A new beginning.

Day 225

Mileage 20,833 (33,334km)

                                         “It’s not a delay to stop and sharpen the scythe.”

Irish Proverb

It took a little over seven hours to retrace a journey that has taken more than 7 months and covered a staggering 20,833 miles. The flight from Amman, Jordan, back to Belfast was, by comparison, uneventful but as the plane soared high into the night above a darkened Middle East and then Europe, I couldn’t help but wonder about all that has changed since I began this motorcycle odyssey back in May. 

Riding solo

After Beth’s departure from Aqaba I felt banished into a dark exile of solitude, alone with my emotions, paralyzed by feelings of loss. For three days I waited, watching and listening. I wandered aimlessly through the city streets hoping to see her face among the bustling crowds of strangers, desperate for one more glimpse of her radiant smile. Every time I would hear the sound of a motorcycle my heart would race and my spirits would soar but time after time my hopes were crushed. In a seedy hotel room, neglecting my hunger and fatigue, I would stare endlessly at my laptop waiting for her to reach out until I could take it no longer. Without the support of my family and friends I would still be lost in those dark woods. As time passed and words of love, wisdom and encouragement reached me from around the world I slowly came to accept that our bond, our marriage, our connection had ended. The flame I carried within me that once blazed with passion now smoldered and quietly faded. On the morning of the fourth day, lost in my thoughts, I dropped a slice of toast on the floor and it landed face up. I smiled for the first time since this nightmare began and I knew the moment had arrived to let go, to transform my anguish into something positive.

Traveling alone brings with it a whole new set of considerations. Above all it forces you to push yourself out of your comfort zone, to open your eyes to what is around you and to actively seek out opportunities for social interaction. You are forced out of the habit of turning to your partner for solutions or advice. At times, you have to be more aware of the situation you are in and the consequences of your decisions. Ironically, it makes you more independent and less independent all at the same time. 

With Christmas approaching and the rare opportunity to see my entire family together in Ireland I made the selfish decision to squander a sizable chunk of my budget on a flight home. I haven’t been in Ireland for Christmas since the turn of the millennium and the thought of being surrounded by people I love was too much to resist. Through the Horizons Unlimited network of adventure riders I was able to make contact with a new HUBB community in Amman and after a few emails I had secured a place to store my bike while visiting Ireland. Methodically, I gathered my belongings and began to secure everything back on to the motorcycle, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle every item has its own place and focusing on a practical task helped to distract my thoughts after so many days in limbo. With the bike packed I turned north, taking one last detour past the last place I saw Beth. As I wound back the throttle and sped off into the desert I remembered an old saying I’d heard once, ‘Anyone can love you when the sun is shining,  it’s in the storms where you learn who truly cares for you’. I did not look back.

It was an effort to keep my mind on the road and I was thankful for the lack of traffic on my chosen route. As the miles rolled by strong crosswinds pummeled the bike and pushed fine sand across the road. Gradually, the road dropped down towards the Dead Sea, the lowest place on earth, and as the sun sank lower in the sky the temperature began to plummet. As night fell a lonely police outpost appeared on the road ahead, I checked my speed and realized I’d been pushing my bike too hard, I eased back on the throttle but they’d already spotted me and as I approached they flagged me over towards the side of the road. I greeted them in pidgin Arabic and my sorry effort was acknowledged with smiles and laughter, for the next thirty minutes the three officers on duty gathered around my bike and I tried to describe my journey, when I explained I was trying to get to Africa they pointed over my shoulder and informed me I was going in the wrong direction. They were friendly and helpful and very curious about my thoughts on their country. Thankfully, they showed no interest in issuing a ticket for my obvious speeding infraction and I was soon on my way again. 

The next morning my route took me inland and up, climbing 4000 feet as it entered the capital, Amman. A recent storm had left the city with a heavy blanket of snow and the locals were struggling to get all the roads open without any significant snow removal equipment. Most government buildings had closed their doors for the week and those that were open were providing limited services. My contact in Amman turned out to be a wonderfully kind Australian diplomat, named Damo, who met me as I entered the city and guided me back in to his part of town, founded in 7000BC the city’s streets seem to follow no logical pattern and I was glad of the help in finding my way around. I spent the evening enjoying the warm hospitality of Damo and his partner, Naomi, who kindly opened their home to me, a complete stranger, and made me feel welcome and cared for. After so many days alone it was just what I needed. That night we dined at the local ‘English pub’ and met up with some fascinating, local adventure riders who were keen to share stories and advice from their travels at home and abroad.

The following day I locked up my bike and made my way to the airport after a brief stop at the Royal Automobile Museum. An armed soldier at the entrance informed me that the museum was closed because of snow but, after I stubbornly refused to leave, the curator emerged and we talked. When I told him of my journey he opened the doors and I had the entire building to myself. Inside was a collection of vehicles gifted to the King of Jordan throughout the country’s short history including over 50 motorcycles. As the expansive roof overhead groaned and creaked under the weight of the snow above, steady drips of water splashed onto the exhibits and the surrounding floor. Parked at the entrance was a working replica of the world’s first ever motorcycle and I wished I had brought my own to compare the two. How things have changed in such a short time.

A day later, as I stepped off the plane in Belfast an icy wind quickly found its way into every gap in my clothing but the warm smile and strong embrace of my father brought a comfort I had longed for. To be home with family and friends after such a difficult period is just what I need right now. I still feel broken and raw but, with time, I will heal, the wounds will close and the memories will fade. Turning my back on a decade of devotion to one person is the hardest thing I can imagine but I will do it. As 2013 slips away so must my hopes and dreams of a future with Beth. With the new year comes a new beginning. I will return to Jordan on December 30th, collect my bike and continue my voyage to Cape Town. What lies ahead is unknown but one thing is certain, it can only get better.

Wadi Rum, Jordan, The Valley of the Moon.

The road is long.

