken buses only as far as fear of our safety allowed. I am afraid that that is not longer the case. Let me explain...

We set out from Kerman 3 days ago with the full intention of cycling the full way to Yazd, before striking westwards towards Esfahan, but the kindly intervention of an English speaking teacher appeared to lengthen our distance in our departure from the city centre. The term "cycling 3 sides of a rectangle" could be aptly used.

Having finally negotiated the incredibly complex American block style of city plan, we found ourselves on the road to Yazd. But road does not give it justice. Dual carriage-way comes close, but throw in 3-lanes in each direction, without proper hard shoulder, and you're just about there. Added to this was the slightest hint of a headwind and the fact that we hand't used our legs in about 6 days. We cycled just 24km before the brilliant thought struck us: Why? Why do this to ourselves? Why cycle along virtual motorways for 3 days, followed by probably another 4 days until we got to quiter and more scenic roads? So we talked ourselves into it.

We turned around, returned to Kerman, and caught an 8 hour bus to Shiraz which is to the West (and a little bit south). As far as I'm concerned, it's about equidistant from the Turkish border as Kerman is, and I'm sticking to that. I measured it with my eyes on the map.

It was a hellish journey and one which I did not think I would emerge intact. The aches in my legs I'd been feeling earlier turned out not to be from non-use for 6 days, but from the temperature and flu-like symptoms that developed almost as soon as I sat down. I was clammy and with about 3hrs to go, it started to feel like someone was twisting a knife in my abdomen. All I hoped was that the hostel we were aiming for was close to the bus station.

I have no real idea if the hostel was close to the bus station because we never reached there. Transpires that our "Shiraz Bus" was actually going to drop us 20km outside of Shiraz (at 10pm at night) before continuing on its pleasant journey to wherever it was it was headed (it was no longer a concern of mine).

So we cycled the 20km into town and eventually, at 11.30pm found a clean enough hotel where we haggled out a price that we were willing to pay. There we have stayed for the last 3 days. You may not want to know this, but I endeavour to reveal all the lows as equally as the highs on this trip, so I shall continue: "Pissing out my arse" is an apt description for my current situation, and apparantly my travelling companion is not faring much better.

So we are here to recouperate, but it is not progressing as rapidly as we would like and we are due to leave tomorrow to begin the 6-day cycle up towards Esfahan (nearly 500km). But we are not just lying in bed feeling sorry for ourselves (though that would probably have been a good idea). Today we went to visit the ancient city of Persepolis. It was constructed in the 5th Century BC and then burned to the ground whenever Alexander came rambling along this path. It lay buried and forgotten and now is reborn as a way to release hard currency from foreigners and locals alike. All the same, it is really incredibly impressive. I hope that the photos I choose to put up here do it some justice, but if not, go take a look at Wikipedia; I'm sure they have a lot better!

The entrance to one of the rooms for meeting dignatories

One of the many stone carvings (and even one of the less impressive!!)

Horsey

Guardians of Tomb

Tomb of Darius the Great (right) and some other famous guy (left). My ancient Persion history leaves an lot to be desired (as does just history in general)

I should note here that the entrance to Persepolis was extremely reasonable at about 30cents, but it was the taxi at 15euro that we have an issue with. It is possible to do it a lot cheaper using minibus to a local town, then a hired taxi to Persepolis, but our bowels did not lend ourselves for such an excursion, where haggling to such a tourist destination would surely have proved draining.

Quiet Quetta

2008-01-02T01:39:00.000-08:00

We arrived into Quetta at about 8pm; 2hrs after nightfall. Everyone we have met both within and outwith Pakistan advises agains foreigners being outside at night-time. We had to find the police, FAST. Luckily the bus station is near to the army section of town, so we were soon on wide roads with armed men either side, who we figured were safe enough looking to ask for directions. Within 20min we found ourselves within a police station.

"Yes" confirmed the policeman who could speak English, "it certainly is advisable for foreigners to remain indoors after dark". Indeed, he was concerned of being shot himself after nightfall and would not walk round alone. A police escort could be arranged to take us to the hotel, but it would have to be a motor cycle. Due to strikes and the 3 days of mourning, none of the petrol station had any petrol, and the police vehicles had run out of fuel. A police escort to the border was not really an option, though it would be safer anyway to travel by bus. Police are a target in Baluchistan, as is the train that runs twice per month. The buses are run by Baluchi people and so were less so.

We arrived safely in our hotel only to discover that the kitchen was closed, but it was possible to go to a restauran around the corner, and the desk clerk reckoned it was safe to go. Having eaten nothing for 12hrs, and not being too enamoured with the prospect of not eating for a further 12hrs, we decided to go against all advice given to us about Quetta and brave it. We had that very day purchased some rather fetching, and incredibly warm, Pakistani shawls, so wrapped ourselve up in those and stepped out into the darkness...

After a very uneventful 20min, we walked back into the light with our stomachs full.

It was possible that we would have to spend 2 days in Quetta. A lack of petrol generally tends to restrict the movement of buses and it was unknown if there would be enough fuel the following day (Monday) when the pumps reopened. As it turns out, there was enough fuel, and buses did run, so by 4pm on Monday we were already to do our final leg in Pakistan.

It consisted of 13hrs packed into a bus travelling at night towards Iran. This was the most dangerous section of the journey and is where most kidnappings occur. Luckily, once again, it proved a very uneventful trip. We arrived in the border town of Taftan at 6.30am on the 1st of the 1st 2008. It has got to be one of the dullest New Year's Eve I have ever spent in my life, and that includes the one where we got flooded in in Mayo, watched Jurassic Park on TV, and went to bed at 11.45pm. Though, I guess it's probably a good thing it wasn't more eventful.

At 10am the border opened and we crossed into Iran.

We don't speak the language, we have no phrase book, we have no guide book, we have finally grasped the exchange rate, we are sure we have been ripped off numerous times already, but we are now in the city of Kerman. It means one thing at the moment: we are out of Baluchistan. We are now in places where we do not need police escorts and are safe to be seen on the streets after night. And so I shall leave it here. For one thing, I need to go buy a guide book!

