Happy New Year!

Footbridge in Tbilisi

Museum Blues

Stalin keeping an eye on who's entering his museum

What to do in Georgia when it's too bloody cold for long treks in the Caucasus mountains or a mellow exploration of the Kakheti wine region—the kind of outdoorsy activity my guidebook likes to ramble on about? Staying in and getting wasted tends to lose its charm after a hangover or two, and there's only so much khachapuri (highly addictive cheese pie) a man can handle in a day. The best way to spend a few rest days seemed to settle on a bit of church and museum hopping. Fortunately, Georgia boasts a fair sprinkling of outstanding medieval churches, and not all of them are located in spots that can only be reached by helicopter. When it comes to museums, options are equally diverse, if a tad outlandish. The Animated Puppet Museum? Nah. The Avlabar Illegal Typography Museum? Maybe next time. The Mirza Fatali Akhundov Museum of Georgian-Azerbaijani Cultural Relations? Eh...

To be fair, I did stumble upon something that aroused my curiosity. The Stalin Museum in Gori. Gori, a rather bleak town a day's ride from Tbilisi, is the place where little Joseph spent his childhood. Apart from the museum only the small citadel in the town centre holds any touristic appeal—and a very mild one at that. Even the museum is a bit of a letdown. Spacious rooms glorifying Georgia's most famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) son, loads of newspaper clippings and documents drawn up in Russian with translations in Georgian, and everywhere a chill air rushing in through unseen crevices. No mention of the atrocities committed under Stalin, even though some of the worst Soviet-era purges took place in his own country. Things got almost homely in the room where Stalin's desk is displayed along with a great number of gifts from friends and allies around the world. Tasteful stuff, if you're into things like jewel-encrusted swords and letters of congratulation written on a grain of rice. My favourite item: a pair of red clogs presented by a local chapter of the Dutch communist party (tightfisted buggers!).

Stalin's home, dwarfed by its own protective superstructure

On my way out a lady with a yellow beehive took me by the hand to show me a wooden hut standing in front of the museum. Solemnly she opened the little front door and pushed me in. 'Home of Stalin,' she said, as if that explained the why and how of the structure's survival and near-perfect condition. Next was a green bulletproof train carriage, in which Stalin travelled to the Yalta Conference. Bog, tub, wooden air conditioning, and three minutes later I was out on the street again. None the wiser, but two hours closer to dinner time.

Disneyland by Night

The miserable heap of habits man is… Having spent a long time in Turkey, much of it in the not overly progressive hinterland, I genuinely thought I had grown accustomed to the sights and sounds of a different culture. Little things like the muezzin's call to prayer. But also more significant details, such as the surreal absence of women in public life, or the even more surreal absence of pork on my plate. But when I hit Batumi, a breezy beach town just a few kilometres into Georgia, I realised I had been fooling myself. The differences were too blatant. No deafening Allahu Akbar sounding from dozens of minarets five times a day but gently tolling church bells. No çay or muddy Turkish coffee but real espresso and French pastries. No headscarves and long overcoats but slender girls in skirts and tight jeans. The sun beamed down on Batumi’s parklike boulevard, and I felt as chirpy as a prisoner on a weekend break.

Annoyed at my own relief, I started listing everything that was wrong with Batumi. Those fin-de-siècle facades. Can't deny they're pretty, I thought. But that’s exactly what makes this place so perverse. Behind the renovated splendour of the beach front lie the impoverished backstreets no holidaying Russian ever sees. And how god-awful those coloured spotlights that turn the entire city centre into a Disneyland by Night.

It didn’t help, of course. I enjoyed every bit of it. Even the larger-than-life musical fountain dancing to the tune of such Western evergreens as An der schönen blauen Donau and Theme from Mission: Impossible. I guess that’s the problem with traveling. Somehow you never succeed in leaving yourself at home.

Southeastern Turkey in 6 Shots

I'm a firm believer in the theory that all motorised modes of transport are the devil's invention. That's why I'm pretty radical about the way I want to do this trip. No cars, no trains, no buses, no planes. I could pat myself on the back for treading lightly, but the main thing is that traveling just seems more real when you set yourself in motion.

When it comes to side trips these hard and fast rules somehow don't apply. They're not part of the actual journey anyway—that's what makes them side trips. No pangs of guilt then, when I decided to take a bus south and make a little tour of the Euphrates and Tigris basin. In Diyarbakır, a city that wears its Kurdish identity on its sleeve, I joined the shopping frenzy one day before Kurban Bayramı, the Festival of the Sacrifice. In the bluff-top town of Mardin I watched the sun go down behind the endless Mesopotamian plain. In the backstreets of Midyat little punks pelted me with stones (no Major League material there). And in Hasankeyf I was told I was one of the last tourists to visit the village, as the entire place will be washed away as soon as the construction of a nearby dam is completed. Excellent little excursion, but after nine days I was dying to get back to my yoke and plough again.