Day 214

Mileage 20,615 (32,984 km)

Personal Diary Entry, December 5th 2013:

“A strong wind whips the desert into a state of confusion. Atmosphere and earth combine and a bright, brown smudge hovers above the vague horizon, a hint of the blazing sun that lies beyond the sand choked air. Obscured shadows blot the endless dunes, lonely trees, silent camels, dust caked Bedouin driving parched goats across the unforgiving landscape. These are tough people  scraping a meager living from a land that reluctantly yields enough. 

Today, Beth broke my heart. She loves, and has loved, another and the revelation hurts me more than I can admit, the thought of her with someone else plays over and over in my imagination and I struggle to control my thumping pulse. I don’t feel anger but I am sure it will come. Ten years together and it feels as though I barely know her, she talks of emotions beyond what we have experienced together, she has no regrets and she wants me to understand so that we can ‘move on’. I want to wake from this darkness that now consumes my thoughts but with each hour comes the realization I will have to live with this painful new reality. Life without her seems impossible but life with her will never be the same. What is love without trust and respect but another empty, overused four letter word. What is life without Beth?  I feel too old and used to start again and I wonder if I have the strength to ‘move on’. She has been my best friend, my closest companion through good times and bad. We have shared more than I will ever remember and to know that she has now shared herself with another brings with it a sense of loss so painful it feels as though a part of us has died, lost forever.

Grieving for what once was is a fruitless waste of emotion but am I equipped with the fortitude to forgive? A heavy pendulum swings back and forth with every breath I take, a storm is approaching, I see the lightning in her eyes, I feel the thunder in my heart. What will remain when the dust settles?”

A week has passed since I wrote those words and today I find myself in a cheap, grungy hotel in the port city of Aqabah, Southern Jordan. Alone. Beth has decided to follow her heart and be with her new lover while my world lies in pieces. This morning she rode north, returning to Israel. I will continue south and attempt to enter Egypt tomorrow. Our life together is over.

Looking back through previous blog entries it’s clear I have tried to paint a rosy picture of our journey together. What we have experienced has been spectacular but not every day has been easy. Just like every couple we frustrate each other, we bicker and occasionally we argue and say hurtful things. We both have our faults but I feel absolutely blindsided by her sudden determination to discard our relationship and be with someone else. Whatever spell she is under allows her to focus only on the bad times and it pains me to think this is how she will remember all that we shared. The ease with which she could walk away from the life we built together leaves me feeling stunned and confused. Am I so terrible? If it really was so miserable, perhaps this is for the best. 

I will move on, I will grow, I will learn. I will spend time with myself and try to discover who I am. As impossible as it seems now, I will recover and rebuild, I will forgive. I am excited about what lies ahead, where the road will take me and who I will meet along the way. With no schedule or agenda I can follow my own heart. I feel it is time for the real journey to begin.

Out of Africa

Day 205

Mileage 19,557 (31,291km)

Negev Desert

With every door that closes, another one opens. Yesterday we spent an entire day trying to gain access to Egypt without success and today we are back in Israel. With our progress currently suspended we are now searching for that open door. Denial of entry into Egypt, the gateway to Africa, puts a significant roadblock in our way but we are both confident it will only be a temporary upset. We knew we would be entering unfamiliar territory and had been adequately warned about potential problems but the obstinacy of the border officials on the Egyptian frontier felt like too much too soon. The legacy of British imperial bureaucracy has been embraced and taken to a whole new level by the Egyptian authorities. After a long, hot day of waiting, watching  and being watched we ended up back where we started with nothing to show for our efforts. Where we go from here remains a mystery but if we knew the outcome of everything it wouldn’t be much of an adventure. It has been a very full couple of weeks since we landed in Israel, for a relatively small country there is much to see and do and the welcome we have received has overwhelming.

Jerusalem at night

After our slow voyage across the Mediterranean onboard the Alios container ship we arrived early in Haifa, rested but eager to get back on our bikes. Once the boat had docked a group of security officials came onboard to begin the slow process of clearing us through customs and immigration. They quickly established our intentions and we were allowed to take our bikes off the boat so they could be thoroughly inspected. An immigration officer met us as we cleared the loading ramp and issued a special entry stamp which attaches separately to our passports and is removable upon exit, proof of entry into Israel can create problems when applying for visas to enter other countries. Once off the boat we continued the security checks, removing articles from the bikes to be x-rayed and inspected, as soon as we had satisfied the security personnel that we were harmless we were led to a bonded parking area where we had to store the bikes until we completed the rest of our paperwork. In order to obtain a temporary importation permit the bikes needed to be insured so we were allowed to exit the port on foot in order to visit a nearby insurance broker. Fortunately, our good friend Shalom had agreed to meet us and his help proved invaluable. 

Western Wall, Jerusalem

With what we thought was the necessary documentation we returned to the bonded parking area and asked for our bikes only to be informed that we still had more to do. Unfortunately the parking area and the clearance offices are some distance from each other so each time we had to walk from one to the other it added another half hour to the whole process. As the day wore on and we jumped through the required hoops it felt as though we may not get our bikes cleared until the following day. Thankfully, the last person we had to satisfy was willing to stay late just to release the bikes and as we made our way to the last security check point we breathed a sigh of relief. By now it was dark and we had been at the port all day, Shalom had patiently waited outside, unable to enter the restricted area, and without a phone we were unable to keep him informed as to our situation. At the final check point an impossibly young guard noticed a missing digit on the vehicle identification number of Beth’s importation papers and she had to turn back to have it rectified, luckily the customs office was still open and after the problem was resolved we were allowed to leave. 

Old stuff

It was a relief to leave Haifa and we were soon on the road to Tel Aviv stopping there briefly to snack on some tasty falafel. By the time we reached the Negev desert, our destination for the evening, it was 2am and after a few shots of the local beverage, Arak, it was off to bed. We slept well into the following morning before beginning our first excursion into the region and we soon found ourselves off road enjoying some challenging riding conditions. 