(Paul, I hope these last 3 blogs go in some way to explaining why we "cheated" and took one or two motorised vehicles [well...6 police vans, 2 buses, 2 minibuses, 2 taxis, 1 truck and 1 comandeered pickup truck])

Police Escort

2008-01-02T00:53:00.001-08:00

They say that a picture paints a thousand words, and god knows I don't want to write 8,000 words, so I shall describe the police escort towards Iran in a semi-pictorial manner:

One of our first escorts in the province of Punjab (a very safe and stable province).

Again, escort in the province of Punjab (on way to DGK)

This was our escort 30km west of DGK where we have already entered the tribal region. At first, it was a guy on a motorbike, and we were requested to cycle the 35km to the next checkpoint. After our protests, they eventually found this pickup.

Yes...em...
Even after our protests, they couldn't find a police vehicle/pickup, so this was our mode of transport. The police escort (1 man with no gun) travelled in a second truck behind this one. Only trouble was that our truck travelled faster than his, so we got dropped off near sunset, in the middle of nowhere, with no escort!

10min later a private pickup with our policeman in the passenger seat pulled up. We piled into the back and descended into Baluchistan. Will was as happy as he looks!

Baluchistan Police. In the words of the people we stayed the night with "They have no vehicles, they are more just for show. It is the Tribal Leaders who police this area"

After these guys, we got a motorcycle to cycle alongside us for the 4km into Rakhney, the first town in Baluchistan. We called into the police station only to find out that no-one had informed them we were coming. They had no vehicles to take us any further. We would have to stay the night there.

Only one person spoke English and he explained the situation to us. Baluchistan is a bit of a rogue state. They would like independance, but due to their mineral wealth, the government is a little reluctant to give it. They are also reluctant to invest in Baluchistan so roads are poor, education is poor, and the police force is poorly equiped. He said we could spend the night at his and continue on in the morning.

On arrival at his house we discovered that it was actually the house of the Tribal Leader for the area; we had been talking with his nephew. The leader himself was off on the campaign trail for upcoming local elections but his son and two of his nephews (the one at the police station and another cousin) fed and entertained us for the evening. They were among the best people we met in Pakistan, and we met some very very good people. All 3 could speak excellent English, and we learned much about the Tribal system and the problems within Baluchistan. It was a pity we could only spend one night there.

In the morning Imtiaz (the first nephew we met) took us to the bus station and organised for our trip to Quetta. We would be conducting this part of the trip without our police escort, but had his assurances that this section of the road was safe. Within and beyond Quetta was a different story. Its close proximity to Afghanistan and lack of a properly controlled border (it's over 2000km long) meant that certain characters migrate from Afghanistan and can cause problems for foreigners in that part of the country. AK47's are in abundance and kidnappings are not too uncommon. His advice was to contact the police in Quetta and go from there!

Nephews of the Tribal Leader in Rakhney. Imtiaz on the left Hassan (a different one from before) on right. Ol' blondey is Will.

One of our minibuses to Quetta (we needed 2). It was an 11hr journey. The first 5hrs included 4hrs of unpaved roads!

As A Brother

2008-01-02T00:09:00.000-08:00

And so I must delve back into the past, before my previous post, but after my previous previous post to fill people in on what has happened to the journey and why I let slip that our bicycles have been travelling club class on the top deck of buses travelling along dodgy Pakistani roads, and steerage in the holds of Iranian buses, while we have both experencied numb posteriers from sitting for too long in uncomfortable seats.

"Officially the road is safe and it is fine for you to cycle. But as a brother, off the record I advise you not to take it and not to stay the night here"

So said Hassan, the man in a suit with impeccable English who had got his driver to stop his car having seen us by the side of the road, surrounded by curious onlookers, and about to try and find a hotel to stay in Dera Ghazi Khan (DGK to those who have been). We never found out his last name; he worked for the police, but not of the uniformed kind.

It turns out that although DGK is in the province of Punjab, it is actually within the tribal zone of Baluchistan, and as such people obey the rule of the tribal leaders, not the police. Foreigners entering into DGK and its surrounding areas should have an armed guard. We would have known this if we had visited the DCO (government official) in Multan; we had not and so did not.

So, 20 min later, having spent 6hrs cycling over the plains, crossing the Indus river and arriving into DGK, we decided to follow the advice of Hassan and found ourselves (and our bikes) travelling back along the very same road in the company of Policemen with semi-automatic rifles. I am glad to say it was my first experience in the back of a police van. Over the 90km stretch, we experienced 4 such vans and men with guns as each one could take us only to the limits of their district before handing us over to the next group.

Will loading his bike onto the first police escort at DGK

It took just an hour and a half to return to Multan and, 30min after our arrival, we got a telephone call from the front desk asking us not to leave the hotel. A top politician had just been assasinated and it was advised that we do not leave the hotel. I'm sure you have all seen the news, and so shall continue on this thread no further.

The police arrived the following morning to say that all buses and trains were cancelled due to the unrest that had occured in some major cities as well as the 3 days of mourning that had been announced by Presiden Musharraf. We were not going anywhere. The police made to leave, but discovered that protests were being held on the street outside, and they decided to remain safely behind the closed gate of the hotel and drink tea until the crowds had moved and the fire was out.

And so we played the waiting game. We were advised not to leave the hotel without an armed escort (there was a guy with a shotgun protecting the hotel), and all entertainment channels were myseriously removed from the TV. In short, it was a very boring time.

But it was not to last long. The following day (2 days after the assisnation of Bhutto, it was a Saturday but the date escapes me) the police arrived at the ungodly time of 9am to awaken us from our slumber. We were leaving for the Iranian border that morning; everything was organised. We would get police escorts right the way there, leap frogging between districts. It was, after all, "their duty" to ensure that we arrived safe and sound at the border. And so with our bags packed, we departed west.

Happy New Year!

2007-12-30T23:17:00.000-08:00

A very brief posting to say that myself and Will are doing just dandy. We have abandoned the two wheeled transport in favour of speedier modes of transport and are now in the city of Quetta in the Western Province of Pakistan. We will catch a bus to the Iran border tonight or tommorrow (depending on the availability of petrol!!). The blanks shall be filled in once we are Iran.

