tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42544168702176542742024-03-13T23:12:55.807-07:00VagamondeMichèle & Benoît's World Tour by BicycleLazy Daisy (Michèle)http://www.blogger.com/profile/06667535671369698632noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-42815564810087731632016-08-08T05:00:00.000-07:002016-08-08T07:02:06.144-07:00Read our book and ride with us!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://amzn.com/0993631002" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Vagamonde: Chasing Euphoria and Getting Hit by Reality" border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nIE_BOKTOyM/UsIFr0-CjfI/AAAAAAAAEwc/SCIQH1dD6aU/s400/VagamondeFrontCover.jpg" title="" width="265" />
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Our book <b>Vagamonde: Chasing Euphoria and Getting Hit by Reality</b> is now available in English for purchase on <a href="http://www.amazon.ca/dp/0993631002" target="_blank">Amazon.ca</a>, <a href="http://amzn.com/0993631002" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/0993631002" target="_blank">Amazon.co.uk</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.fr/dp/0993631002" target="_blank">Amazon.fr</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.de/dp/0993631002" target="_blank">Amazon.de</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.it/dp/0993631002" target="_blank">Amazon.it</a>, and <a href="http://www.amazon.es/dp/0993631002" target="_blank">Amazon.es</a>.<br />
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In May 2010, we left Montreal, Canada to pedal our way to what would end up being a two-year journey through sixteen countries. Most bicycle travellers leave for a year or two, renting out their house and putting their belongings in storage. We left our jobs, sold our stuff and gave up our apartment. Except for some sentimental objects kept by family, all that we owned was with us on our bicycles.<br />
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Having hoped for a more relaxed and carefree lifestyle, we quickly learned the hardships of long-term travel. To cope with this, we started documenting the trip in this blog. In December 2013, we finished writing a book that enhances our blog with more stories, drawings, hand-drawn maps and chapters of the long preparation and the reintegration back into so-called normal life in Canada. See also our book's Facebook page: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Vagamonde-Chasing-Euphoria-and-Getting-Hit-by-Reality-747035928673341/" target="_blank">Vagamonde: Chasing Euphoria and Getting Hit by Reality (Facebook)</a> </div>
Lazy Daisy (Michèle)http://www.blogger.com/profile/06667535671369698632noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-83533569913569433552016-01-11T06:43:00.000-08:002016-01-11T06:43:14.183-08:00We're 2 of the 121<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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121 Bikepacking Experts Share Their Routes Around the World </h2>
<a href="http://www.icebike.org/bikepacking-experts/" target="_blank">http://www.icebike.org/bikepacking-experts/</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.icebike.org/bikepacking-experts/"><img alt="Bikepacking experts" border="0" src="http://www.icebike.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/bikepacking-experts.jpg" width="95%"></a></div>
Lazy Daisy (Michèle)http://www.blogger.com/profile/06667535671369698632noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-18016362285395429972012-06-15T05:00:00.002-07:002012-06-15T05:00:35.387-07:00Flatland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: red;">This blog post is from the beginning of our trip, that is, two years ago in June/July 2010.</span>
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<b>June 24, 2010 to July 12, 2010</b>
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It's time to leave Iceland and get our asses on the ferry. Once on board, we park our bikes next to all the German bikers and start looking for our cabins. The cheapest option was to share four bed cabins: since they are not co-ed, we have to stay in separate rooms. The men in my cabin are uninteresting and have nothing to say. Michèle, on the other hand, has a loud mouth ex-biker chick staying with her. With her raspy voice that cries out "Too many cigarettes!", the biker chick tells us that she, and her new Dutch husband, are going back to the "land of green".<br/>
- Land of green? I ask her.<br/>
- Because it's legal there she tells me.
