Syria

I arrived in Syria 6 days ago, cycling across the border with Turkey at Bab Al Hawa in the north west of the country after a few days in Antakya.

Cyclists have become a little rare in these parts, so to be welcomed by 21 german cyclists complete with support vehicle, Syrian police escort and much enthusiasm was a surprise. Their offer to cycle with them was welcome, but my approach is a little more laid back and Id struggle in such an organised group - police escort !? They are intending to arrive in Cairo by January 8, I will barely have left Syria by then...

Although touring cyclists must have something in common, it is no longer surprising how different peoples approaches can be. Some take a week to cross a country another would take 6 months, I guess the former enjoy the sport or challenge - although I wouldn't say I dislike that, cycling is far more valuable to me as a flexible means of transport, slow enough to feel part of your surroundings but fast enough to cross countries within what I feel is reasonable time. With enough time and patience walking has to be king.

The border crossing was straightforward, pictures all round with the border police, before I have even entered the country I experience the legendry Syrian hospitality.

The first thing to hit me about Syria, as hospitality is par for the course in these parts, isnt the diverse history, or the images of president Assad at every roundabout, the comical driving, arabic road signs I cannot read, Lebanese pop music, red and white check shem'agh or even the excellent food... but how cheap things are. Thats pitiful I admit, but my quality of life has suffered since my days of full time employment. In Syria I can eat, drink and sleep in comfort. The food is excellent too. From the simple fool, a humus, yoghurt, mix eaten for breakfast which can sustain for seamingly days to a full blow out of meze and kebabs.. its all good, fresh and very cheap.

The country is filled with ruins, although thats not necessarily my scene I nearly ruined (out). But with help from a campervan wielding Belgian couple, we have seen eery dead cities, ruined Basilicas, hill top Citadels, Crusader Castles and received bad directions from everyone we stopped to ask. The maps are not good here, road signs are worse and in Arabic, the locals always wanting to help would rather make up directions than admit they dont know where to go, it will come as no surprise when someone points either up or down the next time Im lost (up is quite appropriate).

St Simon's Citadel, 60 kms north of Aleppo was the home of possibly the most miserable of all old gits, St Simon. A shepherd who, after a revelation in a dream, became a monk to pursue a life of solitude. He started off confined to a cabin near a mountain, but seeking ever more solitude he moved to a small prison cell for 2 years and then a small platform, some 2 metres square, 3 metres off the ground upon which he remained for nearly 42 years... the platform was raised many times to move him further from the visting hordes and closer to God, 20 metres high at one point. So far so good, a little odd perhaps but not necesarily miserable, but St Simon hated women with a passion. When a lepered women brought him some bread, rather than thank her, he spat on her... which so the tale goes, cured her of lepracy, leaving miserable St Simon even more famous and I suspect having to suffer even more hordes with a few requesting to be spat upon. At least the higher the platform got the better his accuracy would have to improve, providing the git with some no doubt unwanted variation. Strange old world.

Heading down to Damascus tomorrow, decided against a Lebanese christmas - bar humbug...

Piccies...

Fitted with new wheels and tyres the bike is looking and riding like new...

(thanks Roberts cycles, you know your eggs for sure)

Camping in a 'Dead City' near Serjilla

Cheese

Saint Simon's Rock

Serjilla (a 'Dead City')

Aphamia ruins near Hama, 2 km long

Dear Father Christmas....

Krak des Chevaliers, Crusader castle near Hama

Cay Tales ...

Overcast morning. Grey sky and damp. Tired legs, lungs smarting from the cold morning air. Have completed the first 30 km, its time for a break, the map shows a village in 5 km. Rolling into town, the highway turns to high street, shops to my left the other side of a potholed dirt road. Jumping the curb, I steer carefully along the broken road, making my way past the market stalls, sleeping dogs and closed Lokantasi to the Cay room. A non descript place, nothing to signal its purpose but for the dozen or so men huddled around a wood stove.

Leaning my bike against a window frame I find an audience, backgammon and dominoes interupted to observe my ludricrous cycling attire - red windstopper, shorts over cycling shorts over neopreme cycling tights, red woolen skiing socks tugged halfway up my shins, a pair of snotty mittens, beanie hat and scarlet face. The locals are far smarter, suits for the elders not a hair out of place.

I enter, unable to find the counter, let alone a kettle, sitting down hoping for someone else to take the initiative whilst I enjoying the warmth. Not long passes, a round man, with a round face and a big bushy moustache turns to me, with a smile he raises his thumb to his mouth and tips his head back indicating a drink, then shouts 'Cay' (Chay). Within a few seconds a small round bottomed glass is presented filled with dark red tea. Cay. Two sugars minimum, strong stuff, Turks put British builders to shame, unflinchingly pouring 6,7,8 cubes of sugar into their glasses.
My first tea doesnt last long, as I warm my fingers on the empty glass another man sat opposite Bushy-Tache, raises his head for my attention 'Cay?', 'Tessurker Edderum' ... another Cay is found from nowhere, I still cant find the kettle.

The warmth of the stove has finally entered my shoes now, toes are revived and after a 3rd Cay Im ready for the bike. Approaching the apparent owner I reach for my wallet, 'Tamam' he tells me, crossing his hands signifying nothing he then points to the 3 gents who had suggested 'Cay' - Bushy-tache winks, then stands to shake my hand. Before I can leave, every hand is shaken, with smiles a few hugs and an overafectionate pat on the arse from the eldest boy.

