010 CYCLE TOURING SYRIA (1)

 

             Between Sand and Citadels: My Two

                             Crossings of Syria

10 SYRIA (1)

570 Kilometres – 23 Days

22 September – 14 October 2007

PHOTOS

PDF

FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER

 

PROLOGUE

 

Syria arrived first as a whisper on the wind, a name carried across borders like a rumour of ancient things. A land older than memory, where stones keep their own counsel and the desert watches without blinking.

I entered it twice —once with the naïve courage of a woman who believes the road will always rise to meet her, and once with the quiet resilience of someone who knows that sometimes the road does not.

Between those two crossings lay sandstorms and citadels, courtyard homes and chaotic streets, the laughter of strangers, and the soft, stubborn beating of my own heart as it learned — again —that the world is far kinder than it appears from a distance.

 

 

SYRIA (1)

 

22–23 September – Atakia, Turkey – Aleppo, Syria – 110 kilometres

Leaving Atakia, Turkey, I pedalled toward the Syrian border with the kind of optimism that only comes from not fully understanding the situation. I had absolutely no idea whether visas were issued on arrival — a detail most sensible travellers would have checked before cycling toward a new country. But there I was, rolling toward the unknown, rehearsing my most innocent smile and hoping it would translate across cultural and bureaucratic boundaries.

Just as I was preparing myself for the possibility of sleeping at the border like a stray cat with panniers, the universe intervened. Four motorbike riders appeared — the rugged, dust‑covered, overland‑to‑South‑Africa type who look like they’ve survived at least three deserts, two corrupt checkpoints, and a questionable kebab. They introduced me to Ahmed, a tour guide who seemed to possess supernatural administrative powers.

Ahmed took one look at me — sweaty, hopeful, clutching my passport like a toddler holding a favourite toy — and immediately adopted me. He guided me through the forms with saintly patience, nodding kindly as I fumbled through basic questions. Then, in true mystical‑guide fashion, he vanished. Not suspiciously — more like a man who had other bureaucratic fires to put out.

Three hours later, he reappeared with my visa as casually as if he’d just fetched a loaf of bread. I could hardly believe it. Three hours! That’s practically warp speed in visa time. I’ve waited longer for toast. I thanked him profusely, thanked the motorbike riders, thanked every deity I could think of, and cycled into Syria before anyone could change their mind.

My first thought upon entering was: What have I done? Everything was different — the culture, the language, the landscape, the food, the architecture. Even the air felt ancient, as if it had been circulating since the dawn of civilisation. Syria wasn’t just a conservative Muslim desert country; it was one of the oldest inhabited regions on earth. Archaeological finds date back 700,000 years, which is roughly how long the traffic jams feel.

The day’s cycling was uneventful in the way that only long stretches of cotton fields and quiet villages can be. Each community had the same comforting trio: a mosque, a market, and modest courtyard homes that looked plain from the outside but were apparently palatial inside. I loved the idea so much I swore I’d build a courtyard home someday — preferably without Syrian traffic outside.

Speaking of traffic: biking into Aleppo at 18h00 during Ramadan was like entering a video game set to “Impossible Mode.” Thousands of hungry drivers were racing home, and as a woman on a bicycle, I was somewhere below “stray goat” on the traffic hierarchy. Then the heavens opened, the streets flooded instantly, and I rode straight into a drain cover that tried to claim part of my anatomy I may have a use for in the futher.

Miraculously, I survived and found a reasonably priced hotel called — appropriately — the Hotel Tourist. Achmad from the hotel took pity on me and offered to show me around. Bless him.

The next day I explored the citadel, market, and museum, then got lost in the labyrinth of identical alleys. By evening, Achmad accompanied me again, and we ended up in a typical Syrian eatery. Syrians, I discovered, are some of the friendliest people on earth — endlessly curious, endlessly kind, and endlessly amused by a lone woman on a bicycle.

 

24 September – Aleppo – Idlib – 66 kilometres

I left Aleppo feeling rather pleased with myself for having survived the traffic, the flooding, and the drain‑cover incident that nearly ended my future romantic prospects. As I was wheeling my bike out the door, Achmad — sweet, earnest Achmad — presented me with a watch. A whole watch. I stood there blinking at it, unsure whether this was a cultural gesture, a personal gesture, or a “please don’t get lost again” gesture. Whatever it was, I thanked him profusely, strapped it on, and pedalled away feeling both touched and slightly bewildered.

My first full day of cycling in Syria was a 60‑kilometre battle straight into a headwind that clearly had unresolved emotional issues. It pushed against me with the determination of someone trying to prevent a bad decision. The landscape rolled by in shades of dusty beige and muted green, and every now and then a passing driver would slow down to stare at me as if I were a hallucination brought on by dehydration. An unaccompanied woman… on a bicycle… in Syria. It was as if I’d broken several laws of physics simultaneously.

By the time I reached Idlib, I was sun‑baked, wind‑whipped, and ready to collapse into any accommodation that didn’t involve livestock. I asked around for a place to stay, and in the process met Ahmad — yes, another Ahmad. Syria is full of them, and they are all delightful. This Ahmad invited me to stay with him and his wife, Somod. Before I could even protest, I was ushered into an entire apartment that they insisted I take for myself. I felt like royalty, albeit a sweaty, wind‑blown version.

That evening, I was invited to supper with Ahmad, his wife, his brother, and sister‑in‑law. They sat on a mat and ate with their fingers, and I joined them, trying my best to mimic their graceful movements. They laughed kindly as I fumbled, dropping bits of food like a toddler learning fine motor skills. Despite Ramadan, Somod had prepared a feast — fragrant dishes, warm bread, and flavours that made me want to weep with gratitude. Ahmad was the only one who spoke English, but somehow, we all communicated, laughing, gesturing, and sharing food in a way that transcended language entirely.

When I finally returned to my room, I was full, humbled, and deeply grateful for the kind of hospitality that makes you question whether you’ve ever been truly generous in your life.

 

25 September – Idlib – Latakia – 130 kilometres

The next morning, I set off on a 130‑kilometre ride toward Latakia — a distance that sounded manageable until I remembered the mountain range standing between me and the coast. The road wound up and over the hills, and the headwind returned with a vengeance, as if it had been waiting for me. I pedalled slowly, stubbornly, and with the grim determination of someone who refuses to admit she’s made a terrible route choice.

The people I encountered along the way were endlessly accommodating. They waved, smiled, and offered food and drink with such insistence that I began to worry I’d never make it to Latakia because I’d be too full to move. Asking for directions, however, was a challenge. Most people couldn’t read English maps, and my Arabic consisted of “hello,” “thank you,” and “please don’t run me over.” Still, they tried. They pointed, gestured, argued among themselves, and eventually sent me off in what was hopefully the right direction.

For most of the day, Syrians simply stared at me, mouths agape. I could almost hear their thoughts: Is she lost? Is she mad? Does she know where she is? To be fair, I wasn’t entirely sure of the answers myself.

By late afternoon, I rolled into Latakia, exhausted but triumphant. The traffic was as chaotic as ever, but the sight of the Mediterranean lifted my spirits. I’d made it — wind‑burned, sun‑scorched, and slightly delirious, but I’d made it.