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<i>Michèle writes: I met one of my cabin mates for the ferry ride, just as Benoit was walking away to find his cabin. She laughed with a husky loves-the-cigarettes rumble.<br/>
- I see your husband is cheap too, she said.<br/>
Well, we thought we had cheaped out as much as possible, but we were wrong. There were even cheaper rooms to be had, but not from where we reserved our tickets online. Down in the belly of the ship, under the car decks, were 6-person dorm rooms. We see Sebastian on board, the Masters student we encountered several weeks back. He had one of those rooms all to himself. He heard his neighbour across the hall retching all night. I guess sometimes there's a price to pay for the cheap rooms.
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After the perpetual light of Iceland, we head to bed for the ultimate sensory deprivation. Having no windows, the cabins are pitch dark and extremely stuffy. I wake up feeling as if I slept under water: drenched in sweat and unable to breathe. Glad that it's morning we get a breath of fresh sea air before heading to the breakfast buffet where Roland is getting in scavenge mode. We eat breakfast the proper way and watch him stuff his pockets with anything he can get his hands on. He tells us that we should do the same. It's probably a good idea because most of the food will be going in the garbage. However, we are feeling much too old for this sort of behaviour. We'll be content with busting a gut watching him walk out looking like the Michelin man.
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<i>Michèle writes: All in all it was pretty uneventful that boat ride. We had been afraid of rough seas during the crossing, after having watched too many youtube videos of the Norrøna (the ship we were on) in stormy weather, like this Faroese news video [look for the bowling of humans with beers at 0:43 and the car deck crunch at 2:00] :
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The North Sea was the exact opposite for us: it couldn't have been calmer. Without even nausea to while away the hours, we had to find some way to battle the boredom. One, as Benoit mentioned, was watching Roland pocket stuffing at the breakfast buffet. Another, was to get him to say the word 'buffet' for no other reason than it was really cute the way he said it.<br/>
- Tomorrow morning, will we see you again at the breakfast ... uh ...?, I'd ask, hoping he'd fill in the blank when I paused. Yep, we were bored.
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With nothing to do for three days, we head down to the last deck to check out the facilities. There's a pool and a sauna and since children hours are over, we decide to go for a swim. The pool is somewhat entertaining as there is a perpetual tsunami going back and forth due to the rocking of the boat. After the pool we head to the sauna. As we go in we bump into Sebastian again. He is holding something in his hand.<br/>
- What's that? I ask him.<br/>
- Sauna Øl he tells me (Sauna Beer).<br/>
Apparently in Sweden, it's a tradition to have one beer in the sauna. Sebastian informs us that there is a duty free liquor store on board.<br/>
- Is the beer cold? I ask him.<br/>
- No, it's piss warm he tells me.
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<i>Michèle writes: Dirt cheap lukewarm tinnies at the duty free shop or costly chilled beers at the bar ... guess where we went. Many passengers had the same idea. One pair of youths, barely out of their teenage acne years, were facing each other across a circular table that was completely covered with beer tins. The lankier of the two lurched to his feet to replenish their table stock at the shop. Oops, better get there quick: a clerk was just closing the door to lock up. The skinny kid slipped in, grabbed a flat of 24, paid for it, and was back out the door before the guy even blinked. We saw those kids on deck the next day, looking like they were moments away from puking on each other.
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Three days and two nights on the ferry and it's with joy that we disembark. Today, we are excited because this is where we meet up with David whom we met in 2007 on our trip to Cuba: we'll be traveling with him for three weeks, all the way to Copenhagen. We meet him the next day at a campground nearby. The campgrounds here are not the simple patch of grass that you get in Iceland. They are family oriented and expensive: swimming pool, water slides and all the facilities imaginable, even a petting zoo. This is tarnishing our image of adventure cycling and draining our budget.
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Like the biker chick said, I am becoming cheap. For me, the budget is a mind poison: leaving it all behind (including my job) has created a dark cloud over my head. The result is a lingering stress that I can't seem to shake. Worried about being in Europe where life is expensive, I find myself eager to get to cheaper countries. Well, that won't be for a while since we have to go to France to pick up our new bikes.