Back on the bike, toes, fingers rejuvianted I peddle on, another 20-30 km until the next Cay stop.
_____

My record day for complimentary Cay, something I shouldnt really keep tabs on, but it can only highlight the fanstastic Turkish hospitality is 8 Cay, across 3 different Cay rooms. I entered one, not for Cay but to avoid a storm but was kept hostage by the locals until the rain stopped, was all set with the waterproofs but the owner bribed me with Chocolate, Cay and obligatary football conversation, consisting of little more than naming players, teams and managers followed by a thumbs up or down. My caffeine levels by the end of this day must have been well in excess of any professional cycling doping levels...
_____

Turel, a small town in Eastern Anatolia, where I was treated to fantastic hospilitality, not only by Mohammed, an ex welder who adopted Bonnie and I for a couple of days, but by an all seeing Cay room owner. Whereever we sat Cay followed, was never asked to pay, Internet Cafes, Restaurants, Shops and never found on the bill. It was only when we left the owner of the local Cay room introduced himself with a handshake.

Turel, Cay room, Mohammed second from the left

Kettle and stove

Haydarpasa, Kayseri to Goreme

1st class seat from Istanbul, 17 Lira plus 10.5 for the bike. 20 hours of couchette bound travel, far from the Orient Express, but cheaper than a bus and a lot less hassle. I could have gone for the Transasya Express, arriving in Tehran a long time later... not so long ago the Transasya was driven onto a boat to cross Lake Van and then off again to cross Iranian border, sadly a more effecient alternative has been found using two trains on either side of the lake/

I however, was heading to Central Anatolia for a few nights in Kayseri, followed by a days cycle into Goreme, a small village in the middle of Capadoccia. Lunar landscapes, underground cities, fairy chimneys and phallic rock formations - a world away from the chaos of Istanbul, and the painful delayed 20 hour train journey emphasised this.

It was a strange sensation being back on the bike, mostly down to the 5 weeks of relative inactivity in Istanbul and along the Black Sea Coast, but the kilos I and the bike seemed to have gained during this time didnt help either. Cyclists with too much cash to burn would think nothing of paying an extra 500 pounds to reduce their bike weight by 1 kg and heres me with a winters supply of walnuts, sun dried apricots, extra warm trousers and a new library, donated by kind souls leaving for home from Istanbul..

My map of Turkey at 1:1000000 scale, doesnt make for easy navigation away from the main roads and I spent a frustrating hour or so circling Goreme before my final descent into town... ending the day freewheeling is the best way to forget noncy navigation, even if it was a hill I didnt need to climb.

I ll be here a little while longer, plenty to see and a good chance for some off road cycling without the baggage which is a far easier prospect.

Departures from Istanbul's Asian train terminal, Haydarpasa

Entering Capadoccia

Caves and Vistas of Capadoccia

Underground City at Derinkuyu, 9 stories in total. Started by the Hittites and continued by the Romans to provide refuge from various military conquests

Cave church near Goreme, Capadoccia

Istanbul

Ok - so I havent moved far since the last post..

Steady progress from Kesan, a few days in Tekirdag, famous for Raki and Tekirdag Kofte (amongst many other things but these are the ones I like), another coastal town, Silivri and a hairy days cycling through Istanbul's suburbs to its centre and my temporary home, Sultanahmet, where I have been based for last 3 weeks or so.

Feels good to stay put for a little while, an oppurtunity to plan the next few months, arrange visas, replace the Albanian front wheel which had been faultless, but of unknown quality and take in the many sights of a city which has so much history. Istanbul is known as a meeting point, of both travellors and continents, Asia a 1 ytl \ 20 minute ferry ride across the Bosphoros. I have been fortunate to make many friends, both local and other itinerates...

This morning I returned from a little tour of the Black Sea coast, out to Trabzon and then up into the moutains for hiking, snow, fresh air and fantastic eastern Anatolian hospitality.

Im now back in Istanbul to sort out a few loose ends and depart in a few days for Cappadocia by bus or train.... ahem, yep, I ve been caught out. Bar water crossings it will be the first time Im not progressing on bike. The weather here currently, although not too cold has been very damp, but at the higher altitudes of the Turkish interior things are much colder, with snow and ice. Not bike friendly. After cold but beautiful Cappadocia Im heading for warmer climes and back to the pedalling. My approach has never been to cycle every metre, although many view cycle touring as such a challenge, up until now, on a day to day basis the bike has been the preffered option but not now.

After Turkey its onto Syria and I cannot wait.. my visa application took me to both Syrian and British consulates, the latter for a letter of recommendation which included some fantastically diplomatic waffle..

'Her Britannic Majesty's Consulate General at Istanbul avails itself of this oppurtunity to convey to the Consulate General of the Arab Republic of Syria the assurance of its highest consideration'

If only her British Majesty's Consulate General could convey similar consideration to her British Majesty's citizens who are fleeced of 105 YTL for a form letter that took all of 5 minutes to type...

A few photos...

Egyptian Bazaar - Istanbul

Shopping in Istanbul

Eclectic shop in Turel (Eastern Anatolia)

Mountains near Hamsikoy (near Trabzon and Black Sea coast)

Sumela Monatary near Macka

St Chora, Istanbul

Hagia Sofia, Istanbul