 

26 September – Latakia

Latakia deserved a day of exploration, and I set out eagerly, though cautiously, because Syrian traffic is not for the faint‑hearted. There seemed to be no rules whatsoever. Drivers hooted constantly — not out of anger, but seemingly out of habit, boredom, or perhaps as a form of echolocation. Everyone did whatever they pleased, and yet, miraculously, there were no accidents. It was like watching a flock of birds move in perfect chaotic harmony, except the birds were cars, trucks, and three‑wheel pickups carrying everything from people to building rubble.

Those three‑wheelers were my favourite. They chugged along so slowly that I could easily overtake them, much to the delight of the children riding in the back. They would cheer, wave, and shout encouragement as if I were competing in the Tour de France.

Latakia itself was steeped in history — Seleucids, Romans, Umayyads, Abbasids, the French — everyone had taken a turn ruling it. You’d think a city with such a dramatic past would be overflowing with ruins, but strangely, only a Triumphal Arch and the remains of the Temple of Bacchus had survived. The rest had been swallowed by time, war, and modern development. Still, the city had a charm that made up for its lack of ancient monuments.

 

27 September – Latakia – Tartus – 85 kilometres

I woke to brilliant weather — the kind of sunshine that tricks you into believing the day will go smoothly. I set off along the coast toward Tartus, enjoying the sea breeze and the gentle roll of the road. For a few blissful hours, everything was perfect. Birds chirped, the Mediterranean sparkled, and I felt like the heroine of a travel documentary.

Then the itching began.

At first, it was a polite little itch. A whisper of irritation. Then it escalated into a full‑scale assault. By midday, I was covered in lumps and bumps, scratching like a flea‑ridden street dog. I tried to ignore it, but the itching had ambitions. It wanted to be noticed. It wanted to be the main character.

By the time I reached Tartus, I was hot, tired, itchy, and dangerously close to tears. I checked into an overpriced chalet, hoping for relief, only to discover the place was infested with creepy crawlies. Actual, visible, scuttling creatures. I stood there, staring at them, thinking: Of course. Of course this is happening. Why wouldn’t it?

I briefly considered sleeping on the beach, but the coastline was so filthy — littered with plastic, bottles, and unidentifiable objects — that even my itchy, exhausted self had standards. Besides, I didn’t want to scandalise the conservative locals by accidentally exposing an elbow or, heaven forbid, an ankle while swimming.

It was one of those days where you feel profoundly sorry for yourself, and the universe doesn’t even bother pretending it cares.

 

28 September – Tartus

I woke the next morning with a swollen eye and even itchier bites — a combination that made me look like I’d lost a bar fight with a mosquito gang. I was in no mood to explore, but I forced myself out, determined not to let Tartus defeat me entirely.

The historical centre, tucked inside the old Crusader‑era Templar fortress walls, was interesting enough, though surprisingly little remained of its medieval past. A few old buildings clung on, stubborn and weathered, but the rest had been swallowed by modern life. I wandered around, trying to appreciate the history, but the constant staring made me feel like a walking billboard. There were so few tourists that I stuck out like a neon sign, and in my itchy, swollen state, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for attention.

I retreated to my room, scratched miserably, and contemplated the life choices that had led me here.

 

29 September – Tartus – Homs – 110 kilometres

The next morning, I set off toward Homs along a busy highway. Thankfully, a tailwind pushed me along, and I made good time. The traffic, however, remained a mystery. Red lights seemed to be decorative suggestions rather than rules, and traffic police had to physically intervene to prevent total chaos. I watched them with admiration — they were like conductors of a very loud, very unpredictable orchestra.

Later that evening, I took a taxi to a recommended restaurant. The taxi driver, for reasons known only to him, decided to stay and join me for the meal. He spoke no English, and I spoke no Arabic, so we sat there in awkward silence, eating together like two strangers on the world’s most uncomfortable blind date. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to buy him dinner, or whether he was supposed to buy mine, or whether we were simply trapped in a cultural misunderstanding with no escape route. Whatever the custom, I would have been far more comfortable eating alone.

 

30 September – Homs

Since I’d seen almost nothing of Homs the previous day, I dedicated the next one to exploring. I wandered through the ancient markets, sampling pastries so sweet they could have powered a small city, and drank tiny cups of strong coffee that made my heart race like I’d been plugged into a generator.

It was sweltering hot, and I marvelled at how the women managed to stay fully covered in black. The men, at least, had the advantage of long white robes that looked marginally more breathable. The city was a jumble of noise and colour — hooting cars, bustling markets, and the melodic call to prayer echoing from numerous mosques. It was chaotic, overwhelming, and utterly fascinating.

 

1 October – Homs – Damascus – 80 kilometres

The scenery changed abruptly as I left Homs and headed inland toward Damascus. One moment I was surrounded by olive trees, pomegranates, and figs — the next, I was cycling through a vast, empty desert that looked like it had been designed by someone with a limited colour palette and a strong dislike for vegetation. The wind picked up, turning into a ferocious, sand‑flinging beast that reduced visibility to a few metres. Everything was coated in a grey‑yellow haze, including me.

I battled onward, head down, trying to keep the sand out of my eyes and my dignity intact. I was so focused on not being sandblasted into oblivion that I barely noticed the van parked beside the road. A sweet French couple waved me over and offered me a lift to Damascus. Normally, I would have politely declined, determined to cycle every inch of the journey. But this was not a normal day. This was a “take the lift or die trying” day. I accepted immediately, grateful beyond words.

They drove me straight to Damascus and parked their van in the backyard of St Paul’s convent. I pitched my tent in the herb garden, hoping I wasn’t flattening anything sacred or culinary. Parsley, basil, divine intervention — who knows what I was sleeping on.

 

2–6 October – Damascus

I woke early the next morning to the sound of the gardener watering the garden — including, nearly, my tent. I waved goodbye to my French rescuers and set off into Damascus traffic, which was every bit as life‑threatening as I remembered. I found an inexpensive hotel, cleaned it to a level that made it habitable, and settled in to wait for my sister Amanda, who was flying in for a holiday.

While waiting, I made a horrifying discovery: my passport was practically full. I had stared at the expiry date for months, feeling smug about how much time I had left, and never once considered the number of remaining pages. Rookie mistake. I learned that I couldn’t order a new passport in Syria, Jordan, or even nearby Lebanon. My only option was to return to South Africa, get a new one, and hope I could resume my journey without losing momentum — or my sanity. It was a costly lesson, and I mentally kicked myself for not checking sooner.

 

7 October – Damascus

Amanda arrived in the afternoon, and we immediately set out to explore the old part of town. Damascus, being the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, wears its history like a layered robe — ancient markets, beautiful mosques, narrow cobbled lanes, and a sense of timelessness that makes you feel both insignificant and privileged to witness it.

The markets were fascinating, full of colour and noise and the smell of spices. The traffic, however, was a nightmare. Crossing the street required forming a human wall with other pedestrians and hoping for the best. It was less “crossing” and more “collective survival strategy.”