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<i>Michèle writes: We rode down the ramp and off the ship into the bright sunlight and warmth of Denmark in the summer. Finally no need to wear my fleece jacket. I still had my sea legs after 36 hours of being on that ferry. I felt fine while on my bicycle, but swayed slightly when walking as I adjusted to being back on solid ground. Since there was no David to greet us, we chose the closest campground to the ferry terminal to make meeting up the next day all the more easy. Unfortunately you had to pay for all the campground services that you didn't want. Benoit forgot to mention the rows of huge freezers. I don't get the appeal of the holiday campground. It looks like just moving from your regular house to a plastic house. This type of camping is not exclusive to Denmark. We're more familiar with the ones in Canada and know to avoid them. So our first camping experience in Denmark came as a shock after the wilds of Newfoundland and the pre-tourist season emptiness of Iceland.</i>
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Denmark has what is called Natur Camping. Basically, you camp on somebody's lawn for a few Kroners and have access to basic facilities. They are shown on the tourist map but finding them is another story. One night, we end up at such a campground. On our final approach, Michèle wipes out in the gravel. I rush over to make sure her bike is undamaged. Shortly after, we finally arrive and unload our stuff. At this point I am dead tired and I ask:<br/>
- What do you guys want to do?<br/>
- Let's go for a bike ride! says David.<br/>
David has way too much energy. In the morning we get woken up by a herd of sheep trampling through the campground. Luckily our tent was off to the side and we avoided the stampede.
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The adventure continues through the campgrounds of Denmark, each one having something unique. One morning we wake up to find our panniers infested with earwigs. At the toilet of another campground, someone didn't seem to aim right whilst defecating and ended up shitting on the floor. How can something like that happen? Alcohol was probably involved. Another place had a shoe eating fox roaming around but, to our disappointment, we didn't see him. What will we find next?
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<i>Michèle writes: David read somewhere that the churches in Denmark always have a toilet and drinking water for public use. I needed to pee but with no church in sight we opted for a restaurant. It looked a little too fancy pants for us, so we weren't planning to stay for a meal. I raced for the washroom and David acted as a diversion by asking the staff about these mysterious Natur campings, one of which was supposed to be in the area. David was a master at asking directions. He'd stride up to anybody, with a big grin and a hearty "Hello!" no matter what the other person's language. I came out from using the washroom to find him in full flirt mode with one of the waitresses. Unfortunately I also noticed an earwig crawling up the tube of his water backpack. Just before it crawled onto his neck, I slapped it onto the ground, which killed the mood. Sorry, David. But the good news was that the waitress knew how to find the Natur camping. We were on our way.</i>
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<i>Denmark has the most amazing bakeries. Huge displays with shelf upon shelf of the most scrumptious looking breads, cakes and pastries. One day David and I were standing in a bakery trying to choose what treats we would buy. Benoit stood guard outside with the bicycles.There was a pretty blond woman behind the counter, waiting patiently for our selection. David flashed his pearly whites. He motioned to the many shelves of breads and cakes.<br/>
- Do you sell all these in one day? he asked incredulously.<br/>
- No, she answered.<br/>
David paused as he looked around, I think trying to find the bags of "day olds" for sale.<br/>
- Where does the stuff go that you don't sell?<br/>
- In the garbage, was her reply.<br/>
David paused again, then said in the most innocent purring tone:<br/>
- Oh, and where is your garbage?