Over the next two weeks, using the tiny settlement of Ashalim as a base, we explored much of this diverse country, from the fertile forests of the north to the barren deserts of the south, from the Dead Sea in the east to the golden beaches of Tel Aviv in the west. Our friend, Shalom, rode with us taking us to some of the less visited parts of the country. An invitation to join a group of local riders saw us riding along the normally closed Sinai border road, a deserted stretch of twisting highway bordering Egypt. We wild camped on the shores of the Sea of Galilee, crossed the Jordan River, wandered the ancient markets of Jerusalem and had our efforts to swim in the Dead Sea thwarted by its unnatural buoyancy. With the clock ticking on our temporary importation documents we knew we could afford little time to relax and with a couple of days to spare we turned south to make our first attempt at crossing into Egypt.

Beth, ready to drive about a bit

After a particularly rough off road ride through the Makhtesh Ramon crater Beth’s bike had developed a worrying electrical problem, occasionally at high speed her engine would briefly cut out. When we arrived in the coastal city of Eilat on the Red Sea it became apparent we would have do diagnose and treat the problem before venturing into the Sinai desert. Again Shalom’s help proved invaluable as he called the mechanics at 2Alex Motors in Tel Aviv and translated the symptoms. Thankfully Beth and I ride almost identical bikes and by interchanging parts we were able to narrow down the cause to a faulty kick stand switch probably damaged by a rock on the rough desert roads. Bypassing the switch solved the problem but only after Beth stripped her bike down to its bare essentials, not once but twice, as Shalom and I stood by and watched. We were both impressed by how fast she completed this on her second attempt but felt she could have been faster still wearing only a bikini. She ignored our advice and continued working through the heat of the day, dusty and sweaty but pleased with her efforts. 

By now we felt as though we were delaying the inevitable and the time had come to say goodbye and enter Africa. On the day of our departure we arose early and packed our bikes expecting never to return. We bade a sad farewell to Shalom who accompanied us to the border and began the crossing procedures. Exiting Israel was relatively painless, after cursory checks of our paperwork and a few brief questions they lifted the barriers and let us through. Two friendly Egyptian security officers asked us a few questions about our intentions and waved us past a large sign listing all the prohibited articles we shouldn’t be carrying. A mixture of fatigue and a mild hangover prevented us from paying too much attention to the sign so when we arrived at the first checkpoint the border guards had a field day going through my belongings. Initially the search was relaxed, as the call to prayer sounded it seemed as though the office was quite understaffed. The guards seemed reluctant to look too closely at Beth’s belonging but as each piece of my gear went through the x-ray machine something caught their eye and I had to empty and explain the contents of each bag. They became rather excited when they found our binoculars, forbidden in the Sinai, and the discovery of a couple of knives in our tool kit had them summoning the entire hierarchy of security officers on duty. Finally a couple of large plain clothes officers approached and casually enquired whether we had any intentions of getting up to mischief while in Egypt. There were long moments of awkward silence when we wondered if this was the cue for offering backsheesh, an informal though widely practiced system of bribery. Eventually a very senior looking official with more stripes, stars and ribbons than we could count inspected us and our impressive arsenal and pointed us towards the customs outpost. 

Contemplating a hair cut

As we rode up to the front door of the customs building a fierce looking thin, old man in a wrinkled yellow shirt pointed us toward a parking space as he glared at our bikes suspiciously. We jumped off the bikes, removed our helmets and gave him a warm smile, hoping to soften his sour mood but he simply barked the word ‘Carnet’ and our spirits fell. The Carnet de Passages en Douane (CpD) can be a traveller’s biggest headache and we had deliberately decided to travel without one after hearing stories from fellow over-landers who had managed without. It is, in essence, a simple guarantee of payment of fees and duties should your vehicle not be re-exported from the country you are entering. It is required for taking a vehicle into a significant but diminishing number of countries around the world and it can be prohibitively expensive. Egypt requires a refundable deposit of 800% of the value of the vehicle, a more affordable option is to purchase an insurance policy which can run into the thousands especially when Egypt is included. It is valid for only one year and often serves to restrict travel rather than enable it. We had visited several online forums and heard of cheaper options being available at some border crossings so we decided to try first and buy one only if necessary. The customs officer lead us into his smokey office and sat behind his suspiciously empty desk. We told him we were traveling without a Carnet and he rummaged through a pile of dusty folders on the floor, opening one and leafing through a random selection of paperwork before discarding the folder and choosing another. As he held up and examined the documents inside, each one in a different language, he finally found what he was looking for, he placed it on the desk where we could see it, tapping it with his finger repeating the word “Carnet” with increasing impatience. We repeated “No carnet” and enquired about alternatives to which he replied “No Carnet, no Egypt”. Again, there followed the awkward silence as he glared at us waiting for our response, perhaps backsheesh would have helped our cause but we didn’t offer so he walked us briskly from the building repeating his words “No Carnet, no Egypt”. 

More scenery

As we turned to leave we enquired about buying one locally at which point he informed us we could buy one in Nuweibaa, sixty kilometers down the road, when we offered to drive there to pick one up he told us we would have to go back through Israel and on to Jordan before catching a slow ferry back to Egypt and into Nuweibaa. And so it goes. We are back in Israel planning to do just that. Information is vague as to how accurate the customs official’s information is and only time will tell. We will try to pursue this option and if that fails we may have to by-pass Egypt altogether. It is sad that alternatives exist to this archaic system but some countries are slow to adopt them. The money we will spend on the Carnet would have been better spent supporting local businesses and not these fat cat insurance thieves. Many more over-landers would consider the African route if it were not for Egypt’s insistence on maintaining the status quo. 