 

8 October – Maalula

After breakfast the next morning, we took a taxi to the Shrine of Saida Zeinab, said to contain the grave of Muhammad’s granddaughter. The shrine was beautiful, serene, and filled with worshippers. From there, we caught a minibus to Maalula, a historical town where houses cling to the cliffs like stubborn barnacles. Maalula is one of the few places where Aramaic — the language Jesus presumably spoke — is still used. Hearing it spoken felt like stepping into a time machine.

We quickly adapted to the Syrian lifestyle, where nothing opens before ten, breakfast lasts until midday, shops close between four and six, and then stay open late into the night. This schedule suited Amanda perfectly. She thrives in the late‑morning‑to‑late‑evening window, whereas I tend to operate on the “up at dawn, asleep by ten” model. Still, travel has a way of bending your habits, and I found myself adjusting without too much protest.

 

9–10 October – Damascus – Aleppo

We caught an early morning bus to Aleppo, a city with historical records dating back to 5,000 BC. I was excited to show Amanda the covered souqs in the old walled city — a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the world’s largest covered market. The souqs stretched for approximately thirteen kilometres, a labyrinth of narrow alleys packed with people, goods, spices, sweets, textiles, carpets, and the famous Aleppo soap made from olive oil.

The Al‑Madina Souq wasn’t just a marketplace; it was the beating heart of the city. Traders shouted, customers bargained, tea was poured, gossip was exchanged, and life pulsed through every corner. It was chaotic, overwhelming, and utterly captivating.

We also visited the citadel, dating back to the 3rd millennium BC. Perched in the centre of town, it offered grand views over old Aleppo. Standing there, looking out over the ancient city, I felt a sense of awe — and also a sense of relief that I wasn’t currently navigating its traffic on my bicycle.

 

11 October – Aleppo – Hama

Travelling without a bicycle felt like cheating, but it was undeniably efficient. Amanda and I hopped on a bus to Hama, and before we knew it, we were checking into a hotel and hailing a taxi to Krak des Chevaliers — the kind of castle that makes every other castle look like it’s not really trying.

Krak des Chevaliers is the best‑preserved medieval castle in the world, and it knows it. It sits on its hill like a smug stone giant, radiating the confidence of a fortress that has survived centuries of sieges, storms, and tourists. First occupied by Kurdish troops in the 11th century, it later became a Crusader stronghold, housing up to 2,000 people — infantry, crossbow specialists, mercenaries, and, according to records, a mere 60 actual knights. Sixty! The rest were essentially medieval interns.

We wandered through its vast halls and towering walls, marvelling at the sheer scale of it. Amanda snapped photos like a woman possessed, while I tried to imagine what life must have been like here — cold, drafty, and full of men arguing about whose turn it was to fetch water.

Back in Hama, we still had time to visit the city’s famous norias — enormous wooden water wheels dating back to the medieval Islamic period. They creaked and groaned as they turned, lifting water from the Orontes River with the weary dignity of ancient machinery that refuses to retire. There were six of them left, still in working condition, still beautiful in their own rustic way. Standing beside them, listening to their rhythmic moaning, I felt like I’d stumbled into a living museum.

 

12–14 October – Hama – Palmyra

The next morning, we boarded a bus to Palmyra — the legendary oasis town, once ruled by Queen Zenobia and home to the ruins of the “Pink City.” Founded in the 3rd millennium BC, Palmyra had been one of the most important cultural centres of the ancient world, a wealthy caravan stop on the trade route between Persia, India, and China. Even in ruins, it radiated grandeur.

The colonnaded street stretched for 1,100 metres, lined with towering pillars that seemed to glow in the desert light. The Temple of Ba’al rose from the sand like a memory refusing to fade. It was impossible not to feel small in the presence of such history — small, and also slightly sunburned.

While wandering the ruins, we befriended a local man who invited us to visit his family living in the desert. This is the kind of invitation that sounds both magical and mildly alarming, but we were swept up in the romance of it all. Before we knew it, we were packing our belongings and climbing onto camels for the journey.

If you’ve never ridden a camel, imagine sitting on a moving bar stool while someone tilts the floor beneath you. The camels lurched forward with the enthusiasm of creatures who had absolutely no interest in our comfort. We rocked across the desert for hours, our backsides slowly losing all feeling. By the time we reached the Bedouin camp, we were walking like two people who had recently survived a minor earthquake.

The camp itself was fascinating — a cluster of tents decorated with woven carpets, warm and inviting inside despite the harshness of the desert. Communication was limited to smiling, nodding, and hoping we weren’t accidentally insulting anyone. At one point, we were fairly certain we received an offer of a few camels in exchange for ourselves. Not many camels, mind you — we were clearly past our prime bargaining years — but still, it’s nice to be wanted.

That evening, we accompanied the family to a waterhole to give the camels a drink. On the way back, a sand‑bearing wind — a Khamsin — rolled in. We watched it approach like a wall of dust swallowing the horizon. Within minutes, visibility dropped to a few hundred metres, and the sky turned the colour of old parchment. It was dramatic, unsettling, and oddly beautiful.

Back at camp, we sheltered in the main tent with the men, while the women — adorned with traditional facial tattoos — cooked in separate tents. This arrangement made me deeply uncomfortable, but I was a guest, and guests adapt. When the food arrived, it was served on large trays: rice topped with chicken thighs. Being vegetarian, I hesitated, but refusing would have been rude. So I closed my eyes, swallowed the chicken thigh whole, and hoped no one noticed my internal crisis. Unfortunately, my speed was interpreted as hunger, and I was promptly given a second portion. I ate that one too, because sometimes survival requires sacrifice.

The next morning, the camels returned us to Palmyra. Our backsides protested, but our hearts were full. It was an unforgettable experience — surreal, awkward, beautiful, and deeply human.

We barely had time to shop for souvenirs before catching a bus to Amman, Jordan — another ancient land with its own stories waiting to be discovered.

 

SYRIA (2)

 

11–13 March – Syrian border – Damascus – 115 kilometres

Five months, one new passport, and a great deal of bureaucratic trauma later, I found myself back at the Syrian border — this time cycling north from Sudan with Ernest Markwood. After the mountainous terrain of Jordan, Syria’s flat landscape felt like a gift from the cycling gods. The road stretched ahead in gentle, forgiving lines, and for once, the weather seemed to be on our side. Green fields rolled out like a soft carpet, and distant snow‑capped mountains shimmered on the horizon. It was almost enough to make me forget the sandstorms, drain covers, and itchy Tartus fiasco of my previous visit.

We rolled into Damascus around four o’clock, pleasantly wind‑assisted and only mildly sun‑baked. I was excited — genuinely excited — to show Ernest around this remarkable city. After all, I had been here barely six months earlier and had spent days exploring its ancient streets, its markets, its mosques, its layers of history. I was ready to be the knowledgeable guide, the seasoned traveller, the one who says things like, “Ah yes, this alley — I know it well.”

Unfortunately, Ernest was not particularly interested in sightseeing. He visited the historic walled city and the markets, nodded politely, and declared himself done. That was it. Meanwhile, I was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, wanting to drag him to every corner of Damascus. Instead, I spent most of my time exploring alone, revisiting the places that had enchanted me the first time around.

