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

Bunkin' with monks.

Day 144 

Mileage 12958 (20732 km)

Ostrog Monastery, Montenegro

Refreshed after an early morning swim at our campsite south of Split we packed up our bikes and ate a quick breakfast before planning a route into Bosnia-Herzegovina. The obvious, direct path is rarely our first choice so we scanned our maps for the thinnest, most contorted roads to take us over the Biokovo Mountains towards Mostar. As we wound our way out of deep valleys along narrow switch back roads with hairpin corners it became apparent that our maps lacked sufficient detail to chart every road but with clear skies and a visible sun we kept our bikes pointed roughly east and hoped for the best. At one point the road virtually vanished beneath us, we should have guessed that the lack of traffic was an indication that something was wrong and as the road gradually deteriorated we soon found ourselves on a loose gravel bed where a road had once been. In the distance we could see an occasional vehicle using an alternative road so we pushed through and were soon back on asphalt with only a rough idea of where we were. Before we knew it we had somehow stumbled upon a border post and as we tentatively approached we wondered how this one would work out. 

'Stari Most' The Bridge of Mostar

One of the advantages of traveling the way we do is we have plenty of time and rarely a fixed destination for the day. This tends to diffuse some of the bluster and authority carried by those in uniform who can try to emphasize their own importance by making us wait. Unperturbed, we typically fold our arms and wait patiently until they find an excuse to let us pass. On this occasion the Croatian side seemed happy enough with our passports but a request for bike documents was met with a shrug of our shoulders and hand gestures indicating we’d have to dig through our luggage. An impatient wave hurried us through and it was now the turn of the Bosnian officials. A similar response to their requests did not work and they seemed perfectly happy to have us pull over and fumble through our gear for the necessary paperwork. Traveling through Europe on motorcycles with US license plates typically works in our favor, parking attendants, speed traps and traffic police have, so far, left us well alone, although there may be a mountain of tickets sitting on the doormat at our, long abandoned, apartment in California. One document we are required to carry is proof of insurance otherwise known as the ‘green card’ and we’ve been diligent about this since day one. The insurance companies, however, have conspired to make it as difficult as possible to obtain one policy that works everywhere especially when you get into eastern Europe. Our policy is good for most countries but not for Croatia and Bosnia-Herzegovina. It didn’t take the border guard long to point this out and he chortled “You have problem” as his colleagues gathered to look over his shoulder. They all seemed to be in a rather amicable mood and we suspect the empty beer cans inside their office may have been a contributing factor. After half an hour they grew tired of our refusal to become flustered and, returning our documents, told us to go, pointing towards Mostar, so we fired up our engines and took of into Bosnia. 

Blue skies over Bosnia

Some countries within the former Yugoslavia seemed to have recovered from the Balkan War better than others, unfortunately Bosnia-Herzegovina is not one of them. Driving through the small city of Mostar the damage was evident on the scarred walls of many of the buildings we noticed, most were still occupied but some lay in ruins awaiting final demolition. With evening approaching we made our way towards a campsite on the outskirts with the intention of exploring the city the next morning. Arriving at ‘Camp Wimbledon’ we were immediately made to feel welcome by ‘Valtah’ from Austria who insisted on having a quick shot of schnapps before we got settled and we spent the evening being thoroughly entertained by a group of young Germans and Bavarians. With our travels taking us further east we are beginning to notice subtle changes in architecture and culture and in the city of Mostar church towers and minarets pierce the skyline while church bells and the wailing Islamic ezan compete for the attentions of the faithful. After a traditional breakfast of bread and omelets we wondered through the maze of cobbled streets towards the old town and the infamous ‘Stari Most’ or Bridge of Mostar. Rising 60 feet above the Neretva River it became a popular tourist attraction where local boys would dive off it into the ice cold water below once they had collected enough money from onlookers. During the war it was senselessly destroyed but has since been beautifully restored and, while there, we looked on in amazement as a wiry, young local took the plunge. 

Local color at the Belvedere Hotel, Dubrovnik

After Mostar we made our way further inland along Highway 17 towards the capital, Sarajevo. We shared the road with a variety of vehicles, from slow moving Soviet era Trabants and Yugos to modern luxury saloons with ‘official’ license plates driving recklessly at breakneck speeds. In general the roads were relatively empty so it was tempting to push our speed beyond the posted limits. The locals appeared to have an uncanny ability to know where the police liked to set up their speed traps although we never actually saw a radar gun in use, instead the officer would wave at you with a little red lollipop and point to the side of the road where he wanted you to pull over. On most occasions they seemed rather baffled by what we were riding, too wide to be a motorcycle yet not enough wheels for a car. By the time they had figured it out we’d already passed them by breathing a sigh of relief on our uninsured machines. 

Sarajevo suffered more than most cities during the Balkan war, relentlessly shelled during a 3 year siege, it is still struggling to recover. The hollow remains of derelict buildings are gradually being replaced and the city has an optimistic air to it. The historical centre still bears many scars but it is as lively and vibrant as any we’ve been to and the mix of east meeting west adds even more character. We spent a day and a night exploring the Ottoman-era bazaars, sampling the local food and poking our noses into anything that looked interesting before the call of the road beckoned once more and we turned South towards the coast. A beautiful road took us through the Sutjeska National Park hugging the border of Montenegro before dropping us back into Croatia just South of Dubrovnik. The Bosnian border guard simply stated that “we did have papers for the motorcycles” before waving us through but it was the Croatians who proved to be difficult on this occasion. Instantly spotting our lack of insurance coverage for Croatia they called a local insurance sales representative who happily drove halfway up a mountain to sell us a policy that did cover Croatia along with all the other countries we had cover for already. It’s strange how helpful insurance companies can be when they are taking your money. Only 90 euros each for a policy we would require for the next three days before entering Montenegro which was conveniently excluded from the new coverage, what a bargain. 

