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We woke up to find that one white car had been replaced by another, and that the four occupants of the first car (3 men and Mr Kalishnikov) and been exchanged for four men (and Mr Hidden Kalishnikov).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.

Assalam aleikum...from Lebanon

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

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