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<i>No matter that we had a super detailed map of the myriad of bicycle paths in Denmark, we still got lost. Many times. Once we took a wrong turn and found ourselves in a Bible camp. They were friendly there and they had ice cream but we didn't stay. Another day we were searching for one of the elusive Natur camping spots and ended up in the town of Gludsted. It was a quiet place, with nothing open and no-one on the streets. I half expected a tumbleweed to go rolling by. The three of us were stopped in the middle of the road discussing our options. No food, nowhere to camp, what to do? A man came out of his house. He was motioning us inside.<br/>
- Do you know...? I began.<br/>
- I know everything he replied. Come, come.<br/>
Benoit and I didn't hesitate and followed him inside. We had learned in Newfoundland that we'd regret saying no to invitations. David soon followed. Hans, he who knows everything, introduced us to his wife Birgitta and their dog Zilla. Really, we have Zilla to thank. It was her barking in that quiet little town that alerted them of our presence. Suddenly our situation was on the flip side: they invited us for food, tons of it, and drinks to match, and a place to camp on their lawn. Thanks, Hans and Birgitta, for an unforgettable Denmark experience.
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For our final approach to Copenhagen, I call a contact obtained by my mother. Emilie is a family friend who, apparently I used to play with in a pool when I was two years old.<br/>
- She is waiting for you to call my mother tells me.<br/>
Turns out she had no clue that we were in Denmark or even who I was. But no matter, after explaining what should have already been explained, we get invited to spend a few nights. It's all great fun because Roy, her husband, sees it as a great opportunity to break out a flat of beer and a pack of social cigarettes. Aside from mosquitoes we all had a great time.
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If you are young, you cannot go to Copenhagen without checking out Christania. For us, who are pretending to be young, it seemed like a worthy tourist attraction. I had never heard of Christania before David described it as a bunch of hippies who built houses on an old army base. At once I imagined groovy artists creating all sorts of weird and interesting stuff: if that was the case, we didn't see it. We did see, however, a large open air drug market: kiosks with multicoloured hash tablets on the counters and people in deep conversation about the quality of the merchandise; you would think they were talking about fine wine. Having no patience for this sort of subculture I get into one of my unfortunate bad moods.
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<i>Michèle writes: Speaking of hippies, have you heard the joke:<br/>
- How do you know that hippies have been to your house?<br/>
- They're still there.<br/>
Sometimes I wonder if people see us a bit like that: like freewheeling freeloaders. Do they ask themselves if they should lock up the silver before we show up? That kind of thing. I had given our vagamonde website address to a Dane. He looked slightly taken aback. Then, hesitantly, like he didn't want to offend, he said:<br/>
- In Danish, vagabonde means tramp.<br/>
He looked quite serious so I resisted laughing. I asked, Do you mean like a type of homeless person whose only belongings are tied in a bundle on the end of a stick? He nodded. I thought of me and Benoit with not much left of our possessions except our bikes and panniers. Yep, I thought, that pretty much sums us up. When we got to Copenhagen, I looked up some more of my relatives whom I had never met. We were invited to afternoon tea. Emilie helped us to find on the map where they lived.<br/>
- It's a nice area, she said. Very nice.<br/>
I had a tinge of a worry in the back of my mind: maybe they'll think we're bums and won't want to let us in the house. Nothing could have been further from the truth. When we arrived to meet Keith and his family, they welcomed us graciously like we were old friends. The afternoon tea stretched to dinner and to overnight. The next morning Keith accompanied us on his bicycle to make sure we didn't get lost going downtown. So much for my worries.</i>
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With our limited time in Europe, we decide to fly to France. Since we have new bicycles waiting for us there, we decide to donate our old ones to <a href="http://cph-bike-rental.dk/about-us.html">Baisikeli</a>, an organization that ships used bikes to less fortunate people. Once all packed up, we get a ride to the metro in a cargo bike.