For now, I wish you all a very happy New Year. I have not touched a drop of alcohol for 21 days and it's looking like it could be several more weeks before I do so again. I hope you all take up the slack on my behalf!

A sober Christmas (but a very good one nonetheless!)

2007-12-25T22:09:00.000-08:00

Stage 4: Amritsar to Multan
Day 1: 58.9km Lahore
Day 2: 0.0km
Day 3: 135.6km Okara
Day 4: 0.0km
Day 5: 41.3km Sahiwal
Day 6: 81.8km Mian Channun
Day 7: 97.8km Multan

A clean, green, quiet city with wide boulevards and fast flowing traffic. I am, of course, referring to Delhi. Though it should be noted that this description is only the case when compared with the city of Lahore.

Eyes in the back of our heads would have been a significant advantage when approaching this city, and indeed any major town we have since passed through. I guess that mirrors on our handlebars may do a similar trick, but given the choice, I'd go for eyes. A motorcyclist almost took out me(or rather I almost took out him) in one manoeuvre as I tried to avoid an autorickshaw, and further along the road another autorickshaw ran into the back of me as I braked to come to a standstill in stationary traffic (minus the aforementioned tuktuk). It was stressful, dusty and dirty, but at least we got to rest for 2 days in our rat infested hotel. We preferred to refer to them as large mice while we were there, but they were definately rats!!

If the city was not fantastic, the complete opposite must me said for its inhabitants, and for all further Pakistani people we have met along the way. They are, without a shadow of doubt, the friendliest and most caring race of people I have ever come across in the 25 years of my existence. Everywhere we go we are offered cups of tea, cold drinks, food to eat and places to stay. Their hospitality knows no bounds. In the city of Okara we were taken on the back of a motorbike to the family home of one of the people we met on the street. It was the festival of Eid (one that lasts for 3 days and celebrates the sacrifice that Abraham was willing to make to god, being his son), and blood and guts of sacrificed animals lined the streets. We were entertained with good company, Islamic music and dance and provided with an evening meal. The food here really is fantastic.

The following morning we returned to witness the sacrifice of the family bull for Eid. It was quite a sight, and one which I will not go into. I have other photos, but figured that the ones below would suffice. Children watched on and not one shed a tear, or uttered a word of complaint; they were even eating their breakfast 2 minutes later beside the carcass. They already knew well enough where food on the table comes from and how it gets there.

before

after

After a lunch of the heart, liver and kidney's of the freshly butchered bull (almost the entire mass of meat is redistributed between poor friends and relations according to Islamic tradition, with the family just taking enough for a meal or two)we continued on our merry way. I have mentioned a long time ago that plain cycling can become monotonous, but here's another fact: we have now travelled over 500km without a single hill. Three times the road has inclined before declining as we pass over bridges over the train lines. THREE times in 500km we have had view of some description. I'm fairly sure that's further than the entire width of Ireland. And there's still more to go...

We arrived in Multan on Christmas Eve and have decided to spend a couple of rest days here. Our hotel is clean, has space to wash ourselves, clothes and bikes, and most importantly of all, is free from the pitter patter of tiny rat-sized feet. A Christmas (and even an entire November and December) without a single Christmas Carol is a Christmas well spent!

I hope you all had just a pleasant Christmas, and I wish you all well in the New Year.

Family we stayed with in Mian Channun

The day that had it all

2007-12-17T06:54:00.000-08:00

Stage3: Dharamsala to Amaritsar

Day 1: 94.3km Pathonkot
Day 2: 145.7km Amritsar

I am talking of the second day. The first day was relatively nondescript; that's if you can call a 1300m descent away from snow covered peaks nondescript, which you probably can't, but it was a straightforward kind of day. It was the first time I've cycled with someone else, and it was actually quite a strange experience seeing someone else on a fully laden bike for the entire day after weeks of nothing.

No, all the fun happened on Day 2 of this short leg towards the Pakistan border. As with all great days, it started with a lie in, a solid breakfast of bananas, chocolate and biscuits; and then, shortly before 9am, we were once again on our saddles headed towards Amritsar.

It didn't take long to remember the monotony of the plains. A lack of sugarcane made this journey somewhat different from the first 2 days, but the flatness was unmistakable. We stopped for a cup of sweet tea after an hour and following a leisurely sip was back on the road.

I'd been thinking earlier how great the trip had been so far. There was only 1 road that I'd cycled along twice (2 if you count my initial foray in Delhi), every other route was unidirectional. A certain smugness had settled at the thought of the greatness of circular routes.

It took a further 2km for the thought to hit me. Where was my bag with my camera charger? I'd taken it out the previous night, but couldn't remember putting it back. I stopped, checked all my bags, but it was nowhere to be seen. I must have left it back in the hotel a full 17.5km behind! The thought of continuing certainly did cross my mind. 17.5km is no small distance on a bicycle, but 6 months of no photos seemed (at the time) worse. I bid farewell to Will and returned towards Pathonkot, arranging to meet up with him in Amritsar.

The room had no bag with my charger in it, and a black cloud descended at the realisation of a wasted trip back and yet another proof of my idiotic self for my refusal to fully empty out my panniers by the side of the road. But I was saved on my arrival downstairs to find out that yes, I had left it there. Although I should never have left it in the first place, at least my return was not in vain.

By this time it was 11.20, and the thought of 106km to Amritsar did bring images of buses and trains into the recesses of my mind. But there they stayed. Flat roads at 20km/hr resulted in 5hrs of continuous cycling. I could be there by 4.30 with no stops, and that gave me 1.5hrs to play around with before it got too dark to cycle. If worse came to the worst, I could always catch a bus the last section.

Head down, my only thought was on Amritsar. It would be a monotonous day of plain cycling. How wrong was I...

The first interesting event occurred when a motorbike in front of me crashed into a dog. The bike flipped, the rider went over, and the dog went howling into a field. I stopped to check the rider was ok. He was up right away, but my lack of Hindi restricted me somewhat, so as soon as other people turned up, I got back on my bike, turning away from the dog dragging it's two back legs behind itself in the middle of the field, and continued on my merry way.

