The stick is dead; long live the broom

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Sexy Fold

Guess where?

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

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

Bastard Children

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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







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

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

Woohoo!


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

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

Troglodyte me

Red Sea Sunset

White Cars

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.