Stocking up on sweets for Kurban Bayramı

Mardin: citrus-press domes, great views of Syria

Kurdish man in traditional dress

Hasankeyf boy skipping stones on the Tigris

Mardin post office: ornate facades abound in this region

Baklava and kadayıf: don't eat more than a pound or you'll live to regret it

Backdoors and Detours

Who needs a conference room when you have a hotel lobby?

Life used to be pretty straightforward for overlanders traveling from Turkey to eastern Asia: head to the dreary border town of Doğubeyazıt, situated at the foot of Mount Ararat, draw a more or less diagonal line between Iran's northwest and southeast, cross into Pakistan, and then go wherever your fancy takes you, be it the northern road to China or the eastern one to India. A classic route that is all but history due to Pakistan's recent crackdown on—no, not the local chapter of Al-Qaeda loonies—but happy-go-lucky travelers eager to explore the marvels of the country. Visa applications can now only be filed in the country of origin. And rightly so, of course. Those blasted hippies collecting visas as they go simply can't be trusted.

With the arrival of no less than four cyclists, the atmosphere at the hotel in Erzurum took on a distinct quality of nervous apprehension. All of them—the French couple on their recumbents, the French boy they had picked up along the way, the ginger software developer from Südtirol—had given up any hope they had of traversing Pakistan. Too much of a hassle. That put them in a tight spot, and they knew it. Once you've entered Iran your exit options are limited. Central Asia, though beautiful, is far too cold in winter and makes Pakistan look like Luxembourg when it comes to granting tourist visas. The only alternative, Afghanistan, is out of the question for obvious reasons.

Best time to visit the Georgian valleys: autumn

There is a backdoor, however, a plan so cunning you could stick a tail on it and call it a weasel. (Now, who said that again...) The only drawback is that this workaround is still in beta. The idea is to catch a ferry from Iran to Dubai and then hitch a ride on a cargo ship bound for India. Gavin, the English cyclist I wrote about in the Black Hole entry, bravely decided to give it a shot. As far as I know he got stuck in Dubai and is now desperately roaming the docks looking for a captain willing to take him aboard.

For me, the Dubai route is merely a backup, something to consider if all else fails. I've got my mind set on cycling the Karakoram Highway, a 1300-kilometre high-altitude roller-coaster ride linking Pakistan and China. Apart from the visa drivel there is just one complicating factor. The road is officially closed from the first of January till the first of May. If snowfall persists, that date could be pushed back. Unwilling to bet on too many visa extensions—thirty days are standard for both Iran and Pakistan—I've got some serious time to kill before entering Iran. That's why I'm crossing Turkey like a snail on the back of a turtle, using up the full ninety days I've been allowed. To top it off, I will even make a little detour through the Caucasus. It felt a bit strange to head north while my cycle buddies were in a hurry to get to the Persian Gulf, where the average midday temperature in December sits around a pleasant twenty degrees.

Farmers on a livestock market in Akşar

So far, I can't say I regret the decision. The area north of Erzurum used to be part of medieval Georgia. No wind-swept steppes here, but lush valleys, sometimes narrowing to a gorge, studded with the eerie remains of castles, churches and monasteries. Winter hasn't yet reached this remote corner of Turkey. Autumn reigns, painting the leaves of the trees lining the roaring streams in outrageous yellows, oranges and reds.

Thanks to my host Veysel I get to see every nook and cranny of the Georgian valleys. He is a vet, and I often join him when he is needed at one of the farms in the neighbouring villages. Circumstances in these communities are primitive at best, but that doesn't deter Veysel. It's a treat to watch someone do his job with such ease and confidence. Without batting an eyelid he stuffs a two-metre hose in the backside of a constipated cow, or stitches up a giant Kangal dog with a flesh wound the size of a baseball mitt—the result of a quarrel with a wild boar. Never a dull moment, in other words. If contemporary Georgia is only half as mesmerising as its medieval counterpart, I'm in for a good one.

Visa Fever

Yakutiye Medrese

Uncomfortable chair. Bloody uncomfortable. I cross my legs and try not to fidget. This is not the time to draw unwanted attention. A minute passes. Then another. Utter silence. I look around. The watercooler looks inviting but is just out of reach. On the table next to it some used paper cups with a decoration of ice crystals and little stars. Stars of David. I smile at the irony but then catch sight of two framed ayatollahs hanging above the watercooler, eyeing me suspiciously. I avert my gaze and catch sight of my reflection in the mirrored wall in front of me. Not looking my best. Pallid face, tiny beads of sweat on nose and brow. I shiver. What was only a raised temperature back at the hotel is gradually evolving into an old-fashioned fever. I can feel its clammy hands around my throat.