After another 20km or so, I decided to try my hand at truck surfing. It goes like this: find a motorised vehicle going at (or slightly above) the speed you yourself are going; extend a hand (left or right depending on preference); grab hold of vehicle; coast and enjoy the scenery. The best thing about it is that it works. Tractors pulling trailers of bricks work quite well, autorickshaws don't. I figured it wasn't cheating so long as my coasting was less than the extra 35km I'd put onto my journey.

Autorickshaw drives past, driver points to side bar. Translation: "you want to hold on?". I nod yes, grab hold, driver accelerates to over 30km/hr. I think "sh@t this is fast, but in no time I'll be in Amritsar". Truck comes from other direction, autorickshaw moves left, I let go. Truck goes on, disaster averted. Driver slows, I grab hold of bar, driver accelerates. Cyclist on left (another one, not me) decides to move right to avoid pothole just has autorickshaw driver decides to move left. I get caught in middle, wheel turns, I go off road.

Only, it's not just a road, we're on a raised bank with about a 10 foot drop either side. I end up at the bottom of said bank. I don't know what happened. I remember being in the air, but I don't know if I came off the back of the bike, or if the bike rolled over me. Either way, my panniers are off my bike, my brakes are off to one side, and I'm thinking my journey is over. Nowhere in India will hold the spares for my brakes. Nowhere.

So a little frustrated I stand by the side of the road while the autorickshaw driver yabbers at me in Hindi. I think he was being apologetic, but that was all I got. I get pissed off, think a bit of brute force on my brakes would be a good thing, and what do you know? It is. Brakes return to proper location, and gears appear to work. Sorted; all I have is a little graze on my right forearm. It could have been worse.

Adrenaline took me 10km of the final 24km. With thoughts of truck surfing put to one side, I concentrated solely on my destination. Sun is getting low, dust is being thrown up, but as I enter the outskirts of the town I spot 2 red bags attached to a bike and see Will's blond head. We make our way to the accommodation at the Golden Temple.

Once again, the job's a good 'un. We should enter Pakistan tomorrow. "Should" being the definitive word.

Fuzzy Golden Temple

Oh, yeah. Forgot to mention that my little detour back to the hotel has meant that today I passed the 1000km mark on this trip. It stands at 1036.0km (by my calculation).

The beginning of the beginning

2007-12-15T05:38:00.000-08:00

After a hellish night bus back up from Delhi to MacLeodganj that included broken seats, windows that opened themselves throughout the night and a distinct lack of warm clothes on my front, we are now set to begin the task of cycling back that short distance to Ireland.

My bike is oiled, the breaks appear tight and my panniers are half packed (in my usual fashion). Visas are in passports, cash is in the wallet and fears of so-called extremist islamic states are put to one side. I would like to state here that the decision to continue into Pakistan and Iran is choice made entirely on my own. WaterAid, nor any of the sponsors thus far have any responsibility for anything regarding this trip.

And with that little disclaimer aside, I can say that I am excited about the next leg. Nervous, yes, but excited all the same. It should be an easy 2 days to the border, with a little stopover to see the Golden Temple in Amaritsar, then good food a go go!!

Passport Please?

2007-12-14T01:04:00.000-08:00

It was a simple enough question, and one that's asked at every hotel, guest house and rest house in India. I should have been prepared for it. I was, of course, not.

It wasn't until I'd actually opened my money belt that it dawned on me that of course I didn't have my passport, it was with the friendly Iranian embassy where we'd been that morning and had handed over our vital documents to be told that we could pick them up 2 days later (this was on Wednesday). It had been a good morning - we were finally getting somewhere.

But that all changed as I was standing in the foyer of Hare Krishna Guesthouse. No passport, no room; it was as simples as that. It didn't matter that I'd stayed there 2 weeks ago. It didn't matter that the guy recognised me, and it certainly didn't matter that ALL the info from my passport was written in the book from the last time, including my passport number and expiry date of my Indian Visa. Without a receipt from the embassy (which they hadn't given me), I could not get a room. I could sleep in the foyer on some cushions, but a bed was out of the question. A quick search of my bag failed to reveal the photocopies of my documents that must be with the rest of my gear in Dharamshala.

This all happened at about 4pm, just when the consulate was shut, but with no other option (Will was staying with Indian friends on the other side of town and I hadn't got their number), I jumped into an autorickshaw to take be back to the embassy. The consulate was closed, but the main window was open. I explained exactly what a fool I was, and inquired if there was there any way I could get a receipt. I was asked to wait, so wait I did.

About 20min later, the stern yet polite man who had softly shattered our dreams of easy visa obtaination (I think I just made up that word) with the line "only 7 day Transit Visa" emerged from the Consulate. In his hand were two red passports. After a stern scolding for returning when I shouldn't have and for not having photocopies of my important documents, he told me that "you only bring trouble on yourself", and handed me the little red books with two brand-spanking new Iranian Visas.

So now we wait for the bus to take us back up North. Pick up our bikes, and in 4 days we should be in Pakistan.

So, all in all, the moral of the story is that if you want a quick visa to Iran, be an idiot. The second is to always check your bags. When I finally did get into my room and empty my bag, what was there? Photocopies of certain relevant pages from a little book.

A brief history

2007-12-12T07:39:00.000-08:00

Stage 2: Rishekesh to Dharamsala
Day 1: 95.8km Ponta Sahib
Day 2: 85.0km Sarehan
Day 3: 54.4km Solan
Day 4: 45.5km Shimla
Day 5: 0.0km
Day 6: 84.1km Bilaspur
Day 7: 101.0km Jwalamukhi
Day 8: 70.5km Gallu (near MacLeodganj)

The story as far as Shimla has already been recounted elsewhere, and I have never been one to flog a dead horse, but the picture to right was sunrise as I left the mountain town.