Our new lifelong best friend 'Whateverhisnamewas'

Continental Drift

Day 183

Mileage 16,322 (26,115 km)

Sunset over the Mediterranean

Gentle vibrations and a steady hum permeate our new surroundings as a slow cargo ship carries us across the Mediterranean Sea towards the Middle East and ‘the country which cannot be named’. We have seen all our intended routes into Africa, since we began planning this trip five years ago, gradually become less appealing as the conflicts and turmoil of the ‘Arab Spring’ continue to reverberate throughout the region. Our original intention was to pass through Syria but another motorcyclist who recently attempted this route was denied entry by heavily armed soldiers at the border. In Turkey we found ourselves within a day’s ride of the Syrian frontier and the temptation to have a go at crossing was difficult to resist. When the situation in Syria deteriorated we briefly considered the western Iraq route but, along with the rumored risks, this would commit us to entering Jordan and, without permission from the King of Jordan, riding a motorcycle is strictly forbidden because of an assassination attempt many years ago. A sporadic ferry service did exist between Turkey and Port Said but they have recently suspended operations until the troubles in Egypt subside. It is disheartening to watch helplessly as each door into Africa slowly closes but as our journey plods forward regardless other opportunities arise and so we find ourselves in a cramped cabin onboard a heavily laden cargo ship, our bikes tethered to the deck below dwarfed by shipping containers and semi trailers. Months ago on a rainy day in Slovenia, a fortuitous encounter with a fellow motorcycle traveller had us considering other options for gaining access to Egypt and the decision was made to cross the Sinai. 

Meteora, Greece

Our two weeks in Greece came to an end yesterday as we took our place aboard the Alios container ship after a long day of “hurry up and wait”. Each country becomes our new favorite and Greece is no exception. The people, warm, welcoming, bursting with life made our stay very special, our bikes and outfits drew curious stares and encouraging smiles in the smaller villages while in the cities people were less bashful striking up conversations and enquiring about our journey.  Combine this with an amazing diversity of landscapes, flora and fauna, exceptional roads (dirt and paved) and you have a unique riding experience. As if this weren’t enough relics of the country’s long and distinguished history are on display at every turn. Two weeks could easily become two years and that still wouldn’t be enough time to explore all Greece has to offer. We didn’t even make it on to one of the thousands of islands that surround the mainland. As our ship quietly glides between the distant islands of the Cyclades we can only fantasize about what we are missing. 

What's in your closet?

The  tranquil village of Kastraki became home for a couple of days while we explored the wondrous monasteries of Meteora, perched impossibly on top of enormous rocky pinnacles each one is still home to monks and nuns of the Greek Orthodox church. The contorted shapes of the ancient rock formations support the more familiar dimensions of artificial structures hundreds of feet above the valley floor. We could only imagine the difficulties involved in building atop the steep sided pillars of stone. Only six remain in use and each is accessed by either a modern bridge, cable car or tunnel carved up through the rock itself. Connecting all six sites is a wonderfully smooth twisting road from the village below too beautiful to resist driving multiple times. 

More from Meteora

With the prospect of acquiring a fresh set of tires in the city of Patras, further south, we picked out an interesting route through the mountains and down towards the Peloponnese region. This turned out to be one of the highlights of our trip, empty roads occasionally cluttered by recent rockfalls, breathtaking vistas of the mountainous terrain and smooth sweeping turns eventually leading down to the pristine coast made for a challenging and exciting ride. The friendly staff at Motoraid had agreed to supply us with fresh rubber and a few other extras so we pulled up to their shop early on Friday and set about fitting a new set of Heidenau K60 Scouts to my bike while the exact location of Beth’s tires remained a mystery. Although our tires, Metzeler Tourances, still had a little life left in them and had performed well beyond our expectations we felt as though a slightly more aggressive tread pattern would be more appropriate for the roads we are likely to encounter in Africa. Beth also felt as though a set of handlebar risers would enable her to ride more comfortably in the standing position so, while Giannis and his team at Motoraid tried to pin down the exact location of her new tires, we pulled out our tools and set to work on her bike. By late afternoon it was apparent that her tires would not arrive until after the weekend so we set off to explore the Peloponnese area ending the day at a quiet campground on the coast. The following day we rose early and completed a quick oil change before moving further south, through Sparta to Mystras, spending the night at a beautiful hotel in the shadow of the Taygetos Mountains. Surrounded  by ruined palaces, temples and monasteries the ancient town of Mystras once served as the effective capital of the Byzantine Empire. 

Beth making it look easy

It is unusual for us to have a place to be or a set schedule but the arrival of Beth’s new tires in Patras had us moving north before we could fully explore the area and, sadly, a delay in their arrival meant we could have spent more time in the region. It took a couple of extra days for the tires to arrive but when they did they were promptly fitted by George at All Terrain Tires and we were soon on the road again. We crossed the Gulf of Patras a second time and took the road east to Athens, stopping briefly in Delphi to consult the Oracle about her thoughts on our journey only to find her no longer in residence. 

Dark clouds accompanied us as we descended into Athens and as we arrived at our camp it was, thankfully, obvious we had missed the worst of the weather. Sleeping bags and clothing hung from every available hook as pools of fresh rainwater surrounded bedraggled tents. We chose our site carefully avoiding any obvious low spots in case more heavy rain was forecast. The weather gradually improved and we spent a couple of days exploring the city of Athens and sourcing the last of our spare parts before we leave Europe. We stripped my bike of it’s panniers and rode two up through the city carefully observing the local bikers to see what is considered acceptable riding etiquette. Splitting traffic is expected and at each traffic light a wave of motorcycles filters its way to the front of the line so that each time the light turns green it feels like to starting grid at a motorcycle race, engines scream and rubber squeals as we all race to the next light. Our powerful bike gave us a slight advantage but what we gained in horsepower we certainly lacked in bravado as the more seasoned city riders barely squeezed through the minuscule gaps that would briefly open between the cars and buses. By the end of our first day in the bustling city we were beginning to get a feel for the more aggressive riding style and by day two it became quite enjoyable. 