One of those places was the Umayyad Mosque — the Great Mosque of Damascus — one of the oldest and largest mosques in the world. I had explored it with Amanda months earlier, and it had left a deep impression. The mosque was built after the Muslim conquest of Damascus in 634 CE, on the site of a Christian basilica dedicated to John the Baptist. Legend has it that the building contains the head of John the Baptist, which I still found bizarre. I mean, it’s not every day you visit a place that casually claims to house the head of a major religious figure. It’s the kind of detail that sticks with you.

14 March – Damascus – Roadside restaurant – 74 kilometres

We left Damascus with a glorious tailwind pushing us along — the kind of wind that makes you feel like a cycling champion. But as winds often do, it changed its mind. The tailwind became a crosswind, and the crosswind became a howling, bike‑toppling menace. At one point, it blew me clean off the road and into a ditch. I climbed out, dusty and furious, only to be blown off again a short while later. By the third incident, I lost my temper entirely and shouted abuse at Ernest, who seemed blissfully unaware of the meteorological violence unfolding around us.

Mercifully, we found shelter at a roadside restaurant. The owner, a kind man with a calmness I envied, offered us floor space above the restaurant for the night. I accepted gratefully, relieved to be out of the wind and off the ground — preferably not in a ditch.

15–16 March – Roadside restaurant – Homs – 95 kilometres

The next morning dawned calm and clear, as if the wind had simply needed to get something off its chest. We cycled the 95 kilometres to Homs in relative peace. At a breakfast stop, a kind Samaritan invited us to join him for a meal. What began as a simple invitation turned into a feast — hummus, olives, cheese, pastries, and enough food to fuel a small army. We left with full stomachs and renewed energy.

That energy lasted until Ernest rode straight into a stationary minivan. In broad daylight. On a straight road. Nothing was broken except his ego and the van’s taillight, but the incident did nothing to boost my confidence in his observational skills.

We checked into the Al Naser Hotel in Homs, which was easily the crummiest but also the cheapest in town. The toilets were filthy, and the paraffin‑heated shower cost extra — a detail that felt like an insult. Still, it was a roof over our heads, and after the wind‑induced ditch episodes, I wasn’t in a position to be picky.

The next day, we took a minivan to Krak des Chevaliers — my second visit in a matter of months. The castle was as magnificent as ever, its stone walls rising proudly against the sky. Built for the Emir of Aleppo in 1031 CE, it had once housed up to 2,000 people, though only about 60 of them were actual knights. The rest were support staff — medieval logistics, essentially. We spent hours wandering through the fortress, marvelling at its scale and imagining the lives of the people who once lived there.

 

17 March – Homs – Hama – 47 kilometres

The ride from Homs to Hama was barely 45 kilometres — a welcome change after the longer stretches of previous days. We arrived with plenty of time to explore the historic norias once again. Their rhythmic groaning and creaking felt almost comforting, like old friends complaining about their joints. The citadel, however, was less impressive — more of a picnic area than a fortress — but it did offer a decent view of the city.

 

18–19 March – Hama – Aleppo – 144 kilometres

I didn’t expect to cycle all the way from Hama to Aleppo in one day. Truly, I didn’t. I had mentally prepared for a leisurely ride, a scenic lunch, perhaps a nap under a tree — the kind of day where you stop to smell the pomegranates. But Ernest had a bee in his bonnet. A very determined bee. A bee that had apparently decided Aleppo was the only acceptable destination for the day, and that stopping anywhere short of it would be a personal failure.

So we cycled. And cycled. And cycled.

The kilometres stretched on like a bad joke, and by late afternoon I was convinced we were trapped in some kind of Syrian cycling purgatory. The sun dipped lower, the traffic grew more chaotic, and still Ernest pushed on, possessed by whatever mysterious force drives men to do unnecessary things at great speed.

We finally rolled into Aleppo long past sunset, exhausted, hungry, and coated in a fine layer of road dust. Fortunately, this was my third visit to Aleppo, and I knew exactly where to go. There’s a special kind of comfort in arriving in a foreign city and thinking, Ah yes, I know this chaos. It’s like being reunited with a dysfunctional but beloved relative.

The next morning, after a leisurely start and a breakfast that restored my will to live, we headed to the world‑famous souqs. Even after multiple visits, the Al‑Madina Souq still amazed me. It was a living organism — a labyrinth of long, narrow alleys, all covered, all bustling, all overflowing with goods and people and noise. Traders shouted, customers bargained, spices perfumed the air, and the whole place pulsed with life.

Aleppo had been at the crossroads of trade routes since the second millennium BC, and you could feel that history in every stone. The old walled city was a UNESCO World Heritage Site for good reason. The Citadel of Aleppo, perched proudly in the centre of town, offered sweeping views over the ancient city. It dated back to the 10th century BC, and standing atop it, you could almost hear the echoes of the countless civilisations that had passed through.

Ernest seemed mildly impressed, which for him was the equivalent of a standing ovation.

20 March – Aleppo, Syria – Reyhanli, Turkey – 74 kilometres

The next morning, we resumed our ride toward the Syrian‑Turkish border. I felt a familiar flutter of anxiety — the same one I’d felt months earlier when entering Syria from Turkey. Would visas be issued on arrival? Would we be turned away? Would we be forced to camp at the border like two confused nomads?

Rumours suggested that procedures had changed since my last crossing. Rumours, however, are not known for their reliability. Still, we pedalled on, hopeful and slightly tense.

To our immense relief, the rumours were true. We were granted a 30‑day Turkish stay without delay, without fuss, and without any of the bureaucratic drama I had come to expect from border crossings. I could have kissed the immigration officer, but I restrained myself.

So delighted were we that we parked off in the nearby border town of Reyhanli, basking in the sweet, sweet feeling of having successfully crossed yet another international border without incident. It felt like a small miracle — the kind you don’t question, just accept with gratitude.

 

  

EPILOGUE

 

I left Syria the way I entered it: wind‑tossed, sun‑creased, and carrying more stories than sense.

The border stamped my passport and released me back into the world, but Syria stayed —in the dust on my panniers, in the echo of the souqs, in the memory of hands offering food before they offered words.

Some places you pass through. Others pass through you.

Syria did both.

008 CYCLE TOURING CYPRUS

 

8 CYPRUS

120 Km – 8 Days

14 September – 22 September 2007

MAP

PHOTOS

 

14 September – Girne, Cyprus

Sigitas's acquaintance, Vidmantas, kindly offered me his house in Girne while he was away for the weekend. Staying in Girne and enjoying the comfort of his home was an obvious choice.

Cyprus, officially known as the Republic of Cyprus, is an island located in the Mediterranean Sea. It is the third-largest island in the Mediterranean and a popular tourist destination. The Republic of Cyprus claims to be the legitimate government of the entire island, with Nicosia serving as the capital and largest city.

However, Cyprus is divided into two. The area controlled by the Republic is in the south and west and comprises about 59% of the island. The north, administered by the self-declared Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, covers about 36%. The remaining 4% constitutes a UN buffer zone. The international community regards the island's northern part (occupied by Turkish forces) as illegal under international law.

As obtaining a visa to enter Greece was practically impossible, I stayed on the Turkish side.

 

15 September – Girne (Turkish) Kyrenia (Greek)

During my time in Girne, I attempted to obtain a Syrian visa. Unfortunately, the Embassy was located in the southern part of the island, under Greek control, making it inaccessible to me. After exhausting all efforts to seek help in Girne, I opted to pamper myself with a leg wax and pedicure instead, hoping that the situation would eventually resolve itself.