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All of our Denmark photos are <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/108434754373417615450/Denmark2010">here.</a></div>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-46465945957197243312012-05-27T08:43:00.000-07:002012-05-27T08:43:46.341-07:00The beginning continues to the end of Iceland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: red;">This blog post is from the beginning of our trip, that is, two years ago. The second part of Iceland in June 2010.</span><br />
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<b>June 8, 2010 - June 23, 2010</b><br />
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The weather is good. So good, that I fear we will pay for it later. For now, we hitch a ride on the strongest tailwind we've ever had: flying east along the north coast of the Snæfellsnes peninsula all the way to the next campground where horses are easy to excite.<br />
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<i>Michèle writes: Not only the horses, the birds are also easily excitable. Especially the dive bombing birds that attack you on your bicycle. I guess they like nesting near the road. <br />- Get away from my young 'uns, they screech in bird speak.<br />They didn't detract from the spectacular experience that is the Snæfellsnes peninsula. Just when you think you've seen THE scenery that takes your breath away, Iceland presents you with one better. I read that as much as one third of the population here believes in trolls and faeries and the like. After descending into the misty valleys, often feeling an other-worldly presence, I could understand that belief. The mists transformed to rain when we reached Stykkishólmur. For us, this would have been the excuse for taking a day off. But there was a really strong wind in the direction that we wanted to go, and in Iceland, not taking advantage of a stiff tailwind seemed unthinkable.</i><br />
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We are inching our way around Iceland by taking the north route. If you are not on the Number 1 highway (The Ring Road as it is sometimes called) chances are you're on a dirt road. They will have to wait. Today, we have no choice but to be on the Number 1: the Ring Road is very busy between Reykjavík and Akureyri. We take a break at a roadside restaurant to have something to eat. Inside is another cyclist: a tough looking man from Poland who has no problems with the traffic on the Ring Road. <br />
- Tonight I catch plane, at home I sleep he tells us.<br />
The man is a machinist and if you didn't believe him, you could inch yourself closer to the truth by looking at one of his hands: there are two fingers missing. The man tells us about his trips to Russia and Ukraine.<br />
- Isn't Ukraine dangerous? I ask him.<br />
- No problem Ukraine he tells me.<br />
- How about Russia?<br />
- No problem Russia.<br />
- How about Kazakhstan?<br />
His eyebrows go up and he makes a quick slicing motion across his throat. Back on his bike he vanishes into the mist that engulfs the Ring Road. We do the same but in the opposite direction.<br />
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Kazakhstan is a long ways away I thought: besides, I think the Polish guy is exaggerating. So, we continue our ride on the Number 1 to end up at another campground. This time, however, there are other campers. The site is equipped with a common area where you can get out of the wind and cold. This is where we meet Robert and Delphine who are hitch hiking around Iceland. Funny how you can meet people and have nothing to say them, whereas with others, you develop a deep relationship in five minutes.<br />
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<i>Michèle writes: Up to this point, we'd been getting coffee the Roland way (Roland was that cyclist who gave us tips for Iceland on the cheap). That is, at gas stations where you pay for one and get unlimited refills. Often that meant just handing over the thermos and they'd fill 'er up for the price of one coffee. Then Robert offered to show us how to make coffee on a camp stove. Benoit was suspicious. He knows that I am a coffee snob. <br />- Is it instant coffee? <br />- No! shouted Robert, offended by the suggestion.<br />It would be turkish style coffee and it would change our coffee drinking lives. Another thing would change our lives that day. We spent the entire morning with Robert and Delphine doing yoga stretches in the sun. Things creaked and popped and loosened like never before. I had been getting neck cricks and headaches from the tension in my shoulders. Benoit had had a recurrent pain between his shoulder blades for so long that he gave it a name: The Spot. With those stretches, it was bye-bye to the aches and the tension. Bye-bye to the Spot. Soon it was the early afternoon. We should be on our way, I kept thinking, but neither of us wanted to leave.</i><br />