New shoes for Beth's bike thanks to George at All Terrain Patras

Exploring the sprawling city of Athens becomes less daunting as you catch occasional glimpses of its most recognizable landmark. The Acropolis overlooks the city and serves as a useful tool for navigating the labyrinth of city streets below. As we kept to the inner confines of the busy centre we noticed a strong police presence, fortunately they seemed to show little interest in our riding as we ignored one-way streets and performed illegal u-turns along with the multitude of local bikers. We visited multiple motorcycle shops gathering most of what we needed, the crew at BMW Athens were particularly helpful and even gave us a significant discount when they learned of our plans. We received a warm welcome at the Touratech store and even though we didn’t buy anything the friendly staff wouldn’t let us leave without a taking a few freebies. On our second day in the city we hiked up to the top of the Acropolis past the exquisitely restored Theatre of Dionysos. Once on top the true scale of Athens became apparent as it spread off in every direction. The Acropolis is arguably one of the most important ancient monuments in the Western world but it is the Parthenon, its most prominent structure, that draws most attention. Completed in 438BC its architect manipulated the size, scale and shape of the columns so that, to the eye, it appears perfectly balanced. Each column is subtly tapered with an inward curve for the effect of appearing straight when viewed from below. Every dimension is based upon one rudimentary measurement taken from the human form, for such an imposing structure it yields a sense of timeless grace and harmony. 

The Parthenon at the Acropolis

With our impending departure from Greece now looming we returned to camp and packed our gear with the prospect of spending our last night in Athens on the southern side of the city with Dimitris, the local Horizon’s Unlimited representative. Meeting Dimitris was like being reunited with a long lost friend. With overwhelming hospitality he invited us into his home before taking us out on an amazing off road adventure in his little two wheel drive Mazda to a mountain top where we witnessed the sunset as we gazed over the city and the nearby Marathon Bay. Full of knowledge he pointed out many of the local landmarks enlightening us with glimpses of the region's remarkable history. As night fell we returned to the city where he insisted on treating us to a delicious feast at a local Cretan restaurant and it was well into the wee hours of the morning after numerous shots of mysterious local beverages before we returned to his apartment dreading the early morning wake up call and the race to the southern port of Lavrio. After a comfortable but short night’s rest we woke with furry mouths and cloudy heads, said our goodbyes to Dimitris and climbed onto our bikes before speeding south to our 9 o’clock rendezvous with Salamis Shipping.

The Caryatids of The Erechtheion

Our over enthusiasm to be on time saw us at our shipping agents five minutes to nine and we began the slow process of having our documents and bikes inspected while waiting for the boat to arrive. As the day wore on we jumped through the necessary hoops and prepared to bid Europe farewell all the while scanning the empty horizon for anything resembling a cargo boat . We didn’t catch our first glimpse of the approaching container ship until dusk and it was fully dark by the time we rode on board. At 10pm a change in pitch of the engine vibrations preceded our departure and the next leg of our journey began as we sailed into the night.

To see roads like this check out
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMngqAcJlNE

Going Greek

Day 171

Mileage 16,349 (26,158km)

Cappadocia sunrise

Leaving Cappadocia proved difficult, we’d found a quiet campsite overlooking the surreal town, perfect for capturing the spectacular sunrise. Parked next to us were fellow travelers from California, Scotland and Ireland who offered good advice and welcome company. Our explorations of the region had left us wanting for more but on our last morning a storm rolled in and with a light rain and strong, dusty winds we packed our tent and made final preparations to move on. Throughout the day the weather worsened and our intentions to camp near the capital, Ankara, became less appealing as the cold, damp conditions penetrated our motorcycle suits. By the time we reached our destination our determination had weakened and we booked a room at a hotel overlooking a cold, grey lake. We spent a much warmer night enjoying the shelter and purging our bodies of the deep chill that had set in. Rested and refreshed the following morning we donned our dry gear and took to the road hoping to make the long ride to Istanbul. By mid-afternoon it became apparent we had overestimated our resolve and a long day of being buffeted by strong, wet winds on the high, open plains of central Turkey had us questioning our plans to spend another night under canvas. Our gear is good, excellent in fact, but as the Autumn weather takes hold, finding a room feels like a more sensible option after a long day in the saddle. Reaching the Black Sea coast, many hours short of our intended destination, as the light began to fade, we gave each other the unspoken signals for ‘if you’re okay getting a room then so am I’, neither of wanting to appear weak. Approaching the chaotic traffic of Istanbul at the end of such an arduous day would have only compounded the difficulties of navigating the daunting city so we pulled over at the resort town of Akcakoca and searched for a place to spend the night. After pricing several hotels we opted for a much more affordable pension, a small room in an apartment building over looking the waterfront from which we could easily see our bikes parked in the street below. As darkness fell we walked along the boardwalk as huge waves pounding the shoreline.

The Black Sea

Our new friend, Alpasan, a resident of Istanbul whom we first met at Moto Camp in Bulgaria had invited us to stay if ever we were passing through so as blue skies broke through the dark clouds we made our way towards the sprawling metropolis excited by the challenge of it’s infamous congestion. Long before we expected to enter Istanbul we were engulfed by Turkey’s most populous city with an estimated 14 million inhabitants its scale is truly impressive. Sticking to the highways, where traffic was most predictable, we pushed further in to the heart until we had no choice but to enter the city streets. Suddenly the rhythm of the road changed dramatically as cars, buses, heavy trucks and motorcycles all competed for the limited opportunity to move forward. Initially overwhelmed we quickly became accustomed to the chaos and joined in the fun. Our motorcycles made it a little easier but loaded as they are we couldn’t keep up with the local bikers. We made good progress as we tried to follow rough directions, reading foreign signs while trying to anticipate the next assault on our immediate vicinity, other motorists oblivious to our presence. Before we knew it a warm smile and a waving hand were beckoning to us from the sidewalk, we had made it to Alpy’s.