 

16-17 September – Girne

I explored the coast around Girne by bicycle while I had the luxury of a room. While Cyprus was mountainous and arid, its shoreline featured stunning landscapes and numerous pristine beaches. Unfortunately, many new developments have spoiled the area's rural feel. These developments have also imperilled the nesting grounds of sea turtles that have bred along the Cyprus coast for centuries.

I spent an additional day in Girne trying to contact the Syrian Embassy. Vidmantes found the Embassy's telephone number, but our calls went unanswered. So, I decided to leave it and try my luck at the Syrian border instead. 

18 September - Girne – Kaplica – 60 kilometres

The following day, I thanked Vidmantes and continued towards Famagusta. By late afternoon, I came across a lovely spot on the beach with a bar and restaurant. I deemed it to be a good enough spot and decided to pitch my tent there. With September marking the end of the summer season, only a few tourists remained —mostly pale-skinned Brits in Union Jack swimsuits. LOL

 

19 September - Kaplica – Famagusta – 60 kilometres

The following morning, I abandoned my little paradise and cycled over the mountain (nothing like a mountain pass first thing in the morning). Although campsites were available outside Famagusta, I opted for a hotel near the harbour for convenience, as the return ferry to Mersin, Turkey departed at 8h30 a.m., with the ticket office opening at 7h00 a.m.

Famagusta proved fascinating, as it was from here that Silk Road merchants carried goods to Western Europe. The historic centre is still enclosed by Venetian walls built in the 15th and 16th centuries. I spent hours wandering its ancient ruins and the streets of the old walled city. Unfortunately, I ended up with numerous itchy bites, likely from mosquitoes, covering my face, arms, and legs. Irritated by the itching, I returned to my abode.

 

20 September – Famagusta, Cyprus - Mersin (Mainland Turkey) - By Ferry

Early in the morning, I loaded my bike and biked to the harbour, expecting to catch a ferry at 8:30 a.m., as per the email I had received. However, I was surprised to find out that the Ferry was scheduled for 8:30 p.m.!!

With the entire day ahead, I decided to explore Famagusta and its Salamis Ruins, which date back to the 11th Century BC. Despite being destroyed by enemies and natural disasters such as earthquakes, an impressive amount of the ruins remains intact. Later on, I went back to the harbour, where I met two Nepali guys who were on a biking trip around the world. I couldn't help but question whether they were truly cycling or simply relied on public transport to secure free accommodation and food.

 

21 September - Mersin – Atakia - By Bus

The Ferry was a shocking sight—best described as a rust bucket. I was sceptical about its ability to reach the mainland, but at least it had seats suitable for sitting or sleeping. The trip didn't take the expected nine hours as mentioned on the ticket (not surprising, given the state it was in), and we only slinked into Mersin the following day at 9h00 a.m. En route, we had our fair share of drama as a man fell overboard, but the crew, despite the poor condition of the vessel, promptly spun around and picked him up. Not an easy feat in the dark. Hats off to the captain!

The two Nepali guys were also heading towards Syria. Once in Mersin, we decided to take a bus to Atakia on the Turkey-Syrian border. I thought this arrangement was a good idea. If it were impossible to obtain a Syrian visa at the border, I wanted enough time on my Turkish visa to make alternative arrangements. At Atakia, we located comfortable accommodations at Siste Barbara's, where we spent the night. After waking to one of the Nepali guys fondling my breast, I yelled at him, took my stuff, and moved to a locked dormitory for safety. The little bastard!

The following day, I packed up and cycled to the Syrian border and, luckily, never reencountered the Nepalese guys.

 

22 September – Atakia, Turkey – Aleppo, Syria – 110 kilometres

Upon arriving at the Syrian border, I met four British motorbike riders who were travelling overland to South Africa. They introduced me to Ahmed, a tour guide who helped them obtain Syrian visas. Ahmed was invaluable, guiding me through the paperwork before disappearing. Three hours later, I had my visa in hand and was on my way to Aleppo, Syria. I felt fortunate and grateful to have met the motorbike riders and Ahmed.

My first thought upon cycling into Syria was, "What have I gotten myself into?" Syria felt like an entirely different world, defined by its distinct culture, language, landscape, cuisine, and architecture. Not only was it a conservative Muslim desert country, but it was also one of the world's oldest inhabited regions, with archaeological finds indicating human habitation dating back 700,000 years.

Along the way, there was little to be seen except for cotton fields and typical Syrian communities consisting of a mosque, a market, and a few modest courtyard homes. These homes appeared modest from the outside but could be quite luxurious internally. They offered total privacy as well as a communal family area, often with a water feature or even a pool. I was so captivated by this architectural style that I vowed to one day build a courtyard-style home of my own.

007 CYCLE TOURING TURKEY (1)

 

Photo by Ed Carter

7 TURKEY (1)

881 Km – 18 Days

27 August – 13 September 2007

MAP

PHOTOS

  

 

27 August – Bulgarian Border – Kirklareli, Turkey – 50 kilometres

I have spent nights in some unusual places, but never in a hospital. So, before leaving, I felt it was necessary to ensure that all my organs were still intact.

Eddie and I arrived in Turkey, a country with a long and fascinating history, at the end of August and in sweltering heat. Once across the border, we headed towards the nearest town and bike shop as Eddie’s bicycle rim was cracked, making it impossible to continue.

Turkish people are exceptionally kind, and offered us tea, watermelon, and coffee while we waited. Unfortunately, the rim took longer than we had envisaged to repair. It was raining as the repairs were completed, and we decided to stay overnight in Kirklareli.

Turkey is a transcontinental country straddling eastern Europe and Asia and was bound to throw us a few surprises. Still, I was amazed to learn that our first town, Kirklareli, was one of the first settlements in Europe.

 

28 August - Kirklareli – Safalan – 96 kilometres

By morning, I couldn’t wait to start exploring. Turkey is not flat, and the best part of the day was spent cycling up and down hills, heading toward Istanbul. We ended the day's ride at a picnic area equipped with a restaurant and restrooms.

 

29-31 August - Safalan – Istanbul – 137 kilometres

We packed up early because a long distance remained to historic Istanbul. Cycling into bustling Istanbul—Turkey’s economic, cultural, and historic centre —was a nightmare, with horrendous peak-hour traffic. Unfortunately, none of the campsites indicated on the map still existed, and by 21h00, we opted for alternative accommodation. But at least I had my first glimpse of the Mediterranean. As stressful as the ride was, I was happy to be in this beautiful, historic city.

Locating a backpacker hostel in daylight the following morning was far easier. It was well situated in the tourist part of town, close to the Blue Mosque.

Istanbul is an immensely popular destination, and most budget accommodation was filled to the brim. The only beds available were on the hostel’s roof, where beds were piled in, leaving no spaces between beds—resembling a huge communal bed. It was, therefore, no surprise to run into the Baltic Cycle Group.

The day was spent exploring Europe’s most populous city. We pushed and shoved our way through the city’s markets, jam-packed with a warren of stalls where the smells, colours and sights were intoxicating. We visited Istanbul’s famous mosques and watched hopefuls fishing in the Bosporus strait, marking Europe and Asia’s dividing line.