Sunset, Dubrovnik Bay

Returning to the coast we were met with warmer weather and spectacular sunsets. Dubrovnik turned out to be one of the most beautiful cities we have visited yet and we spent our time wandering through the medieval city which is encircled by intimidating fortress walls on the shimmering shores of the Adriatic Sea. On the outskirts of the city are the haunting remains of the Hotel Belvedere which still stands in ruins after it was attacked during the war. Supposedly off limits to the public it is easy to gain access through many of the broken windows and wander the deserted maze of halls imagining how it must have looked during its heyday. An open air amphitheater overlooks the water and provides a superb view of the old city while allowing access to many recessed rocky alcoves ideal for a spot of afternoon skinny dipping. Once we had scared off most of the wildlife and several of the locals we donned our damp clothes and took a sunset stroll back along the shore and into the old fortress where a vibrant atmosphere awaited. Bars and restaurants buzzed with the sound of hungry diners and gentle laughter. 

Bay of Kotor, Montenegro

From Dubrovnik we took the coastal road to Montenegro unsure of what to expect as our new insurance policy would become ineffectual on leaving Croatia. The Croatian border guards took a cursory glance at us and waved us on and the Montenegrin official inspected our paperwork but seemed satisfied with what we had so we were soon enjoying our biggest surprise of the journey. With few expectations we soon found ourselves driving around the breathtaking Bay of Kotor making repeated stops in an attempt to absorb it all. The northern hemisphere’s most southerly fjord is flanked by steeply rising limestone mountains contrasting sharply with the deep blue waters of the Adriatic. Our planned route took us up into the Lovcen National Park on what we had thought would be a fairly major road. Barely wide enough for two vehicles and practically deserted it climbed higher than we had thought possible before leveling out on a lonely plateau dotted with old farm houses surrounded by stunning views of the darker peaks which give the country its name. Without a set destination we rode into the afternoon steadily moving North as ominous clouds began gathering on the horizon. Anxious to find a place to camp before the weather turned we spotted a sign promising ‘motorcycle club and camping’. Intrigued, we turned down a smaller road which eventually turned to dirt before reaching Etno Selo Montenegro. This ‘traditional village’ is owned and operated by the Blagojevic family and after a quick tour of the property we opted to stay in one of their little log cabins. With dark skies looming and the prospect of steady rain for the next two days the thought of camping lost its appeal. Even though the village was scheduled to close the following day for the winter, our wonderful host, Ivanka, promised us we could stay as long as we wanted and after she cooked us a hearty traditional breakfast on the first morning the warmth and charm of this hidden paradise took hold and we signed up for another night. Other than electricity and coffee, the village is produces everything it consumes and they hope to get completely ‘off the grid’ soon. In summer it is fully booked but this late in the season we had the entire place to ourselves. 

Our log cabin, Etno-Selo, Montenegro

Once the weather improved we left our cosy cabin and took the advice of a local guide who recommended a ‘special’ road through Durmitor National Park. As soon as we turned off the main highway we knew we were in for a treat. Our special road spiraled up inside and outside the mountains through rough hewn tunnels littered with fresh rock fall, clinging to the side of cliffs where no road belonged. We soon found ourselves within the Durmitor Mountain range where hardy villagers were busy preparing for the coming winter, the last harvest collected by women toiling in the fields while men gathered firewood or repaired their stone cottages. The weather had not completely cleared but the low cloud that remained simply added to the atmosphere of this natural conservation area. With every twist and turn in the road we were greeted with a new panorama seemingly refreshed and enlivened by the shifting cloud. We could have spent longer within the park but at such a high elevation even the daytime temperatures where chilly so we reluctantly moved on. 

Pa Emer Camp, Albania

Dropping back into the central highlands of Montenegro we took a detour up to the Ostrog Monastery, perched precariously in the face of a cliff 900 meters above the valley floor it offers the weary traveller a free bed and a free meal. We hadn’t planned to stay but the resident workers insisted we bring our bikes inside the compound for added security and we soon settled into the quiet bunk rooms after enjoying a simple but delicious dinner. Morning came soon as the devotees arose for morning worship at 530am. We rose with them but chose to watch the sunrise rather than impose further and by eight o’clock, our earliest start yet, we were back on the road. 

Albania lay ahead and it has been an exciting change since we arrived yesterday, challenging roads, chaotic cities and a wild variety of vehicles, old and new, somehow all combine to function fluidly in this unique nation. We thought we would encounter conditions like this further along in our journey but Albania has left us oddly satisfied. The rule of the road appears to be the biggest vehicle has the right of way and the use of turn signals is nonexistent. Four lane highways mysteriously become oneway lanes and perfectly smooth asphalt can quickly deteriorate into loose gravel or mud without warning. Every kilometer gained is its own reward and every stop becomes an excuse for locals to gather around the bikes and stare. Welcomes are warm and enquiries as to our intended journey genuine and open. As a young democracy much remains to be achieved but from our limited experience we feel the need to explore more. Sadly our goal of crossing the Sahara no later than December (even that is considered late) is pushing us onwards and our sights are set on Macedonia and beyond. We have met some incredible people along the way, other travelers on adventures of their own, some on foot, some on bicycle, some on a boat and it feels oddly reassuring to share stories and encouragement, there are some who feel as though this trip is a little foolhardy and irresponsible and there have been occasions when we have questioned our own motivations especially when plans go pear shaped. To those who have helped us along the way with kind words and good advice we are forever grateful and to those who doubt our judgement, "Not all those who wander are lost." J.R.R. Tolkein

Adriatic sunset