Istanbul evening

Alpy, a seasoned motorcycle traveller himself, quickly made us feel at home, pulling our bikes into his covered garage alongside his own, we stripped off a few essentials and made our way up to his apartment. Our introduction to Istanbul began with an evening cycle around the Kardikoy district on the Asian side of the city, a lively, bustling centre of tea houses, street stalls, restaurants and food courts all surprisingly busy despite the late hour. We dined on Lahmacun, a kind of Turkish pizza, and a refreshing salted yoghurt drink known as Ayran while we watched the locals go by. The following morning we caught the ferry into the European side of the city with the intention of exploring the historical centre. On the way to Taksim Square, the site of the recent anti-government protests, we stumbled upon the hardware district where we spent several hours sourcing various additions for Beth’s motorcycle. The city’s older commercial districts appear to have become rather specialized in what they sell and we discovered many streets dedicated to one particular item. One street sold nothing but nuts and bolts while another was entirely dedicated to buttons and so it went. With a combination of our very limited Turkish and some simple drawings we were able to find everything we needed within walking distance so we spent the rest of the day wandering through the Grand Bazaar, the world’s first indoor mall, and around the numerous enormous mosques that dot the old city. Established by the Greeks as ‘Byzantium’ in 660BC the transcontinental city has served as capital to the Roman, Byzantine, Latin and Ottoman empires each leaving its indelible mark upon the city’s architectural heritage. Modern tower blocks share the skyline with pencil thin minarets that pierce the horizon in a seemingly endless panorama. 

Sultanahmet Mosque (The Blue Mosque) Istanbul

On our third day in the city we decided to explore our local surroundings determined to track down a mechanic with a chain breaker so we could replace Beth’s tired chain and sprockets. Within a few streets of Alpy’s apartment we found more than we were looking for, a bike cleaning service adjoined a friendly mechanic’s workshop all next door to a cheap hairdresser’s salon. While we cleaned our filthy bikes we met many other local bikers who offered good advice and overwhelming hospitality, including Sertan, who kindly insisted on taking us out for a delicious lunch. With clean bikes we felt much better about approaching the mechanic who  dropped everything and immediately set to work on Beth’s bike while allowing me to use his tools to make some alterations to her luggage system. Beth even ventured inside the salon and had her hair roughly cut by someone we assumed was the resident hairstylist. Overall it turned out to be a most productive day and all at a very affordable cost. We often prefer to fumble our way through our own maintenance procedures but it is nice to sometimes pay a local expert and avoid all the frustration. With the bikes looking and performing much better we returned to Alpy’s and made arrangements to leave the following day.

On top of Mt Olympus

Another sad farewell and an inevitable departure saw us back on the road early the following morning. We had hoped to avoid the worst of Istanbul’s rush hour traffic but in a city so huge every hour of the day feels like it is at its busiest. We made good progress but it still took over one and a half hours to clear the western edges of the city. Avoiding the major highways we followed the coast along the Sea of Marmara before turning inland to the border with Greece. By midday we were beginning to notice an escalation of military activity alongside the road, there is still tension between Turkey and Greece but in recent years it has eased considerably. It is rare for us to encounter issues while leaving a country but as soon as I handed over my documents to the border guard on the Turkish side his furrowed brow suggested we may have a problem. Although we are still uncertain as to why, it would appear as though my bike was incorrectly logged into the system when we entered the country, my license plate contains the letter ‘O’ twice and this may have been confused with a zero. It took the first border official several attempts to enter my details before he called his superior, meanwhile a long line of traffic began to form behind us. In the end it took four border officials, who consumed many cups of tea while smoking multiple cigarettes, over half an hour to enter all possible combinations of my license plate into the system before they allowed us through. We waved, apologetically, to the patient drivers in the line behind us before opening our throttles and powering into Greek territory. Well armed soldiers from both sides wearily watched our bikes as we slipped across yet another invisible boundary.

Tricky descent

We had hoped the Greek border guards would not look too closely at Beth’s passport as it could be construed, depending on how you read her stamps, that she had overstayed her welcome in Schengen territory, thankfully they gave us little more than a cursory glance before waving us through. We were immediately impressed by the Greek roads and as we rode through the first few kilometers of the heavily militarized border zone, the smooth surfaces and clear road markings came as a pleasant surprise. Our delight lasted for approximately thirty kilometers before the surface deteriorated and the road markings vanished. Not sure how long the border crossing would take we had set or sights on the nearby town of Alexandroupolis and by late afternoon we were pitching our tent and preparing dinner. From Alexandroupolis we continued east hugging the Aegean coast before detouring south onto the Halkidiki peninsulas and along the impressive coastal roads. As evening fell the lonely Mount Athos appeared on the hazy horizon and each campsite we passed appeared closed for the winter. As we pulled into the tranquil bay by Paralia Sikias we noticed a camp with an open gate so we pulled in and talked to the owner. He hadn’t been expecting campers until next season but agreed to let us use the facilities for a minimal fee, it was late in the day and he seemed reluctant to turn us away. With the region so deserted we’ve had the roads almost entirely to ourselves and the empty camp allowed us to sleep to the sound of gentle waves as they rolled against the soft sandy beach.

The following day we continued our journey around the peninsula through small towns preparing for a quiet winter without tourists, soon our road turned north and wound its way back towards the mainland  and into Thessaloniki where preparations were under way for the festival of Demetrius, traffic police lined the streets and barricades were being put in place to cope with the large crowds arriving to take part in the celebrations. We stopped briefly in the city before continuing along the coast towards Mt Olympus National Park searching for a campsite to use as a base for a few days while we attempted to hike Greece’s highest peak. To our dismay, all the campgrounds we found were clearly closed for the winter but driving along the coastal road we discovered a small hostel on the waterfront in the tiny village of Port Litochoro. Summit Zero hostel proved to be a very lucky find, Pericles, the owner, was an avid mountain runner who had plenty of advice on routes up to the summit. From the shoreline the mountain’s impressive silhouette would occasionally break through the cloud and as the sun set behind it an ominous shadow would fall over the quiet village. The tranquil hostel had few guests at this time of year so we had room to spread our gear out and take care of a few outstanding chores before rising early on our second day and driving to the base of the mountain.  We knew we would be in for a long day so we woke before sunrise and quietly slipped out of the hostel in the early morning mist. Our road took us part way up the eastern side of the mountain’s flank and we soon broke through the cloud into a spectacular sunny morning. As the sun breached the blanket of cloud that lay over the ocean below its orange glow caught the misty white undulations setting the horizon on fire. It was still chilly when we reached the trailhead so we wasted little time securing our bikes and donning our hiking gear. With multiple routes to the summit we’s agreed beforehand to split up and meet at the top. We had gained a little by driving to the trail head but at 2,917 meters (9,570 ft) we knew we would be in for a long day. 