The fruits of my labour seemed to appear only after I had recovered from losing my lunch through the consuption of chips and chocolate in Shimla. It would appear (from the source of all knowledge - Wikipedia) that this fine city sits comfortably at an elevation of 2130m. The source of no knowledge (me) puts the less than fine city of Bilaspur at an elevation of about 900m. This discrepency results in a whole lot of fun as I found myself (for the first time) descending more than I was ascending. I have decided that this is what cycling is all about. Good roads coupled with these fine, fine gradients all led to me arriving at quite possibly the creepiest guest house I have sejourned; where I was the only guest, the man could speak no English, and the "restaurant" could only offer 3 choices off a menu with about 60 options. Rice was not one of the available options, and I had to make to with eating my 10th chipati of the day.

Highway 88: it wasn't all like this...

An early start to escape the possibility of being murdered in my sleep led me all the 101km to Jwalamukai. Apparantly there is a famous temple here. I did not see it; I was too tired. I had planned to stop at a town 15km before Jwalamukai, but after eating an Indian desert roughly equivalent to shovelling 5 spoonfuls of Demara sugar straight into one's mouth, it was made quite clear to me by the owner of that shop that there were no Guest Houses of any description in Nadaun (the town of my choice), which was (at that stage) about 9km away. As I passed by a hotel, a guest house and a rest house, I was forced to reflect on the accuracy of Indian advice, but decided that I would strike out for Jwalamukai all the same.

Then the fun began:
70.5km in 6hrs 40min resulted in the incredibly respectable average of 10.6km/hr.

Though before people start to think that all those banana pancakes have finally caught up with me, I would like to state that I crossed the 650m elevation TWICE, ending up at the reasonably respectable elevation of just over 2000m. From start to finish I must have risen over 1400m in the day. This included being chased up steep inclines by mangy dogs and swearing quitely through gritted teeth at tourists who rather than moving out of my way on steep sections, decided they would stand and gawp instead.

Having found nowhere inspiring to stay in MacLeodGanj, or the adjacent Bhagsue, I decided to continue up the steep road for a further 4km to where Lyon (a friend from Raleigh) was working. It was here that I ended up staying; away from civilisation and internet. It is for this reason that this update was so long coming, and indirectly why it is also so shit; all this happened several days ago.

Get with the times.

View from Eagle's Nest, up top

5.5km/hr

2007-12-04T04:46:00.000-08:00

What is faster?
Buses
Trucks
Jeeps
Cars
Motorbikes
Scooters
Dogs (normal)

What is slower?
People walking
Dogs (3-legged)
Cows

5.5km/hr was a sustained speed up much of the inclines on my journey so far. It was steep, the road was broken (a "potholed road" does not give justice to its description - it was impossible to find flat sections on either side to cycle across and each little bump is like a hand pushing you back, or a finger tugging at your top), and I have been puking (I was more interested in ensuring that the liquer the guest house owner was offering me wasn't meths and didn't register him topping it up with water). Below is the classy joint I was staying in. Note the fact that there is no pipe connecting the cistern to the hole in the ground. There is also nothing under the sink, as I discovered after pouring some water down there. You can't see, but the pillow cases are of Minnie Mouse. I think it gives the whole place a homely feeling. All for the bargain price of Rps125 (a little over 2 euro).

Though the highlight was heating the water for a "shower" (in India, this means bucket). Wires straight in socket (who needs plugs?); cracked wire casing (who's scared of a bit of electricity); wires in water. Though at least a full risk assessment was conducted, and a wooden stick was used to insert and remove the wires from the bucket. This nifty method took just 10 short minutes to change water from freezing cold, to nicely toasty.

Am now in Shimla trying to recouperate after emptying my stomach contents by the side of the road 10km back. After two days of trying to push on on a nearly empty stomach (yesterday I did 55km on bad roads with just 1 samosa and 2 banannas!) I decided to cut the day short and try and eat some bland, bland continental food.

Though there is some good news. Have found out that our bid for Iranian Visas was a resounding success. PTA has come up trumps. All we've got to do is pay the fellows...

ps Let me know if the video's working. It worked in the preview, but doesn't seem to now it's been posted!

Carlsberg don't do internet...

2007-12-01T03:40:00.000-08:00

But if they did, they sure as hell wouldn't own a subsidary company called Tata Internet. Anyone who has been to India will know that Tata are taking over the world. They're into everything from trucks, to tea, to t'internet (sorry). They're also shit at about everything they do. Think "Alba", then times it by 16, add 7 and you're about there. It reminds me back in the day when we all had dial up connections (which is actually what this is, at a whopping 230Kbps. I don't know what it means, but I know it's slow). So don't be expecting any updates on GoogleMaps, I'm going nowhere near that beauty.

Monkeys scare me what with their human characteristics, intense stares, incredibly sharp teeth and countless diseases, and unfortunately today I had to cycle past many troupes such as the one above. It's a bit blurry because I refused to stop in front of them, opening up possibilities for attack; but as it happens these monkeys were about as scared of me as I was of them!

I had decided that a week of stretching and 9 days of eating chocolate banana pancakes was sufficient and that it was time to move on. So at 7am this morning, I left the comfortable surroundings of Laxman Jhula and started (for the first time) heading West.

I had been lulled into a slightly false sense of security with the large distance I'd covered on the completely flat plains, and it didn't take long to notice the difference. Hills tend to slow me down, but after the first couple of hours, I found myself on flat ground once again. However, a combination of laziness and a suspected cold coming on made me stop after just 95km in a random town called Paonta Sahib. There's not much apart from an apparently famous Sikh temple of which I have only seen the outside.

I plan to rest up before tomorrow which promises to be a hard day. My give-up attitude results in an extra 40km of plain cycling being tagged onto my journey tomorrow before the joy of the hills start once again.

And a note on the cold. It's possible it's just something I picked up, or it's possible it has arisen from me pouring warm salt water into my nose before stuffing a rubber tube up there and removing it through my mouth. It's meant to be a cleansing ritual - I beg to differ.

No news is good news

2007-11-27T03:47:00.000-08:00

At least, that's what I'm telling myself with regards to Pars Tourist Agency. Having changed the format of the scanned copies of mine and Will's passports and re-sent them, I have heard nothing.