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Every town seems to have a campground around here. One evening we get to one just as the wind starts howling: It looked as if we were trying to set up our tent while skydiving. Luckily for us, there is a thick hedge of pine trees acting as the perfect wind shield. Later that night, we meet Sebastian, a German grad student out collecting data for his Masters. This entails hitching around Iceland all summer interviewing fishermen: could be worse. He says that once the fall rolls around, he should have enough information to write something up. The only thing to avoid in his interviews is the whaling issue because it could result in being thrown in boiling mud. More on the later.<br />
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<i>Michèle writes: People thought we were crazy to cycle Iceland. One of the first comments on our blog said something like,<br />- L'Islande en vélo? Respect!<br />The strong winds can be an issue. We haven’t wild camped yet in Iceland. Not that we haven’t looked, but it’s hard to find a spot sheltered from the wind in a place devoid of trees, and our tent is not what you would call windstrong. Besides, campgrounds aren’t so bad when it's early in the tourist season and no-one is around. At one of the campgrounds, we met Daniel from Norway, also on bicycle. He was all smiles after doing 120 kilometres in 5 hours with the help of a powerful tailwind. He told us to come to Norway. You can put your tent up anywhere he said. We were enjoying Iceland by bike, if you could follow the wind and stay off the main road. But like Benoit said, sometimes we were forced to take the Number 1 highway. One of those times, we met two snobby young Brits on bicycle. They were riding with all their stuff in huge hiking style knapsacks on their backs, and they were taking the Number 1, all the way. When we asked where they were from, they didn’t even look at us. One answered, London, in monotone. I didn’t dare suggest that they consider a bike rack and panniers for next time. There was no telling them whatfor, they knew it all.</i><br />
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Many young men in Iceland seem to have bred with the north american redneck. In Sauðarkrókur, one of them is a little too eager to show off his new novelty muffler that makes his car sound like it's going 150 km/h when only doing about 40. He goes back and forth in front of the campground for about two hours, driving everyone crazy. Like all morons, he eventually gets bored and fucks off somewhere else, just in time for us to enjoy the four hour sunset.<br />
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We cycle to Varmahlíd where we ride up a hill to find an overpriced campground. Down the hill is a much cheaper one ... and it has a hot tub! The only other person there is a German guy with a van converted into a DIY camper: it is covered in stickers and flags and the owner is about as weird as his vehicle. He doesn't speak a word of English but assumes that we speak fluent German. As he rambles on about something, I manage to make out the words "... drei Tage". I take a wild guess and imagine that, because the campground is so cheap, he wants to stay for three days. He is very nice and tries to help us set up camp but ends up being annoying instead. <br />
- Nein, nein, nein! he tells me as I put up a line to hang some clothes. <br />
With the little German she knows, Michèle asks him where the hot tub is. He shows us, but cautions that we will catch a skin disease if we go in. Skin disease or not, it is impossible to refuse a hot tub if you are touring by bike.<br />
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The next day it's back onto the Number 1 where most people between the age of 20 and 30 are going to the annual Akureyri car festival: Oh boy! Lucky for us, we are heading to the same town. At a rest stop we meet Bertus, a dutch cyclist on a three month tour of Iceland. We chat for a few hours and during that time, we tell him that we are on a world tour by bicycle. He tells us that he hopes to do that one day.<br />
He also tells us to avoid the main campground in Akureyri as it is full of knuckle-heads looking for attention. Instead, we should use the one that is on the outskirts of town. He also tells us of an alternate route over the mountain that avoids the Number 1.<br />
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We opt to go off the beaten track that Bertus told us about: a dirt road that winds up the mountain just east of Akureyri. At the beginning it's asphalt as it goes through some of Akureyri's nicer residences. Then, the rough surface starts and doesn't end till the other side. It's not easy going. The only reward is the view and the absence of traffic. At one point, Michèle has to pee and there isn't a bush in sight. What better time to try out the Shewee (a device that allows women to pee standing up). Although I didn't see the incident, the seal was broken by the rushing urine and Michèle ended up soiling herself from waist to toe. Good thing there was a stream to clean up. It makes for a good running joke, along the lines of the guy asking if her writing book is a bible. Anyway, having done very few kilometres, we dash into the next campground.<br />