Eddie headed home from Istanbul, and I decided to tag along with the Baltic Cycle Group as we headed in the same direction.

 

1 September - Istanbul - Bodrum - By Ferry

There was no sleeping in on the roof, and I made my way to the harbour to purchase a ferry ticket to Bodrum. As the boat left at 14h00, I returned to the hostel to collect my gear and say goodbye to the Baltic cyclists, with only 15 riders continuing towards Cyprus.

The ferry exceeded expectations, boasting amenities like a pool, gym, and restaurants. The calm ocean mirrored a lake, and I spent my day lounging on the deck by the pool. The restaurant onboard was unaffordable. Still, I had a beer while watching the sunset and hung around until past midnight, watching the night sky, as there wasn’t a breath of wind, the sky was cloudless, and the weather pleasantly warm.

 

2 September - Bodrum – Datca (by boat)

The next day was mainly spent swimming and lounging around until we reached Bodrum at 15h00, where we boarded a ferry toward Datca, arriving at about 19h00. As it was already late, we set up camp on an open lot near the harbour, conveniently near a small shop selling beer and snacks.

 

3 September - Datca – Marmaris – 70 kilometres

From Datca, a scenic coastal road ran along the Mediterranean to the touristy port town of Marmaris. Despite the challenging hills and heat, the scenery and beaches were spectacular. En route, we stopped for breakfast and a refreshing swim. The Turkish breakfast consisted of a basket of bread, cheese, tomatoes, cucumber, and olives washed down with a glass of ayran.

We didn’t explore much of Marmaris, as the 1957 earthquake left little of its historical charm, with only the castle surviving.

Marmaris’s campground was directly on the beach, with excellent vistas across the bay. Watching the sunset, cold beer in hand, I thought life couldn’t get much better.

 

4 September - Marmaris – Mugla – 54 kilometres

Again, the day was a scorcher, and the mercury hovered around 46°C. We churned our way up and over the mountains to Mugla. The intense heat and steep hills made the ride gruelling, but the route offered picturesque views.

We reached the small community of Ula around midday, where I decided to get a haircut—an interesting affair. With no one speaking English, we relied entirely on gestures to communicate.

En route, we were fortunate to meet Burent, a friendly cyclist from Mugla who kindly guided us through the old town. Upon reaching Mugla, we were warmly welcomed with a cup of tea and offered bike repair services. The old quarter of Mugla is a charming area with cobblestone streets and houses dating back to the 18th and 19th centuries. Many of these houses have been restored, and are characterised by courtyards, double-shuttered doors, and chimneys.

Camping was at the public swimming pool, a first for me, with plenty of shower facilities and a lovely green lawn.

 

5 September - Mugla – Koycegiz – Dalyan - 75 kilometres

At 8h00, Burent led us out of the village and along rural roads through forests towards Köyceğiz. Koycegiz Lake connects to the Mediterranean Sea through the Dalyan Delta, a natural waterway.

Our early arrival left enough time to catch a boat across the lake to popular Dalyan and Turtle Beach. The entire area was declared a wildlife sanctuary, and a boat made exploring easy. We swam at Turtle Beach but didn’t see any turtles. The ancient Caunos harbour, with tombs carved into the rock high on the cliff face, was even more fascinating.

That night, we camped at Dalyan, where we spent the evening drinking wine on a timber deck.

 

6 September - Dalyan – Fethiye (Oludeniz) – 75 kilometres

Baltic Cycles was a fun group to be a part of. During the day, everyone did their own thing and arrived at the campsite at different times. Most cyclists were from Poland and spoke limited English, so talking to Bob from Scotland and Saline from New Zealand was easy. Ella, a lovely person from Poland, communicated using gestures and a dictionary.

While cycling, we often stopped to devour Turkish pancakes or Gozleme, a savoury flatbread filled with various ingredients. Our route took us along the Turquoise Coast, with breath-taking views of the historic Fethiye and its Amyntas Rock Tombs.

 

7 September – Fethiye – Patara

The Turkish were exceptionally hospitable and generous, frequently stopping to offer lifts, tea or even watermelon. The previous night, following a few vodkas, it was decided to see how easy it would be to hitch a ride. In the morning, we split into pairs and set off. Bob and I teamed up and, in no time at all, got a lift. The day passed quickly as we got into all sorts of vehicles. These vehicles were mostly driven one-handed, with the other hand holding a cell phone or casually resting outside the window.

 

8 September - Kas – Olympus – 90 kilometres

The steep and challenging route between Kas and Olympus was immensely mountainous, but the scenery made the effort worthwhile. The ride was littered with swimming spots, and the day flew by. Turkey is easily one of the most interesting countries one can visit. Not only because of the food, the people’s friendliness, or even the magical Mediterranean coast but primarily because of its history. From the ancient runes of Göbekli Tepe, dating to 9130–8800 BC, to the massive heads of Gods at Nemrut Dağ, dating to 69–34 BC.

A day in Olympus revealed the ruins of an ancient city, scattered picturesquely along the path to the beach. Many moons ago, around 43 AD, Olympus was a massive and important city and harbour. In 78 BC, the Romans captured Olympus after a victory at sea, and by the 15th century Olympus had been abandoned. Today, it has a hippy vibe, a lovely beach blessed with crystal clear blue water, and a mountain backdrop.

 

9 September – Olympus

We spent an additional day in Olympus, relaxing on the beach or on comfortable cushions on a timber deck. As the sun set, we embarked on a short hike up the mountain, discovering dozens of small fires burning steadily from vents in the rocky hillside. These flames, fuelled by gas emissions, have been burning for at least 2,500 years.

 

10 September - Olympus – Antalya – 90 kilometres

Antalya, a historic city established in 200 BC, lay 90 kilometres away and boasted even more impressive ruins. During the Roman rule, the city thrived and left behind many monuments such as the grand Hadrian's Gate, built in 130 AD to honour the Roman emperor Hadrian's visit to Antalya. The Hıdırlık Tower, another iconic landmark, is thought to have been built during the Roman Empire around the second century CE.

 

11-12 September - Antalya – Side – 74 kilometres

The following day, our path followed the coast toward the ancient port town of Side, famous for its beaches and Roman ruins dating back to the time of Antony and Cleopatra. Strolling through the ruins of the 2nd-century Antique Theatre, with its impressive seating capacity of 15,000, was simply irresistible. By then, we were all “ruined out” and didn’t explore much, opting instead to lounge around and do as little as possible.

 

13 September – Side – Alanya, Turkey – Girne, Cyprus - By ferry

After enjoying an excellent Turkish breakfast of fresh bread, tomatoes, cucumber, and olives, accompanied by a glass of ice-cold ayran, we cycled to the Alanya harbour. From there, ferries departed to Cyprus, a four-hour boat ride away. I parted ways with the Baltic Cycle Group as they headed towards the Greek side of the island. Though Greece and Turkey share Cyprus, obtaining a visa to visit Greece was nearly impossible, so I chose to remain on the Turkish side.