However, I thought that although I have nothing new to post here (apart from the actual realisation of how inflexible I really am - Yoga HURTS), I would just put up some pretty pictures and draw your attention to the new link on the left. Defying my illiteracy with computers, I believe I have managed to set up a Google Maps page that should chart my progress home. I'll try and keep it updated, but will apologise now for the many lapses that will occur.

Hindi me (after visiting a temple)

The mighty Ganga (with Laxman Jhula, where I'm staying, across the bridge to the right of the photo)

I don't know which is worse...

About the only place so far that's away from the ubiquitous horn. I found this village about 45min up a steep path near another waterfall.

Stage 1 - Rishekesh

2007-11-22T05:51:00.000-08:00

Day 1: Delhi-Muzaffarnagar (143.9km)
Day 2: Muzaggarnagar-Rishekesh (110.6km)

At 2pm on Thursday 22nd of November, 230km after setting off from Delhi, I started cycling up my first hill. That about sums up the plains of India. That and sugar cane and the incessant honking of horns.

I departed Delhi at 07.15 on Wednesday morning. It was a little later than I was hoping becuase although I had mentioned in my previous missive that my wheels were pumped, I was in fact lying. They weren't. This coupled with a mad search through all 4 of my pannier bags to find my pump delayed my leaving by about 30min. Not the start of dreams, but the type of which I am fast becoming aquainted.

After 15km I had left the environs of Delhi, but it took a full 70km of almost flawless asphalt road before I started thinking that I had escaped the smog. It was nice to finally believe that the air I was breathing was not slowly killing me and I decided to start taking stock of my surroundings. This soon became a bit tedious given that everything around me was sugarcane. In total, over the two days, I must have cycled past 150km of sugarcane fields. At one point, I thought I passed a field of maize, but I realised that it was just a trick of my mind to break the monotony; it was indeed sugarcane.

Having passed about 50 sugar refineries, I decided to stop off at just one. These were not monstrous buildings of steel, but smallscale affairs, where the cane was brought on carts pulled by water buffallo. The cane is crushed to release cane juice, which passes through three pans where the water evaporates off leaving a paste that tastes just like Scottish tablet. It is the discarded fibre of the cane that is used to fuel the fire under the pans. All in all, nearly a completely zero-carbon affair (was just one tractor powering the crusher). I was given a cup of the raw cane juice that, although making feel sick after 1 and a half cups, helped me on my way over the next few kilometres.

If the countryside was tedious, the people were not. At every village I stopped at I was surrounded by curious onlookers who appear never to have seen a bike with gears, let alone a fully laden one carrying a white guy. I get raced by kids and adults alike on their bikes and have even had payment for chai (tea) refused at a chai stall.

Arriving into Muzaffarnagar was a bit of a nightmare. I was racing the setting sun and appeared to have an inability to remember its name (this made asking for directions a tiny bit tricky). "I go Muzaf..." and just hope that whoever I was asking would fill in the gaps. I got a lot of blank faces. Even now, I can't tell people where I stayed without looking at a map.

I woke up the second day at 03.40, smug in the knowledge that although feeling well rested, I still had 2hrs 20 left to sleep. Then I realised that it was not lights on outside my room, but daylight. It was in fact 07.15; the clock I had bought not 12hrs earlier had decided to stop working. On my bike and off I went; again surrounded by sugarcane and the smell of its evaporating juice.

Just passed Rishekesh I was accosted by some Babas (some kind of holy men - they said they were not Hindi but sanskrit; I just nodded my head and smiled). Decided that a rest was in order, so lay down as one of them chanted "ohm" over me and encouraged me to expel the negative energy through my hands and feet. After 5min, I must say that I did feel quite revived. After 30min in their company I decided to decline remaining with them, sleeping in their temple and discarding all material possessions and made my way towards my guesthouse.

A quick dip in the Ganges and I was done for the evening. Time to relax and check internet...

"Dera Kieran
Hope to have good Day
We cant open your mail pplease4 send it for us with diferent format.
With Best Regards
Pars Tourist Agency"

Maybe not!

At least I have a week here to sort things out, start some Yoga, do some swimming, visit some waterfalls. Then it's off to Dharamsala.

Camel on road from Delhi

Buffalo carrying sugar cane to the refinery

Raddishes being washed in river

Shiva statue near Haridwar (25km south of Rishekesh)

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes/"Hi Will, Bye Will"

2007-11-20T08:18:00.000-08:00

I'd like to say that that David Bowie song has been running through my head all day, but given the fact that I don't know the lyrics and am amusical in all sense of the word (even if it is maybe a made up word!), it has just been that little segment. However, that should not take away from the pace of change that has just occurred.

Following our disappointing visit to the delightful Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Iran, it was looking that we were to remain in Delhi in perpetuance. Though with just one day passed I have the pleasure to announce that my bags are packed, my wheels are fully pumped and primed, and I am departing tomorrow morning.

That is correct, the trip is about to commence.

The reason for this sudden change in circumstances all comes down a wonderful tour company called Pars Tour Agency (www.key2persia.com - that address and name is not for you back home to "add to favourites", but for any other keen travellers out there and using google that are having difficulty getting into Iran). It's a long way from being finalised, but they now have our details and should be applying to Tehran for a magic 6 digit code that they then email to us, whereupon we return to the friendly man in the window of the embassy, and he smiles warmly upon us as he sticks in a 30 day visa into our maroon passports.

That is the theory. But theory and practice can't be much further removed than they are in India.

However, whatever the outcome shall be, it will not be learned for a full 10 days. So in the interim I am scedaddling out to the mountains for some cool, crisp air. I am heading to Rishekesh - a place that is only a word to most of you, but that is about 200km NE of Delhi.

I leave at 6.30am tomorrow and am doing this leg on my lonesome. Will's bike is in Dharamsala, so upon leaving Rishekesh I shall be making it poste haste to the home of the Dalai Lama to be reunited with Will

How do I feel...?

GOOD!

Living the Alchemist's Dream

2007-11-19T03:02:00.000-08:00

It gets harder and harder not to draw at least some parallels between the past two weeks and the writings of good ol' Paulo (thank-you Adam for bringing it up). The path is easy to begin with and gets harder and harder as one continues.

