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