Still descending

Months in the saddle has taken it’s toll on our overall fitness and we both felt it as we reached the top, hearts pounding and legs burning. It was well worth it as the views were astounding and the weather perfect. We spent a long time on the summit, enjoying a well deserved break and a light lunch before making our descent. The last few hundred meters before the top involve a rock scramble which felt significantly more exposed on the way down. Multiple plaques were attached to the rock face all in indecipherable Greek but the recognizable dates seemed to indicate they may have been commemorating less fortunate climbers. Returning to the hostel, invigorated but exhausted we had an early night after a delicious dinner. 

Ooops!

From the coast we turned inland having chosen a more adventurous route towards the region of Meteora. Our road twisted south of Olympus and onto the plateau behind, gradually becoming smaller and smaller. Before long we were on dirt and into deep golden forest, the road coated with colorful Autumn leaves. When we eventually broke through the tree line our ‘road’ deteriorated further and soon we had to pull over and re-assess our plan. Heavily rutted and barely visible in places we were unsure whether it would connect with a more viable route or vanish altogether. We decided to err on the side of caution, with limited fuel and unreliable maps it seemed like the smart thing to do, so we turned back and found a slightly better road. We turned a two hour drive into a 5 hour adventure but we finished the day unscathed with big smiles and a cold beer.

Red Tape Blues

Day 159

Mileage 15,142 (24,227km)

Macedonia sunset

With each new frontier comes the uncertainty of how best to approach the uniformed gate keepers who practice the dark arts of border control. The wealth of conflicting information from endless sources only serves to confuse and it seldom seems to favor the motorcycle traveller. Our initial attempt to leave Albania was thwarted by a fastidious official on the Macedonian side who immediately pointed out our lack of insurance on our week old ‘green card’ policy. It hadn’t been valid for Albania either but we had crossed at an especially busy time and the error was overlooked. In this case the border guard assured us we could simply buy a new policy, our third, which would cover Macedonia and all the other countries we had already passed through and had no intention of returning to in the near future. Our stay in Albania had been so cheap we felt we could afford the added expense so we agreed to become Europe’s most insured riders and asked where we could make our donation to the insurance company’s CEO retirement fund. “Not here” was the response, the only office capable of issuing an acceptable policy was over a 1 hour drive back through Albania, around the scenic Lake Ohrid at another crossing point. This left us with no choice but to return through no man’s land to the dusty Albanian post where we had been promptly stamped out less than an hour before. When they enquired as to why we had decided to return so soon, we tried to convince them that we had enjoyed Albania so much we decided we’d like to spend more time there and what little we had seen of the Macedonian side just hadn’t looked that impressive. They eyed us suspiciously as they rechecked our documents and soon discovered the real reason, our lack of insurance for Macedonia and Albania. 

The 'Old Bridge', Skopje

“You have problem” is becoming a familiar phrase as we fumble our way through our journey especially when officialdom is involved. We were now stuck between the borders of two countries without a valid insurance policy for either. The guard pointed towards a small, rusting shack nearby and told us we must buy another policy for Albania in order to drive to the other crossing where we had to buy our policy for Macedonia.  As we made our way towards the shack the border guard picked up a phone and soon we heard an electronic warble coming from inside the insurance office. A French rider we’d met months ago in Germany told us of a strategy he uses when dealing with authority figures, smile and talk constantly, so the two of us went to work on the poor insurance salesman and we soon had him convinced that there had been a terrible mix up and his services wouldn’t be required at this time. We bade a hasty farewell and sped off into Albania to attempt another crossing. Every hour you ride in Albania takes approximately two hours of the life off your motorcycle and after a bone jarring race around Lake Ohrid we found ourselves going through the same old routine one more time. The Albanians were most agreeable in letting us leave but the Macedonians insisted we visit a nearby booth and add their country to our ever growing list of insurance coverage. It was here we encountered our first taste of Macedonian hospitality.

Biljana, our extremely friendly insurance saleswoman, insisted on easing the pain a little by inviting us both inside to share some thick, strong Macedonian coffee and, while the border guards demanded we return immediately with the necessary paperwork, we turned the tables and had them keep a watchful eye on our bikes while we caught up on all the latest gossip from this lonely border post. We abandoned our plans to make our way further into Macedonia and settled for the quiet village of Peshtani on the shores of Lake Ohrid almost directly opposite the camp we had stayed at the night before in Albania. We spent a restful night in a cheap apartment overlooking the lake and early the next morning we were back on the road climbing into the majestic Galichica National Park. As the road swept higher it afforded beautiful views of the lake below and Albania beyond. A detailed inspection of our maps in the hope of finding more interesting routes proved fruitless as few of the passes had established roads making it all the way over. We would have liked to explore possible through routes but we are beginning to feel the pressure to keep moving so we will have to return at a later date. We spent a night outside the capital, Skopje, before exploring the city the following morning. Situated on the banks of the Vardar River, Skopje has an interesting mix of modern and ancient architecture, a disastrous earthquake in 1963 destroyed 80% of the city and reconstruction is still underway. The 1400 year old Kale Fortress overlooks the city centre where bazaars from the Ottoman empire abut modern plazas and on a distant mountain top, clearly visible from the city, stands the world’s largest cross, built in 2002 to celebrate two thousand years of Christianity. 

Busy morning at Moto Camp Bulgaria

The call of the road soon had us back on our bikes and moving east towards Bulgaria with one last stop before leaving the country. The local currency is difficult to exchange once you cross the border so we turned every last penny we had into fuel at the last petrol station in Kriva Palanka. This is where we met Irene, a well traveled local who helped us complete a very special challenge we have assumed along the way. From the warm welcome we received on entering Macedonia to our final departure, everyone we encountered along the way exceeded all our expectations. 