Behind the semicircular opening in the mirrored wall the lower half of a face appears. I have to bend forward in order to see more than just a stubbly chin. ‘Good morning,’ I say. ‘No English,’ a taut voice replies. ‘Passport and reference number.’ I oblige. The face disappears, only to reappear a minute later. ‘Come back tomorrow,’ the voice says. A disembodied hand pushes some paperwork in my direction. Application form, I read. And something about a cash transfer. ‘But I’ve come to collect my visa, not apply for one,’ I mutter. ‘Come back tomorrow.’

Outside, it strikes me how pale the light is in Erzurum. And how cold the air. It’s the altitude. Here, at two thousand metres, winter starts in October. Each day, the mountains surrounding Erzurum become a bit whiter, as if a strange mould is slowly creeping down towards to the city.

Walking to the gate of the consulate, my eyes on the nasty surprise I’ve just been handed, I almost bump into a group of burly men smoking in silence. Passports, forms… We shake hands, sensing there is something that connects us. The men are from Turkmenistan and are on their way home from Germany, where they bought a couple of second-hand lorries. ‘Brauchen nur ein Transitvisum,’ one of them laughs, showing a row of gold teeth. Another speaks some English. ‘Come with us to the bank,’ he says, pointing at the transfer slip in my hand. ‘We have done this before.’

View of Erzurum

We squeeze ourselves into a decrepit yellow cab owned by one of them, and, as we drive into the city centre, sing the praises of Iranian bureaucracy. On Cumhuriyet Caddesi, the city’s main street, we pull over at T.C. Ziraat Bankası, the city’s main bank. Inside, we’re met by utter mayhem. Children running around, old geezers slumping in their chairs, men in ill-fitting suits shouting into mobile phones. The taxi driver contemplates the scene for an instant, checks the number he has just received from the dispenser at the entrance and slowly shakes his head. Then he marches to the counter and slams down our passports and money. Five minutes later we are back in the taxi, everything settled and paid for.

That night, having watched the news on Al Jazeera about the devastating earthquake in the Van region, only a few hundred kilometres away, I dream feverish dreams about taxi rides through a shattered city where people can only be pulled from under the rubble if they’ve got their paperwork sorted out. ‘Brauchen nur ein Transitvisum,’ a voice gasps over and over again. Then it starts snowing and everything becomes silent.

Two days and three visits later, I close the door of the Iranian consulate behind me, passport in hand, visa in passport made out to a certain Mr. VANAVLIET. Just a small typo, I tell myself, nothing that a stern ayatollah will lose any sleep over. I breathe in the fresh air, feeling better than ever, and head back to the hotel.

Lone Wolf

The Turks I meet along the way are willing to accept everything. That I’m cycling to the other side of the world. That I gave up my job in order to do that. Even that I’m still wearing cycling shorts now the temperature has dropped into the single digits. But why, they keep asking, why are you traveling alone? They just can’t seem to get their head around it. Joking that I don’t have any friends only makes it worse. ‘What is wrong with you?’ they all but say aloud.

But how to explain the joys of riding alone? It’s not something you can quantify or point at. Rather, it’s a state of mind, a mental equilibrium that is closely connected to the simplicity of cycling. Steady legwork not only carries you to distant climes, the same motion also seems to siphon off any unwanted thoughts, not unlike a pump draining a murky morass. When there is nothing but road, bike, horizon: that’s when the going gets good. Chitchatting with a travel companion or being forced to look at his sweaty back all day would simply drive a stick into this mechanism.

This isn’t to say that it doesn’t get a bit lonely at times. Eastern Anatolia isn’t exactly densely populated, and it often happens that a long day sees me pass through only a handful of hamlets. The other day, somewhere in between Kayseri and Malatya, all life seemed to have gone on strike. No villages, no vegetation, nothing. More than one hundred kilometres of sheer emptiness. Having just conquered the umpteenth barren hill, I suddenly heard an echoing cry. To my left I saw a middle-aged man waving frantically. It was clear he wanted me to follow him, so I got off my bike, crossed the road and scrambled up a mound. With a sweeping gesture he showed me a vast field, where a flock of sheep was peacefully nibbling away on what little grass there was left. Four imposing Kangal dogs were keeping a watchful eye. Proudly, the shepherd told me all about his work. I didn’t understand half of what he was saying, but then, nor did he and his friend when I told them about my trip. All of that seemed inconsequential, however. It was enough to just stand there for a while with these two men and watch the sun break through the clouds for the first time that day.

In Malatya I was welcomed by my host Ilyas, his wife Zehra and Diran, their four-month old boy. Staying at their place once again reminded me of the fact that without couchsurfing a journey like this would be virtually impossible. Solitude is great as long as I am pushing the pedals, but even lone wolves need some company every now and then. Couchsurfing was set up with exactly this in mind. It allows travelers to stay with locals and become part of their lives for a few days. A great way to unwind, plus you get to look beyond the main attractions and see a place for what it really is.