After the surfacing of a Pakistani sponsor from the depths of Delhi, and the subsequent issuing of our Pakistani Visas it appeared fate was not tempted by my previous ramblings; however, with only 20 days to cross the entire country, some might argue that he shrugged a shoulder in our direction. Those minuscule facts aside, it appeared that nothing stood in our paths between Delhi and Turkey (at the very least). Iranian visas would be a breeze. There was no state of emergency, we had our snazzy letters of recommendation from our very own embassy and we weren't British or American. Visas being a formality, we would be fleeing the smog of Delhi [as above] in a matter of days to spend the crystal clear winter days in the refuge of the foothills of the Himalaya.

With this in mind, I did an extremely brave thing (some may say foolhardy - but I prefer brave) and took my bike for a spin around Delhi. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I actually cycled. With my departure imminent, I wanted to be sure that I knew my escape route, and I figured it prudent to discover this escape route "sans baggage" (as they say in France).

So...33km later, and exactly back from whence I started, I am pleased to announce that I have:
-found the road to Rishekesh
-traveled the Grand Trunk Road
-passed two elephants traveling the other way
-become dehydrated
-been smiled at and had my hand shaken at roundabouts
-complete and final proof of myself in India [see below of me with cow]
-calculated that, to date, if I was to end my trip now, and if my sponsors did not lynch me, and instead decided that WaterAid could keep their generous donations, that I would have raised 83.36 pounds for every kilometre. That's nearly 120 euro! (So thank you all so much to those that have sponsored; and to those that wish to, there is a link to the left)

And, most importantly, I have lived to tell the tale!

Such elation; such ease; it should have been easy to see the fall. But blinded by our luck to date, we arrived at the Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Iran with smiles aplenty only for the best laid plans of men to be shattered by a simple statement uttered in total politeness: "You can only get 7 day Transit Visa".

And so, I shall leave it there. We have irons in the fire so to speak. All is not lost. There is more that one way to skin a cat (or skin a dead cat as I used to say, until I was corrected by Ollie). Plus, you're probably bored of reading, so below are another couple of photos

I did miss the elephants, but here's a cow on the Grand Trunk Road.

And here's a boat on the Yamuna (the 2nd most holy river in India, and one that conveniently flows near Delhi).

Hhhhmmmm

2007-11-14T03:33:00.000-08:00

I am a firm non-believer in fate; we always have a choice. But situations sometimes arise that make me look twice at things. So, do I dare tempt fate by writing about it? Of course I do.

I have mentioned before the series of events that led up to me being in India, but in many ways that pales into significance compared to what has happened over the last few days.

A couple of years ago, a boy met some Indian girls and befriended them. Another boy (Will) befriended that first boy, and so too befriended those Indian girls. We shall leave that story for now.

After mine and Will's visit to the Irish embassy on Money we were filled with a degree of hope that once again, our overland trip may still be a reality and we could make it across Pakistan. However, on Tuesday morning, those feelings of good fortune were muted somewhat when, upon arrival at the Pakistan embassy, Will discovered that he had left his passport photographs behind, and so applying that day could not go ahead. Another minor blow was that one of the criteria on the visa form was the contact details of a willing sponsor within Pakistan who would vouch for our characters if required. This looked not quite as good as it had the day before.

We couldn't return to the hostel to pick up the photographs because Will had arranged to meet one of the aforementioned Indian girls in one of the regions of Delhi, and there was no time for the return trip. So we decided to mull our situation over throughout the day, and see what came up. I returned to our hostel, while Will met Akancha for lunch.

When we all met up for dinner, Will had a broad grin spread over is face. Over the course of the afternoon he had managed to get that sponsor in Karachi. It transpired that Akancha had mentioned one place for lunch, and Will another. They settled on Will's choice and on entering the restaurant, bumped into an old school friend of Akancha. It should be stated here that Delhi is a city of 13,782,976 souls (I have just found that out on Google, so it must be true), and the randomness is further compounded by the school being situated in a completely different state; these girls did not even have Delhi in common!!

Akancha's friend was not staying in Delhi (i.e. on that day there was at least 13,782,979 in Delhi), she had arrived that day, and was leaving that evening on a flight to...Pakistan, her home country. On hearing our predicament, she gave Will the details of her father in Kerachi who could act as our contact, and invited us to stay if we go down that far. She also says that reports of the situation are blown out of proportion by the media, and it is not nearly as bad as what is portrayed.

So now we are playing the waiting game. Our passports are in, our letter of recommendation from the Irish Embassy is in, our contact in Pakistan is in. Come Friday 4pm, it is possible we shall be in posession of our brand spanking new visas. But, now that I have written that, maybe not.

(the photo is of Will having his application form typed out, in front of the Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan)

Where to go? Where to go?

2007-11-12T02:13:00.000-08:00

After 5 days in India I find myself (and Will of course) at a crossroads. Not a literal one: that would be easy, I have today bought some maps, and a cursory glance at them could easily rectify that dilly of a pickle. No, this is a metaphorical crossroads, and as such is that little bit harder to sort out.

The situation in Pakistan looks to be less than perfect. There appears to be some unrest in certain areas. Upon my arrival in India, Will and I decided that perhaps the best option would be to fly from Delhi to Dubai, take a ferry to south Iran before cycling up the length of the country into Turkey. It would be a shame since it would mean not completing a section of the journey by road, but we decided our safety came first (which of course it does).

So why the crossroads?

From talking to other travelers (or, more accurately, from emailing other travelers) both in Pakistan and Iran, it would seem that the overland trip through Pakistan is not quite a lost cause. Everyone agrees that to do the trip by bicycle would be unwise, but trains are another story. It should be possible to get a train from Lahore to Quetta, and another one from there onto Zanhidan in Iran. Once there, we could quickfoot it out of Baluchistan (area that straddles the two countries) on the back of a bus, before continuing the journey correctly on two wheels.

With this in mind, we made our way to the friendly Irish embassy in Delhi, where we (to our surprise) managed to get letters of recommendation to enter Pakistan and Iran with very little hassle.