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<i>Michèle writes: Right, the Shewee incident. There wasn't a person in sight either. Not even Benoit: he was far ahead, powering up the slippery gravel. Seemed like a good time to try out the Shewee that my friend had given me at our going away party. Ya ya, you're supposed to practise in the shower. But how difficult could it be to use? Sadly I had to learn the hard way why the shower practice is so strongly recommended. By this point Benoit was probably thinking that I was so far behind him because I had wiped out, when really I was washing piss out of my shorts in a stream. I knew he'd laugh about the incident; and that I'd laugh about it too, once my shorts dried. We continued up that steep dirt road that Bertus had recommended. Easy for him on his knobbly Marathon Extreme tires. I had been cursing him and his damn ideas on the fourteen torturous kilometres up, but then was bursting with thank yous to him when I caught sight of that magnificent view at the top. Bertus had been exploring the northern fjords of Iceland, the part that looks like a rooster’s comb. Barren roads that ribbon their way through valleys. Needless to say his photos would put ours to shame.</i><br />
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I don't know why we tend to get stuck with no food. Maybe it's because we don't do enough kilometres to reach the next store in one day. So, on an empty stomach we ride towards Lake Mývatn which is one of Iceland's main tourist attractions. The area is known, of course, for its beauty but also its bugs. Thank god for our bug hats.<br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/zIFuq2jc84" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-84e7zSeht0I/TCEALB1lksI/AAAAAAAACAo/OOtO2WxJUb4/s512/DSC03645.JPG" /></a><br />
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Being on empty stomachs, our mood quickly deteriorates and on the last stretch of road, with a restaurant almost in sight, Michèle starts crying and says she cannot go on without eating something. There is some stale bread and a remnant of blue cheese at the bottom of a pannier. I stand there pouting as I watch her sniffling while wiping up a few crumbs of cheese with the dried up bread. Once back on our bikes, we quickly get to the restaurant to gobble down a burger and fries. We were so hungry that we didn't even feel full afterwards. It seems that the food got absorbed as soon as it hit our stomachs.<br />
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<i>Michèle writes: Ten kilometres before the lake, the flies were there to greet us. These bugs are supposedly vegetarian, not interested in flesh nor blood. They sure seemed carnivore-curious, though, because they zipped into ears and noses when we slowed on the hill climbs. We were almost at Mývatn when I bonked. My legs gave out. Benoit was gesturing impatiently at the road ahead of us.<br />- It’s just around the corner.<br />More like on the edge of an event horizon, I was thinking. Thank goodness for those stale snacks that fueled me the last few k's. After devouring burgers like we hadn't eaten in days, it was off to join the crowd of tents at the campground. A highlight for me, if you can call it that, was its co-ed washroom. It was a bit trippy to be brushing my teeth at the sink beside a man shaving his head.</i><br />
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The campground is expensive and crowded so we end up staying just one night. The next day we start heading east again. A few kilometres from the lake is a thermal hot spot. <br />
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After the boiling mud, where they used to throw convicts back in the good old days, we head out onto the lunar landscape with a nice tailwind. Not far into the ride, a cyclist comes in the opposite direction: another German who is fighting the head wind. We stop to say hello and Michèle gets out her broken German because the guy does not speak English. It's all pretty boring till we try to tell him that we want to take the ferry to Denmark. He doesn't seem to understand what we are trying to say. Then, I remember one of my favourite German movies. <br />
- Das Boot! Das Boot Denmark! I tell the guy.<br />
He then gives me this very weird look. So weird that we stop our inquiries, stand around awkwardly for a minute and take our leave. Later I thought, maybe I was telling him that we wanted to take a U-boat to Denmark. I guess we'll never know.<br />