High on all the good company I took it a step further and signed up for a group trip to Nemrut Dağı, the monumental tomb of a long-forgotten king high up in the mountains south of Malatya. The ‘group’ turned out to be me plus two couples from France and Korea. Still, the five of us had great fun trying not to think of dying a horrible death as we raced to the summit in a ramshackle minibus. We got there just in time to see the sun set over the huge stone heads gazing out over the Tigris basin. After spending the night in a very basic hotel just below the summit we went back to see the sun come up from the eastern terrace. A truly communal spirit arose among the thirty or so spectators as the sky put on its multicoloured robe. It was a splendid spectacle, but somewhere I could hear a lone wolf howling at the moon.

Çay?

Still not boiling...

It’s become a bit of a pattern here in Turkey: people waving an outstretched arm at me whenever they catch sight of me, as if bouncing an invisible basketball. It’s not that they’re urging me to slow down, though I wouldn’t blame them if they did—on certain near-vertical descents I’m scratching at the surface of the sound barrier. No, the waving motion indicates that people want me to stop and come over. The first question is always the same. Çay?

I’ve come to regard these invitations to a cup—or, rather, a tiny tulip-shaped glass—of tea as perfect little breaks. Frankly, I get more invitations than I can accept. Often I’m forced to mime that I just had a cup two kilometres back. The other day, however, the waver’s timing was impeccable. Wrapped in rainproof gear, slogging uphill, I was simply dying for a sip and a bite. I’d felt it coming for quite a while. But that’s the thing with hills. You vow to take a break at the top, but when you finally get there the road beckons you to shoot down like an arrow and see what’s behind the next hill. It’s never the eldorado you somehow vaguely expect. Still, it’s hard to resist the call of the unknown.

Like me, the waving man had come prepared for foul weather. Dressed in a long yellow raincoat, he stood out for miles. He’d arranged a number of shallow wooden crates next to his ancient Massey-Ferguson tractor, each of them overflowing like a horn of plenty. Onions, tomatoes, melons, peppers... He immediately shoved a bunch of grapes in my face and then asked the immortal question. Çay? Why, yes please, I smiled, happy like a soaked cat that’s finally let into the house. He put me on a chair under a parasol, which could hardly cope with the downpour, and started fiddling with a samovar. Big handfuls of wet twigs disappeared into its belly. This clearly smothered the fire, but that didn’t keep him from stuffing the thing to the gills over and over again.

After a good thirty minutes the water in the top compartment came to a reluctant boil. He proudly showed it to me by opening a lid. By then, that cup of tea had become a matter of life and death. My numb fingers could hardly hold on to the fragile glass, and I’m afraid I failed to force my face into an expression of gratitude. In the meantime, not a single customer had shown up. In fact, barely twenty cars had passed. Having drained my glass I was naturally offered a refill. I groaned silently. All I wanted was to be on the road again and plunge into a long uphill sprint to get the blood flowing. But to decline a second glass is like saying the first one was worse than something the bladder of a dying donkey would produce. So I accepted politely and tried not to burn myself while gulping down the tea as fast as I could.

After the next hill again no eldorado where the sun always shines but another fruit seller bouncing an invisible basketball. I kept my eyes glued to the map in front of me, looking for a spell to turn myself invisible, and sped by.

Cappadocia in 6 Shots

Welcome to Cappadocia, a magical wonderland so spectacular that it must have been dreamt up by some god of tourism. Traditionalists, however, suggest the region owes its curious aspect to a series of volcanic eruptions millions of years ago. Over time, ash and mud turned into tuff, a soft rock that crumbles to the touch. Centuries of erosion then led to today’s otherworldly rock formations. Some of these are known as fairy chimneys, though anyone can see they rather resemble ice-cream cones that some clumsy kid dropped to the floor. From the earliest times people have recognised the unique possibilities of Cappadocia’s geological makeup. Ancient civilisations created vast underground cities that could hold thousands of people. Later, Byzantine monks carved churches and monasteries out of the soft cliff-faces, decorating them with naive frescoes. And peasants working the area’s fertile soil used the fairy chimneys as well-insulated dwellings—and still do today. All of which leaves me wondering why I bought such a dinky camera.

Decisions, Decisions

Stopping for some water: always a good decision

I hate to admit it, but making up my mind isn't something that comes natural to me. Too much of a shoegazer, too little of a go-getter. I guess it's the Libra in me, forever weighing the pros and cons of every little situation—even those that don't really have any discernible pros or cons.

Fortunately, this trip is teaching me a thing or two about improvisation and spontaneity. Be like water, I often tell myself, not sure whether I'm touching on one of the fundamentals of Buddhism or quoting something I picked up in a kungfu flick. But it's true. I've found that when you stop 'revolving it all... in your poor mind' (Beckett's phrase) and just take things as they come, a trip like this really comes into its own. Static creeps in, the undergrowth catches fire. That's when traveling gets exciting.