So, this is now where we stand. There is the possibility that tomorrow morning at the Pakistan embassy, we shall be granted Visas to enter their country. Once this happens, we have the decision to either go ahead with an overland trip, or turn tails and fly to Dubai. I guess crossroads is the wrong analogy, it's more a T-junction!

In the meantime, both to acclimatise myself to my bicycle and to make up some of those lost miles in Pakistan, I shall be doing a small loop of India. More on this to follow; I can't reveal all my secrets at once.

2007-11-10T03:43:00.000-08:00

Just to prove that I am actually in India, and not just writing these from my hideaway in County Donegal, here is a picture of the typical Delhi road: one along which I shall probably have to cycle in about 3 days. Yay!

And, for those doubting Thomas's still out there, yes it is true that anyone could have taken the picture, but further proof shall follow. I promise you that.

Idiot Boy

2007-11-07T22:51:00.000-08:00

It is official. Many of you probably already know this, but I am a tool! It's like I actually set out to make life difficult for myself, and I'm not even talking about the cycling aspect of this trip. No, that can wait for a bit, I overcomplicate issues just getting out to India.

You'd have thought that I would have learnt from my swift departure from Dublin. Sitting on the computer, trying to find my airline receipt, when I finally decide to actually check the time of my ferry and find out that far from it leaving at 11.30 as I had thought, it was actually 11.10 - this was at the prepared time of 10.15, giving me just 25min to get my panniers on my bike (yes, there weren't even there yet!), hop aboard, pedal the 3 miles down to Dun Laoghaire, say goodbye to mum and Eoin, and check in. I did make it, but there wasn't much standing around.

So, when I finally did manage to get my hands on my e-ticket and see that my plane left at 09.45, you might just think that I'd have the sense to check it. You would, of course, be wrong. Why check it when it's right there in front of you? Why indeed.

I was a little disconcerted and flummexed to see on arrival at the airport that there was no 09.45 plane to Delhi - only an 08.45 one...that was now closed. But no worries, things work out - they always do. So I found myself on the 10am plane to Mumbai, with a link to Delhi the following morning. Sorted.

Unfortunately, things are never that easy in my life, so I found myself standing at the carasoull at 2am watching the same 3 bags go round, and round, and round, and round. My box, and of course, my bike inside, was nowhere to be found. It was about now that I started to curse my lacadaisacal attitude towards getting travel insurance. I meant to get, I really did, it just seemed to take a bit of a back seat to all my other "preparations". But, as it turned out, after a brief altercation with the friendly Air India staff, another trailer of cargo from flight AI124 was found and there appeared my box (I was luckier than other people on that flight).

From here I then discovered from my guardian angel Max (a guy from North India, working in LA, who missed the 08.45 plane because he was pissed and so was making the same route as me) that far from the 05.40 plane being direct to Delhi, it stopped off at about 3 other locations before landing in Delhi, so we (there was actually about 6 of us making the same trip) all stood in queue for about an hour and a half, being pushed out of the way by other desperate (more pushy) travellers. Until finally, at 05.45 we secured seats on the 06.00 flight to Delhi. Of course, we still had to check in our bags and clear security, but I'd grown more confident in my queue-jumping abilities, so just strode to the front of the line, went through the metal detector, ran down to the gate and managed to pass through the gates at 05.58.

The rest of the journey was fairly uneventful: fell asleep, almost left my passport on the plane (my neighbour pointed out that it was on the ground), you know the normal kind of flight. So now, 11hrs after I should have arrived, I'm finally here. And so, after all that, do you know who I blame for all of this? Those damned lazy farmers. It was them and their daylight saving malarky that created this fiasco.

Nothing to do with me...

The here and now

2007-10-19T01:42:00.000-07:00

It's slowly dawning on what I'm getting myself in for. Waking up this morning (over the course of about half an hour - I despise snooze buttons), I realised that I didn't much feel like cycling today. Only problem is that the cycling to and from work only racks up 20km/day. There does appear to be a small discrepancy between this and the 80km/day that I'll be expecting to cycle on the planned route from India back to Ireland! Added to this little shortfall is the rolling hills of Leicestershire, compared to one or two mountain ranges in Asia; the weight of my carrier bag to work, compared to a fully laden touring bike; and of course the weather!

Having said that, I now realise that I don't even know what the weather is going to be like!

That aside, I think it's fair to say I can't wait to start. Since the first suggestion of a mildly adventurous cycle by Will back in November, it hasn't been too far from my mind. It's only been in the last couple of months that the trip finally started to become reality, and with plane tickets purchased and visa (easily!!!) obtained, everything's in place. I don't think I'd ever have come up with the idea myself - I've always enjoyed cycling, but never really gone too far. I guess that's all about to change.

It's strange looking back and seeing the series of events that have led up to my imminent departure in under three weeks.
If I'd never:
gone to Newpark (I wouldn't have met Will or probably even...)
gone to St Andrews (I wouldn't have met Alex and so wouldn't have...)
gone to the Himalaya (and so wouldn't have...)
gone to Mick's house just before I left (where I wouldn't...)
have bumped into Will (who I hadn't seen for about 2 years and so wouldn't later have...)
emailed him about the Himalaya (where he was planning on going [without a bike at the time] and so he wouldn't have emailed back...)
"fancy cycling from Bangkok to Dublin?"
Which then, of course, kicked started the events that lead me to here and now.

It's a series of events that lead me to believe that were I on particular mind-altering drugs, that are sometimes known to increase paranoia, I would think that life is being shaped for me by some unseen force. Of course, being the atheist that I am, I simply believe that we make the best of any situation. Opportunities were offered and I was fortunate enough to be in situations that I could make the most of them. It was these opportunities that finally have led me to being in my final week of work (4 days left after a year working in the business of rocks) with 9 months of saddle sores ahead.

Like I said...

can't wait!

The Buildup...

2007-10-09T07:34:00.000-07:00

Flying out to India on 7 Nov, so should have everything up and running by then. The plan is to then cycle home to Ireland!

In the meantime, enjoy some random photos of random events and random escapades!