006 CYCLE TOURING BULGARIA

 

By Eddie Carter

6 BULGARIA

507 Kilometres – 9 Days

17 August – 26 August 2007

MAP

PHOTOS

FLIP-BOOK

 

 

17 August – Oltenita, Romania - Silistra, Bulgaria – 85 kilometres

After a breakfast of fresh tomatoes and paprika from Peter's garden, we hurried towards the Calarasi border to cross the Danube River towards Silistra. I was worried about my Romanian Visa, as I had exceeded the two-day limit stated on it by staying 20 days. However, I said nothing and handed over my passport to the border officials. The officials took my passport and disappeared behind a screen. After a while, they returned and returned my passport without saying anything. I was relieved that everything went smoothly.

I noticed that communicating in Bulgaria would pose a bigger challenge. Bulgarian is a Southern Slavic language that uses the Cyrillic alphabet. It was the first Slavic language to be written, and a new version was standardised after Bulgaria gained independence in 1878. However, I found it particularly confusing that nodding one’s head actually means ‘no’, while shaking it side to side means ‘yes’. It was tough to get used to. I first encountered this behaviour when I was trying to find accommodation. The lady initially shook her head, which I assumed meant no rooms were available. However, she then produced a room key, causing me much confusion.

 

18 August - Silistra - Balchik - 136 kilometres

Bulgaria covers an area of 110,994 square kilometres, roughly the same size as Malawi - a country that I consider small. Eddie and I decided to head towards Balchik, a Black Sea coastal town and seaside resort. We chose this town because of its prime location along the shores of the Black Sea. Our route took us 136 kilometres through farmlands, cornfields, and vast fields of sunflowers.

We arrived in Balchik late in the evening, only to find that the town lacked camping facilities. We had no choice but to cycle another fifteen kilometres to Kavarna, which had a beautiful campsite on the lake's shores. The place was idyllic, and we wasted no time submerging our sweat-soaked bodies in the lukewarm waters of the Black Sea —a blissful end to a long day of cycling.

 

19 August - Kavarna

The next day, we spent the day at the beach and unexpectedly reunited with the Baltic Cycle Group from Bucharest. It was a fun night of drinking and trying to communicate, as almost everyone in the group spoke Polish, and neither Ed nor I spoke the language.

Initially, I mistook the Black Sea for a lake, only to realize upon studying a map that it connects to the ocean through the Bosphorus Strait. The waters of the Black Sea first flow into the Sea of Marmara, which in turn is connected to the Mediterranean through the Strait of the Dardanelles. I was surprised to learn that the Black Sea is a vast body of water, spanning 436,400 square kilometres and reaching a depth of over 2000 meters in some areas.

 

20 August - Kavarna - Kancija via Verna - 96 kilometres

The following day, we continued our journey towards the Turkish border. However, navigating proved difficult as most signboards were written in Hungarian.

Despite this, we found a basic campsite in Verna, which had a decent beach. While there, we again met the Baltic Cycles, who were also in search of an inexpensive place to camp. We had a great time together that night, partying and enjoying the company of these cyclists who were equally good at cycling as having fun. The restaurant owner later offered us Rakia, a potent fruit brandy, along with homemade wine. I guessed the alcohol was offered to help us tolerate the mosquito-infested campsite.

 

21 August – Kamcija

We spent a leisurely day chatting with fellow cyclists. Communication seemed to improve proportionally to the amount of vodka consumed, and they quickly became good friends.

 

22 August - Kamcija - Nesebar - 104 kilometres

We had established a comfortable camping routine of packing up and cycling to our next destination. During our stay at the campsite in Nesebar, we met a 70-year-old German man travelling around the world with his bike and trailer. He had started his journey a year prior to our meeting in Germany and was still going strong. Curiously, his bicycle lacked pedals, rendering cycling impossible even if he wanted to.

The campsite in Nesebar was so good, and we had so much fun, that we decided to spend two days.

 

24-25 August - Nesebar - Yuk Camping - 96 kilometres

I was grateful to the Baltic Cycle Group for sharing their camping location, as it turned out to be one of the best options in the area. On our way, we stopped at Pomorie and Sozopol, which were great places to swim and cool off from the hot weather. While my fellow cyclists moved on, I chose to stay at the beach and work on fading my awkward cycling tan.

 

26 August - Yuk Camping - Border – 75 kilometres

Bulgaria has diverse terrain, including a coastline along the Black Sea and a mountainous interior. Once we moved inland, the terrain grew steep. Since it was August, and thus mid-summer, most days were sweltering, adding to the challenge. Flies also added to the problem. They buzzed in hordes around our heads, strangely reminding us of biking in Ethiopia.

Shortly before reaching the Turkish border, Eddie and I rode into a small village to get some refreshments but decided to stay. Unfortunately, the town lacked campsites or accommodations. However, we were directed to the hospital, which doubled as a guesthouse.

 

005 CYCLE TOURING ROMANIA

Pedalling Through Romania's Myths and Mountains

5 ROMANIA

959 Km – 19 Days

30 June – 17 August 2007

MAP

 PHOTOS

 

30 July – Szeget, Hungary – Arad, Romania – 78 kilometres

Ed and I departed Szeget, powered by a stiff tailwind that became a near-gale-force crosswind, making it challenging to ride. The road was further congested by trucks and heavy traffic, and I feared for my life. Upon arrival at the border, I found my Hungarian visa wasn't what I'd envisaged, but 2 x 10-day visas (where did that come from?). I thus overstayed, and after being shunted back and forth from building to building, I was eventually allowed to leave. Phew!

I was immensely excited to see Romania. It finally felt as if I were on my way, and since childhood, I had been intrigued by gipsies and understood there were still real gipsies in Romania. Add to that the mystery of Dracula's castle and place names like Transylvania, and I couldn't wait to explore.

As always in a foreign country, the language remained a significant obstacle; everything (as expected) was in Romanian, and truly little English was spoken.

Arad was reached late, and searching for the campsite indicated on the map revealed only an abandoned field. By then, it wasn't simply raining but also dark, and we weakened at the sight of a pension.

 

31 July - Arad – Bârzava – 60 kilometres

Arad was a bustling town, with many old buildings that, for the most part, needed TLC. Fifty years of communism left its mark. There were numerous apartment blocks, all unattractive and in poor repair. Arad also appeared to be an industrial town and a transport hub.

Countries vary tremendously, and just as one becomes used to the how-where-and-when of one, it's time to cross the border, where everything is vastly different. Suddenly, campsites were few and far between. Instead, budget accommodation was found at truck stops, which typically served inexpensive food and offered basic rooms.

 

1 August - Bârzava – Deva – 100 kilometres

In the morning, I fixed the slow puncture that had been giving trouble for some time and then made our way in the direction of Bârzava. The countryside was intriguing, dotted with small communities of real-life gipsies, complete with horse-drawn carts and elderly ladies dressed in black. It reminded me of something from a forgotten era. However, the gipsies were a tad disappointing as they weren't dressed like the gipsies I'd in mind. Think long, bright, flowery skirts, blouses adorned with gold coins and headscarves.

Cycling was challenging and sometimes downright dangerous, as traffic was hectic and the main road jam-packed with trucks of all shapes and sizes. Nevertheless, the rural villages were quiet, and residents found us as different as we found them. Generally, communities only had basic facilities. Water was drawn from a communal well, and farmers worked the fields by hand. Filling our water bottles meant stopping, lowering the bucket into the well, then hoisting the full bucket back up using a pulley system.