My plan for leaving Ankara amounted to precisely that: leaving Ankara. I knew where I wanted to go—Ihlara Valley, the gateway to Cappadocia—but not how to get there. Without giving it much thought I decided to take the dual carriageway along a big salt lake. Flat, straight, busy, tad dull. But on the morning I left, a little revolution flared up in my synapses. Did I really feel like inhaling exhaust fumes all day long? Or sleeping next to a petrol station? At the first junction out of Ankara I stopped, said no and surprised myself by turning left, heading straight into the mountains. Instead of two days it would now take me four days to get to Ihlara, perhaps five.

I loved every minute of it. The pain in my ligaments after four weeks of idleness. The desolate landscape stretching out before me in subtle shades of gold, brown, beige. The small villages en route where former migrant workers ambushed me to practise their rusty German. The sudden drop in temperature after sunset, forcing me to find new ways to keep warm. (Thermal undies, two pairs of socks and a balaclava do the trick. For now.) The tomatoes and melons brought to me by a villager who had spotted my tent in a field. The lunch I shared with a convicted murderer.

So, what's next? I have no idea. And that's something that makes me very happy.

Hamam

The wise men from the East

Sometimes all we need is to be away from this world. Away from our demanding jobs, evaporating savings and crushed hopes. Some like to drink themselves into a stupor on a Friday night, but most are content to hit the sack at the end of a long day and drift off into a dreamless sleep. Having ample experience in both fields, I was glad to discover the Turks have found a third path that leads to the river Lethe: the hamam.

I always thought the hamam serves the dual purpose of getting clean what is dirty and catching up on the latest with your cronies. Little did I realise that a visit to the hamam extends beyond the realm of the physical and social and touches on the spiritual.

As a first-timer I entered somewhat apprehensively, not knowing what to expect or how to behave. While my companions ordered the full programme for the three of us, I gazed up in admiration. We were standing in a wood-paneled reception room that reminded me of the Moorish courtyards in Seville: two storeys separated by an elevated gallery, small rooms opening out onto a central space adorned with a trickling fountain. We retired to one of these cubicle-like rooms to exchange our dusty clothes for checkered loincloths—nudity seems to be a definite no-no in hamams. Even in this tiny changing room everything was set for pure relaxation: low light, toned-down colours and comfy beds inviting us to take a little nap later on.

Clickety-clacking on our flip-flops we entered the main bath chamber. Through clouds of steam I could make out the shape of a masseur hovering over what looked like a walrus lying face-down on a marble slab. We retreated to an alcove for some fooling around with running taps and plastic scoop-dishes, and then hung around in the sauna until we nearly passed out. After a cold shower it was our turn for a good scrub. The effect the kese (abrasive mitt) had on me was rather embarrassing. As my masseur scrubbed away at my tanned limbs, grime and dead skin amassed into thick grey worms. He smiled delightedly and showed me the fruit of his labour.

After another shower we returned to the heated slab for a final massage. By blowing air into soapy cotton sacks our moustached masseurs managed to cover us in a deluge of foam and then set to work, kneading and twisting away. It was pure bliss. 'Everyone deserves this,' I thought as they wrapped us in soft towels. 'Make hamam visits mandatory, especially in times like these, and the world will be a different place.'

Stuck

Backgammon...

The best view of Ankara is the one you get on the way home, the saying goes. True, Ankara is no Istanbul. It's an artificial capital, a carefully planned city that's all but swallowed up the ancient citadel that lies at its heart. When Atatürk declared it capital of the Turkish Republic in 1923, he envisioned this provincial backwater as a modern, secular metropole on par with its Western counterparts. In terms of population growth he certainly succeeded: from a mere 30,000 souls in 1923 to 4,5 million today. However, these staggering figures can't hide the fact that something is missing. There are no atmospheric neighbourhoods, no sights to speak of. Moreover, the lack of landmarks makes it difficult to orient yourself. Even after two weeks, central Ankara strikes me as a jumble of faceless streets.

For travelers, the redeeming feature of this city is its abundance of embassies. I came here hoping to sort out my visas for Iran and Pakistan. Surprisingly, it turned out the former shouldn't be too much of a headache. In fact, there's no need to go to the embassy, wait for your turn and deal with ill-tempered officials who don't want you to visit their country in the first place. Just fill in a form, send it to one of the online visa agencies that have sprung up in recent years and select the Iranian consulate where you wish to pick up your visa.

...and nargile: the perfect combination

That's the good news. For Pakistan, again much to my surprise, things are looking bleak. To put it mildly. A fellow traveler told me that since a year or so it's virtually unheard of to be granted a visa when applying in a country other than your home country. A quick visit to the Pakistani embassy confirmed this. It seems my only chance—and a very slim one at that—is to send my passport home and let someone apply on my behalf. Oh, but first I would need to book a flight to Islamabad, make a reservation at a five-star hotel and procure an official letter of invitation from a Pakistani friend, tour agency or business contact that must be approved by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. That's all, sir.

