Bob's Blog

The Fertile Crescent

The Turkish Plateau

23rd January 2011 • Turkey

Feeling torn between my need to make claim to Turkish lands by camping and surviving independently fought with my need for creature comforts and the sight of shelter at the end of long and hard days.

Hotels won the day and I focused my journey along the highroads, avoiding the charm of Turkish villages but still embracing all of the contact that I encountered. The Plateau, hence it's name, was very flat and the excellent Turkish cycle paths (aka the hard shoulder) provided excellent riding, such a relief to not have to deal with traffic all day, I donned my iPod and cycled in music bliss for days on end, never threatened by careering trucks up my behind.

When conditions were bad though, the hard shoulder disappeared under the snow and I had to drop my headphones and contend with the danger of the slush filled road.

On a particularly vicious day, my bike became more ice than bike. After a couple of hours on the road my brakes had frozen over - not too bad; then the front chain ring froze meaning I couldn't change gear (no good for hills), eventually after trying to change the back gear the chain refused to find its slot, now filled by ice – now unable to ride.

Not too far from a petrol station, I walked my bike and indicated my need for the hot water usually reserved for chai. As ever the petrol station men happily obliged and invited me in for tea.

To the Holy Land

7th March 2011 • Jerusalem

Arriving on the coast of Turkey was a huge relief, all of the angst I had felt since before arriving in Istanbul had been vanquished. The sun shone and life was good. Scooting along the Turkish coast there were scores of ghastly tourist resorts, tumbleweeds blown across the ubiquitous ghost towns.

Further east I approached Adana, Turkey's third largest city, the only road was the main one and the smog and traffic approached almost unbearable levels approaching the city. I'd been to Adana once before, I remembered why I didn't hang around that time, it lacked charm and culture, rather like the ghost towns of before but with a bustle of monotony, food wrappings instead of tumbleweeds.

Continuing along the Mediterranean coast, my direction changed for east to south, finally turning the comer and heading for my final destination. Throughout Turkey I had stayed in hotels, the desire to camp withdrawn from anxiety, this I was none too happy about. Camping for me was part of the adventure, putting yourself on the line, claiming a small part of the territory and taking the picture of the camp the morning after in satisfaction, a small part of me felt I had failed in this respect, taking the easy option out.

The best camping opportunities are often when distant from any human civilisation, camping near other settlements was never good for a restful nights sleep. Only once in Turkey was I far enough to feel the world was my own, along the Mediterranean coast, cornering towards Syria and what a beautiful spot to exist with no sign of life, the next day was a delight, a gravel path following the Mediterranean Sea to the Syrian border.

Arriving at the Syrian border was exciting and nerve racking. The official line was that if you had a Syrian embassy in your home country you must get the visa there. But as this visa, issued in London, started the day you got it and only lasted two months and meant it was useless for long haul cyclists. There were three borders within a near proximity and just days before I'd met a Polish guy who had been turned away at all three and had overstayed his welcome in Turkey and received a five year ban as a result, something I hoped to avoid.

Arriving at the border and told that "no, visa not possible", I cursed my luck, but after insisting my need, the official "faxed" Damascus and after a lengthy search of my passport, questioning every stamp, I was allowed through!

Suddenly, entering Syria, everything was exotic, chaotic, people waiving and shouting as I cycled passed. I raced toward the coastal town of Latakia and headed along the coast before crossing the mountains via the mesmeric castle Crac de Chevalier and a magical night spent in a mosque and onto Damascus for a couple of days of rest.

Entering Jordon, I was suddenly bombarded with unending hospitality, everywhere I stopped people invited me in, gave me food, inviting me to stay, doing everything they possibility could, a very humbling experience. Heading down to the Jordan valley and onto the holy land the scenery was spectacular, the only thing to taint the journey were children throwing stones at me as I cycled – a common problem for cyclists. Then it was onto Jerusalem, where a long break awaited me, back to the certainty of creature comforts.