Overnighting was in Deva, situated on the left bank of the Mures River and dominated by the ruins of a citadel perched atop a hill.

 

2 August- Deva - Geoagiu Băi – 27 kilometres

Departing Deva meant following the tremendously busy, poorly maintained main road, making for a nerve-wracking ride. At the soonest opportunity, we turned off onto a smaller path. A sign pointed towards a Roman thermal bath, and as it was a mere 12 kilometres down the drag, I thought it was worth exploring. Geoagiu Bai was a small but lively town where camping was in someone's backyard, surrounded by chickens and dogs. The only facility was a rudimentary long-drop as a toilet.

 

3 August - Geoagiu Băi – Blaj – 91 kilometres

The following morning, we proceeded along a dirt track, past numerous small villages, farmlands, cornfields and even vineyards. The countryside was scenic, with the route twisting and turning over wooded mountains and across rivers.

 

4-5 August - Blaj - Făgăraș – 135 kilometres

It wasn't long before finding ourselves firmly in the heart of Transylvania. The name conjured up images of scary-looking villagers, wooden crosses and howling wolves. This mental image wasn't entirely incorrect. We often encountered askew graves and wooden crosses, with bunches of garlic hanging from gates and doors. As a child, I was excited to be in Romania and couldn't wait to go exploring. The country offered fantastic riding through densely wooded mountains, medieval towns, and fortresses steeped in legend.

Făgăraș didn't disappoint; nestled in the foothills of the Făgăraș Mountains, it was home to the Făgăraș Fortress.

 

6 August - Făgăraş – Bran - 63 kilometres

Before getting underway, we attempted to find breakfast, but at 9.30 am, it seemed too early to eat, but not too early for beer. Individuals were drinking beer at pavement restaurants, but when enquiring about food, the reply was, "Don't know at this hour". The ride was beautiful through heavily wooded mountains and along raging rivers. Upon arrival in Bran, we anticipated finding clues to Dracula's Castle, but merely found the ominous-sounding "Vampire Camping".

 

7 August - Bran

The following day was spent in Bran, where a visit to Bran Castle revealed its real history. I learned the castle was constructed in 1388 atop a cliff, offering panoramic views of the nearby hills. The castle served as a customs office and a fortress, used to stop the Ottoman Empire's expansion. Although the castle had many owners, it did indeed belong to Vlad Dracul, or Vlad the Impaler, the inspiration for Bram Stoker's vampire, Dracula.

 

8 August - Bran – Campulung – 59 kilometres

Eddie and I biked over the scenic Carpathian Mountains via Bran Pass. A stunning ride and the dividing line between Transylvania and Valencia. The language remained a problem. Not only did I buy yeast instead of butter, but a fountain pen without ink instead of a ballpoint pen, and cream instead of yoghurt. The learning curve was indeed steep. Towards the end of the day, accommodation was at a pension in historic Campulung. Virtually all the places encountered had long, fascinating histories. Campulung was no different, with a multitude of beautiful buildings dating back to the 13^th century.

 

9 August - Campulung – Târgușoru – 65 kilometres

The route to Taragovista, home to the Chindia Tower, built by Vlad Dracula in the 15^th century, featured a brilliant descent. Reaching Targovista early, we decided to overnight there rather than continue to Bucharest, still about 80 kilometres away.

"Pension King" became home that night, but it turned out not much of a palace as the name indicated, as it was situated in the back streets next to a scrapyard.

 

10 August - Targovista – Bucharest - 98 kilometres

Biking into Bucharest was hair-raising, as is the case with nearly all cities, and came with horrendous traffic, especially on a Friday afternoon. However, a helpful taxi driver gave us directions to a campsite, located on the city's opposite side. Unable to find it, we popped into an internet cafe and found the campground. This meant retracing our steps to where we came from. The campsite was lovely but mosquito-infested - at least it had plenty of trees.

Another look at my passport revealed that my Romanian visa was granted for two days (valid for three months), not three months as envisaged. There wasn't a great deal I could do, and I intended to deal with it once at the border. Lesson learned: always check your visa. Who gives a visa for two days, anyhow?

 

11 August – Bucharest

Casa Alba Campsite had a convenient location, and we did the usual, shopping, laundry and a tad of sightseeing. Included in our wanderings was a visit to the city's iconic landmark, the massive, communist-era Parliament building with its 1,100 rooms, said to be the world's second-largest building. Far scarier was that we learned more than 10000 people were bitten by stray dogs in Bucharest each year.

Bucharest is a fun city with a long and fascinating history and a crazy mix of communist-era, neoclassical, and Art Deco buildings, predominantly adorned with oyster-shell-shaped canopies. The hundreds of grey high-rise blocks of flats from the communist era were of particular interest.

 

12-15 August – Bucharest

I used the time to apply for both my Bulgarian and Turkish visas. Upon returning from the city, I found the campsite invaded by what looked like hundreds of little tents. It turned out to be the well-known Baltic Cycle group, on tour from the Baltics to Cyprus. They mostly spoke Polish, except for one Brit and one lady from New Zealand.

At the Turkish Embassy, I was informed that a visa application had to be made in my home country. After phoning my sister Amanda in SA, she returned with the news that the Turkish Embassy there had promised to contact the Embassy, and that I should try again in the morning. The next day I returned to the Turkish Embassy, and by 5 pm I had my visa. Hallelujah! I further phoned the Bulgarian Embassy and, yes, the visa was granted, and I could pick it up the following day.

 

16 August - Bucharest – Oltenita – 98 kilometres

The next morning, I was at the Hungarian Embassy at ten o'clock sharp, where I found a crowd of people milling about. There was no rhyme or reason in the procedures. After a while, an official pointed at me and took me to the front of the queue, where I was handed my visa. A 15-day visa was granted, fair enough, and by noon, Eddie and I were on our way to the border. Instead of taking the highway to Giurgiu, we opted to cycle to Oltenita via a much smaller path. Still, we found no immigration office as indicated on our map. It seemed we couldn't get out of Romania.

In the process, we met Peter, a Romanian chap, who invited us to stay at his house, a tiny 2-room wooden shack without a bathroom or kitchen. One could, however, take a wee in the garden amongst the chickens. But, unfortunately, I couldn't quite figure out what to do about the bowel movements.

 

17 August – Oltenita, Romania - Silistra, Bulgaria – 85 kilometres

After a breakfast of fresh tomatoes and paprika from Peter's garden, we hurried to the Calarasi border, before the veggies kicked in. Luckily, a ferry operated across the Danube River to Silistra, Bulgaria. As can be expected, I was apprehensive about my Romanian Visa dilemma. By then, I had been in the country for 20 days, not the two days indicated on my visa. I didn't say anything; I simply handed over my passport to the border officials. They disappeared behind a screen, then reappeared and returned my passport. All without a single word. I was relieved, to say the least.

Communication in Bulgaria would be an even bigger problem as Bulgarian uses the Cyrillic script. Add to that Bulgarians nod their heads for no and shake it sideways for yes—I anticipated a few misunderstandings.