Meanwhile, Ankara has played its little trick on me. Having decided that the Pakistani visa will have to wait, there is no reason for me to prolong my stay. But somehow I find it impossible to leave. 'That's the way it goes,' one of my hosts told me, himself a Singaporean national. 'No one in his right mind would want to spend more than a day here. Those who do end up in Ankara invariably get stuck.' So we while away the days playing backgammon, drinking buckets of çay and going on small errands that somehow take up lots of time. It's not so bad, actually. Guess that view of Ankara will have to wait a bit.

Oasis

Fruit sellers on a parking lot

'Bread? You want some bread?' 'Well, sure,' I stammer. But before I get the chance to repeat I really only need directions to the nearest bakery, the stout man I'm talking to has disappeared. I've stopped at a small parking lot next to the main road. It's a parking lot like any other, save for one special feature: a tap connected to a nearby mountain spring. The cool water, which never stops running, attracts scores of people. Thirsty travelers like me, of course, but also elderly couples from neighbouring villages who come here to fill up all the empty bottles their cars can hold. A concentration of people always means business, and it's no different here. Fruit sellers have set up stalls overflowing with local produce. A sullen teenager is roasting mısır (cornstalks) on a bed of embers. An improvised restaurant serves pide and köfte.

'Here, take as many slices as you like.' Fresh wholemeal bread. Just what I was looking for. 'Eh, thank you,' I stammer again, still not wholly accustomed to these small acts of kindness, which seem to come natural to people in Turkey. 'Are you sure you don't need this yourself?' 'Don't worry,' he says, 'we can always get some more on the way home.'

He tells me he's just spent a week in his summerhouse on the Sea of Marmara, together with his mum and a friend. We all shake hands. 'You know what? Why don't you drop by when you cross our town? Just give us a ring and we'll come and pick you up.' He hands me his phone number. 'We'd love to have lunch with you.' I nod and smile, not sure what to say. I think of Holland, where no one drops by unannounced. Where it's virtually impossible to meet up with someone if you haven't made arrangements at least four weeks in advance. Where visitors are supposed to bugger off as dinnertime approaches.

Before we say goodbye, my benefactor walks to his car and returns with a bulging bag. 'Here, take this. See you soon.' The three of them get into the car and drive off. I peek into the bag. Prunes, peaches, grapes, a tomato. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone gesturing. It's one of the fruit sellers, waving at me to come over. He's holding a knife in one hand, a small melon in the other.

Istanbul in 6 Shots

Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul. The western terminus of the Silk Road. The historical gateway between East and West. A place so charged with symbolism I can't help but feel I'm facing yet another Kilómetro Cero. As if the 10,000 kilometres that led me here have been nothing but a prelude to the real stuff. 'This is where it begins,' the city whispers.

Ferry dock in Kadıköy (Asia)

Yeni Camii (New Mosque)

Some mosques just can't handle the crowds

The Sultanahmet skyline

Commuting made fun: a ferry ride across the Bosphorus

Competition is fierce on the Galata Bridge

Black Hole

Joining the frenzy

It's mad, it's bad, it's dangerous. It's also one of my best experiences so far: riding into Istanbul at rush hour. I've tackled several big cities since I set off, and if I've learnt one thing it's this: you never know what you gonna get. Barcelona was hectic with its string of junctions, but the good thing is that there aren't any confusing suburbs to contend with if you're coming from the south. Marseille was a joy, cruising through bustling immigrant neighbourhoods all the way down to the yacht jungle that is the Vieux Port. Tirana cost me a year of my life: I'm still coughing up the soot that thousands of miserable Mercedes Benzes sent flying around. And Athens, one that I hadn't been looking forward to, turned out to be a breeze: a single straight road that shuttled me right into the heart of the city—Omonia Square and Syntagma Square.

Gavin on his recumbent

But Istanbul... The place has something of a reputation among cycle tourists. I remember reading about a chap who was a bit too hesitant at the busiest junctions and ended up waiting for gaps in the traffic that never materialised. Determined not to let that happen to me I decided to take a breather and brace myself for the plunge. Suddenly, something big pulled up next to me, blocking the sun like an ocean liner. Another cyclist! But not a regular one. The bloke smiling at me from under a bright red cap was riding a recumbent. This in itself is quite unusual, but what made it positively stupefying was the fact that it was packed like a camel. I counted no less than six panniers, and the entire thing seemed to be held together by a web of straps, hooks and drying clothes. Gavin, however, is no flying (or riding) circus. This Englishman left southern France in May, cycled to the UK to say goodbye to his folks and then headed southeast, covering seven thousand kilometres in three months. Examining the monster he was sitting on I could hardly believe it. 'There's food for four days,' he told me, 'and I can carry a week's supply of water if necessary.' To my relief he admitted he isn't lugging around his entire household. 'In Slovenia I got rid of a machete and a wok.'