We had been excited about entering Bulgaria for some time as it is home to the Moto Camp, a sanctuary for traveling bikers in the tiny village of Idilevo, a place to rest and work on bikes all while sharing common dreams with like minded people. We barely gave the capital city of Sofia more than a quick drive through, stopping only to pick up a few bike spares from the local BMW dealership and spending the night in a cheap hostel. As we pulled into the renovated collection of old farm buildings that make up Moto Camp Bulgaria we immediately felt at home, even though it was late in the season several other overland adventure riders were in residence preparing their machines for onward travel while trying to resist the overwhelming hospitality of Polly and Ivo and make it a permanent base. Parts take a long time to ship to this sleepy little village but nobody seems to mind, Michael and Tamara, an inspiring couple from Germany, had been waiting six weeks for their clutch slave cylinder to arrive and in the meantime they bought a house in the village. Igor and Penny, an intrepid pair of New Zealanders, riding from South Korea to the Netherlands, were rebuilding their drive shaft, waiting for bearings to arrive when the infinitely generous Shalom, from Israel, our instant friend from a rainy day a long time ago in Slovenia, arrived carrying the exact bearings they required. While we settled in to take care of a few minor maintenance issues another two bikers arrived from Turkey, Alex, returning from Russia after a harrowing encounter with their health care system and the infectiously cheerful Alpi, from Istanbul, on his way to Sofia to pick up a new set of custom made luggage for his bike.The village is home to several expat bikers who drop by regularly to see what the wind has blown in and find an excuse for a beer at the cosy bar above the old barn. We took advantage of the great weather and local knowledge, joining a group test riding their bikes before setting off to pastures new. A vast network of twisting mountainous roads surround the region revealing glimpses into Bulgaria’s recent history. Abandoned monuments honoring their communist past lie derelict on mountain tops the most bizarre of which is the Buzludzha structure, a relic of a past most would rather forget. It is surreal from a distance, its profile resembling a stranded flying saucer, on closer inspection the scale is overwhelming. Access to its interior is gained by squeezing through a broken window and once inside the grandeur of what it once must have looked like is still apparent in the vandalized mosaics and murals. As the wind blows through the glassless  windows and water drips from the damaged roof it has a haunting feel to it, we spent several hours clambering over broken glass and rubble exploring every nook and cranny.

Buzludzha Monument, Bulgaria

Returning to the Moto Camp we both got to work on our own bikes, stripping them down and changing out a few essentials. I had to deal with a stripped sump plug which was turning a regular oil change into a two hour ordeal of removing the sump pan and replacing gaskets, it seems BMW had thought it appropriate to make the plug out a grade of aluminum with the same consistency as butter. After removing the sump pan and trying to capture all the used oil in the messy procedure, I timidly tried to encourage the plug to unscrew with a hammer and punch, fearful of damaging the brittle aluminum pan. Convinced the nearby town of Sivlevo would have a mechanic with a bolt extractor, I took the pan in to seek their advice. After a quick round of charades I got the idea across of what I wanted and they got immediate results by using a bigger hammer and a bigger punch. With a sheepish grin and a bruised ego I thanked them for their help and raced back to camp to complete the service. We reassembled the bikes, performed a few tests and finished the day with a cold beer on the lawn as the sun sank below the horizon.

Inside the ruined Buzludzha

All too soon our brief stay at Moto Camp Bulgaria had come to an end and it was time to bid farewell to Polly and Ivo. We’ve lost count of the number of goodbyes we said along the way, one of the harder parts of this type of travel, as soon as you make a new friend it is time to leave and with our departure comes an uncertainty of whether you will ever see them again. We always assumed two years would be ample time for this adventure but now we know it is barely enough. From Bulgaria we turned south towards Turkey stopping for one last night close to the border determined to approach the new frontier after a good night’s rest. Leaving Bulgaria was hassle free but entering Turkey involved visiting multiple checkpoints and before long they were demanding their pound of flesh,visa fees, customs clearance and ,unsurprisingly, a new insurance policy (our fourth) were all required before we could travel onwards and just when we thought we were on our way a wrong turn took us on to a toll road where we were required to purchase a vignette for both bikes. We decided to avoid the bottleneck of Istanbul and turned south towards the Dardanelles, riding along the Bosphorus Strait towards Canakkale. With half a day spent crossing the border we rode into the early evening and pulled over outside Sarkoy to spend the night at a cheap, grubby hotel. The following day saw us riding through the Gallipoli region surrounded by numerous memorials either celebrating a victory or commemorating the fallen, sad reminders of the human cost of lines on a map. By midday we were boarding the ferry at Kilitbahir which would take us into Asia, by way of Canakkale, and on to the Turkish mainland. By now the scale of the country was beginning to become apparent, we’d covered half the distance we had intended to and still had much more to cover. Hugging the Aegean Coast we passed by the ancient ruins of Troy and Xanthos resisting the urge to spend more time exploring. 

We're sure the architect was a Star Trek fan.

The quality of the roads matched anything we’ve ridden so far and the miles rolled by as we fell into a gentle rhythm of leaning left then right. Distant Greek Islands appeared to float on a delicate bed of haze under deep blue skies as our route twisted south along the waters edge. A serendipitous encounter with a couple from Alaska who currently reside in Cairo prompted us to turn inland and explore the lake district. With night falling and the temperatures plummeting we pulled off the road and chose a rough wild camp where we spent the night huddled under our down sleeping bags. After an early start we were soon motoring our way across the high, barren plains of central Turkey before reaching our goal and pulling into a camp overlooking the town of Goreme in the Cappodocia National Park. The region’s soft volcanic rock in a variety of pastel shades has been weathered into hundreds of wind carved towers, the local villagers then carved homes and churches into these towers to create a surreal landscape perfect for the curious explorer. It felt good to get off the bikes and hike after spending so many hours in the saddle in recent days. 

Our plans to catch the ferry from Turkey directly into Egypt have been disrupted by the events in Cairo so we intend to turn west into Greece where we can catch a ferry to Israel and attempt to enter Africa through the Sinai. 

Cappodocia, Turkey