Together we formed a solid block that made the fifty-kilometre descent into madness a little less insane. We dodged swerving lorries, navigated extensive stretches without a hard shoulder and marveled at the immensity of it all. Gavin likened it to a black hole, and that's exactly what it is. Anything coming too close to this sprawling city will be sucked up without mercy. Maybe that's why road rules don't seem to apply here: motorists just have no volition of their own.

With people cheering us on from open car windows and the sun setting over the chaos, we made it to Bakırköy in one piece, just in time for the last ferry to the Asian side. First occurrence on the new continent: a cracked spoke. It didn't even bother me. It had been a glorious day, and the best part of it was that there had been someone to share it with.

I'll Be Doggone

Making friends in southern Spain

I've always thought of myself as a dog person. It's not that I actively dislike cats or want them all killed, stuffed and shipped to a Dead Cat Museum, the revenues of which be used for the construction of spa resorts for cute puppy dogs. But there's something of the jaded pasha about them that tends to work on my nerves. They start meowing for food, you oblige and then they walk away as if it's suddenly dawned upon them that they're late for an appointment. Dogs are just a bit more predictable. Bit daft, too, but that makes them all the more likeable.

Recent events, however, have led me to reconsider my take on the matter. Dogs are mean. Simple as that. It started out all right. I still remember the nosy specimen I met on a country road in southern Spain. It was coming from the opposite direction, spotted me, made a U-turn and then started following me. Each time I looked over my shoulder it was still there, happily trotting along. Whenever I took a break the dog too would take a break, lying down right next to my bike. This went on for miles and miles, until my little companion got into a nasty fallout with another dog. I kept looking back, hoping it would catch up. It never did.

France and Italy were uneventful, dog-wise, and in the Balkans I never saw any of the ferocious street dogs I had been promised. They must have migrated to Greece, because that's where they were all waiting for me. Fresh in the country, my mind still buzzing with everything I had seen in Albania, I suddenly found myself face to face with two snarling mongrels. Before I knew it one of them had dug its teeth into one of my rear panniers. Pushing the pedals with all the power I could muster I managed to get away. After a kilometre or so I stopped, still trembling, and stuffed the pockets of my cycling shirt with a couple of pebbles.

A week ago, I found myself in a similar situation. Village, empty road, couple of dogs yapping at me as I approached—they weren't very big, I'm afraid. Again I decided that speeding rather than braking would be my safest bet. It wasn't. I think I gave those mutts a big fright when that sandy patch in the corner of the road proved too much for my worn-out tires and I came to a halt right in front of their noses. I immediately got up to check if the bike was OK. It was, and fortunately I hadn't sustained any serious damage myself. Just a small abrasion below the hip and two tiny holes in my treasured cycling shorts. Plus a new boost to my growing dislike of dogs.

I hear turtles make really nice pets.

Roadside Religion

Villages might be many miles apart, water hard to come by and leafy rest areas wishful thinking, but in Greece the weary traveler never needs to go far for a moment of reflection. All roads, from the most obscure dirt track to the busiest motorway, are lined with colourful shrines. Some are ready-made miniature churches bought at the local DIY, others look like they were painfully put together in someone's toolshed. Draw closer and you will find the picture of a saint staring back, patiently waiting for you to light a candle, say a prayer and be on your way again. Still thirsty, perhaps, but spiritually nourished.

Back for More

The daily puzzle

Shortly after waking up the other day, a trace of grumpiness still lingering, I decided I'd had enough. 'No more of this tomfoolery,' I said sternly. 'Basta. A world cyclist has his pride.' I stuffed my mouth with the remainder of a Nutella sandwich, gave the map of northern Greece a long hard look and took a swig of γάλα πλήρες (full-fat milk). 'Today,' I announced to no one in particular, 'I will take the motorway.'

Looking back on this momentous decision, I realise I had been working up to it for weeks, if not months. Now, don't get me wrong. There is nothing I would rather do than steer clear of interchanges, exhaust fumes and roaring trucks, and forever pedal down rolling country roads, brooks ababble and birds atwitter. As I never tire of telling myself, this trip is not about getting from A to B as quickly as possible. The world record for the fastest lap around the world is safely in the hands of a sun-burnt lunatic from England whose picture I saw in the shop where I bought my bike, and I have no intention of breaking it. But sometimes a world cyclist tires of pushing his heavy-laden mule up fifteen-percent inclines. Sometimes all he wants to do is crack on. Well, let me tell you, motorways just seem to be made for cracking on.

I savoured my first forbidden kilometres near Thebes—a force to be reckoned with in ancient Greece but today just another sleepy provincial town. Before entering the motorway I paused to check for signs warning that what I was about to do is subject to corporal punishment. I didn't see any, so I took the plunge.

At first, things went swimmingly. The motorway that had looked so imposing on the map turned out to be a laid-back two-lane affair with a wide hard shoulder put there for my convenience. I was zipping along effortlessly. Could it be that this road is surfaced with some kind of special low-resistance asphalt, I found myself wondering. Or was it sheer excitement that was pushing me ahead? Moreover, no one really seemed to mind that I was there. The girl at the toll booth let me through with a smile, and the owner of a roadside restaurant refused to take my money when I wanted to buy a Coke.

Mikołaj and Piotr, my partners in crime

Just as I was thinking what I fine example I was setting to all those CO2-emitting Greeks cruising by, I heard the sound of a siren. My initial reaction was to ignore it. For a minute that seemed to work. Perhaps some moron with a customised claxon, I thought. Then it sounded again, this time a bit more insistently. Deciding that turning my head wouldn't make the situation any safer, I kept going. But I could feel something menacing creeping up to me. Then a large four-wheel drive overtook me. No police, I noticed to my relief. Some kind of road authority, by the look of it. I was escorted to the nearest exit and expected a good talking-to. And I think that's what I got, though I can't be sure. It was all Greek to me what this guardian of the motorway was saying. Fortunately, he was very patient with my faked astonishment. ('Really? So you mean I can't use this thing over here, a bicycle, on that road over there, a motorway? It's always so interesting to learn about national customs!')

Things were smoothed out when I was joined by two Polish brothers, Mikołaj and Piotr, who were caught for a similar offense: hitchhiking. The brothers, one of whom spoke some Greek, were forced onto a bus to Lamia, while I had to promise to stay away from the motorway. I tried to put on a solemn face, but deep down I knew I was like a dog that's had a taste of human blood. Sooner or later, that dog will be back for more.

A Day at the Office

At times I can't help but feel that this whole cycling thing I'm doing, slaving away in the saddle, is not unlike having a proper job. Granted, there are some notable differences, the most important of which is that, sadly, I don't receive a paycheck at the end of the month. Or a gift basket at the end of the year.

Every morning I get up at seven, the same hour my alarm clock used to go off when I was still at the old job—the irony of it never fails to escape me. I toy with a bit of breakfast, get my things together and by nine I'm eating up the first kilometers, reluctantly at first, like a grumbling office clerk working his way through a stack of emails, but quickly brightening up as my legs find the right pace.

The good thing about this job is that there are no phone calls to answer, no obnoxious clients to deal with. There are deadlines to meet, however. In this corner of Europe campsites are thin on the ground, so it's essential to keep going, to make sure you reach that red triangle on the map before nightfall. Often, your efforts remain unrewarded. Many campsites seem to have vanished into thin air, probably closed down due to the crisis. The best thing to do then is to vent your frustrations at the watercooler, or, in my case, at the soft-drink fridge at the petrol station, where employees and customers alike tend to eye me somewhat suspiciously as I enter, as if I've just disembarked from a two-wheeled spacecraft. Invariably, they start shooting all kinds of questions. 'Where are you from? What's your destination? Why are your traveling alone? Have you come in peace? What does your wife make of this?'

The good thing about this quasi-professional attitude I've adopted is that it's easy to justify taking a few days off every now and then. These bikeless days really do feel like a kind of weekend. After two days of reading, pottering about and taking naps—in other words, doing things that aren't too demanding for a sore behind—I feel like a new man, ready to tackle the length of a medium-sized country.

Recently, I even went so far as to take a real summer break, combining a week in Athens with ten days of bliss on one of the Cyclades. Back at the office you realise holidays always turn you into a bit of a spoilt brat. 'What? I have to stay here all day? Exerting my brain and all that? No beaches, parasols, flip-flops?' It takes a few days to settle in again. If my stiff legs are anything to go by, I've still got some serious settling in to do.

The Acropolis in 6 Shots

Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee,
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved;
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed
By British hands, which it had best behoved
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored.
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved,
And once again thy hapless bosom gored,
And snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern climes abhorr'd!

In Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Lord Byron, never a man to mince his words, dedicates a couple of fuming stanzas to one of the greatest cultural controversies ever: the removal of half of the surviving sculptural decoration of the Parthenon and its subsequent shipping to England. Responsible for this act of cultural vandalism (according to the Greeks) or cultural preservation (according to the English) was another lord, Lord Elgin, who happily chiseled off the finest pieces, broke them up for easy transport and eventually sold them off to a reluctant British government. With half of the decoration in the British Museum in London and the other half in the Acropolis Museum in Athens, the Parthenon has lost much of its splendour. Today, the semipermanent scaffolding, like braces on an octogenarian, turns the entire thing into a rather sorry affair. A quick look at what remains of the Parthenon and the adjacent temples on the Acropolis.

The Propylaea: the entrance to the Acropolis

The Parthenon: the temple of Athena

Detail of the Parthenon Frieze

Parthenon floor plan

The Erechtheum

Marble base