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<i>Michèle writes: The boiling pits of mud stank so much of rotten eggs that it was hard to breathe without gagging. Months ago, before the Eyjafjallajökull volcano erupted, I had sent an email to reassure a friend that there was no danger of volcanoes in Iceland. They’re all dormant, I wrote. Little did I know. The burps of scalding mud brought it home that there is a lot of fiery madness down there and some quite close to the surface.</i><br />
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Towards the end of the day, we have the option to get off the Number 1 and take a side road to a campground a few kilometres down. It is freezing cold and the campground has no hot water. Doing dishes that evening was a bit torturous but once the feeling in my hands vanished the task became much easier. Back in the tent we put on all our clothes and wrap ourselves in our sleeping bags: it took a good 15 minutes to warm up. <br />
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We decide to continue on the dirt road where we have to conquer three passes. The gravel is loose but the views are something to be remembered. <br />
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Once we join back up with the Number 1, we are rewarded with a down hill, but the head wind is so strong that we almost have to pedal. At the bottom, it's still early but we decide to call it a day and dash into a campground that has a heated pool and reindeer burgers on the menu. In the morning, there is a bird stuck between the tent and the fly. It's very cute but it ended up shitting everywhere.<br />
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<i>Michèle writes: "What is the grossest thing you ate?" some kid asked friends of ours about their cycling trip. Sometimes the food we eat while on the road is less than ideal. Like the time we decided to try a can of beans and wieners in Newfoundland. Yuck. Yet I remember stuff like that being so good when I was a kid. We met a couple of Icelanders ready to head home from their hiking trip. The woman gave us the packages of food that they didn't finish.<br />- Camping food only tastes good while camping, she said. Don't try to eat this at home.<br />It was pretty tasty to us and we were grateful to have it. Especially when there were no food stores within many days' ride. Then, there are the experiments with food. We mix whatever we have in our bags and see if it tastes good. With limited success.</i><br />
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In the town of Egilsstaðir we look up at the mountain we have to ride over. It's pretty big but doable. Once we get to the other side it will be goodbye to Iceland and a great start to the trip. It's 7 pm, and since there is no night, we decide to do the climb. It has many switchbacks and the powerful side wind stop us in our tracks. But we inch ourselves to the top where we find thick fog and subzero temperatures. After a short break we start the downhill which proves to be more torturous than the uphill. Once we picked up speed, the windchill seem to drop the temperatures to minus 20. Even in Montreal I had never felt so cold. Chilled to the bone, with giant waterfalls on either side of us, we make our way down to Seyðisfjörður and the fjord that will be our exit.<br />
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At the campground I dive into the shower and crank up the heat. After a half hour shower we go into the common area to cook some dinner. Once comfortably seated, our friend Roland storms in. He comes and joins us after which we quickly start talking about the climb, the wind and cold. The conversation gravitates to a tale of major fuck up: Roland at the top of the hill, ready to come down to the other side realizes that he forgot his cell phone at a tourist centre at the bottom of the hill. He had plugged it in to recharge and now his downhill won't be on the proper side of the mountain. I imagine myself in that situation and start to feel nauseous: we decide to head to bed.<br />
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<i>Michèle writes: The last bit over the pass to Seyðisfjörður was only 16 kilometres. It looks easy from afar, then once you're on it, almost immediately it becomes a major pain in the ass. Benoit was still film happy, recording our slagging progress up eight kilometres of steep switchbacks. He pointed the camera my way. I glared at him. I wasn’t in the mood to have my struggles documented. At the top, we were in the clouds. I was almost crying from the frustration. It was 10:30 at night but not dark in this land of the midnight sun. However, the fog obliterated the light so that we could barely see two feet in front of us. We got out all our flashing lights and reflective gear so that we would light up like Christmas trees to any passing cars. I was nervous nonetheless that drivers wouldn’t see us until it was too late. At last, to my relief, we descended out of the mist. My hands were stiff from the cold. I braked often, mostly to convince myself that my hands hadn’t frozen right off. When I heard that Roland had to do that climb TWICE, and that he was only 500 metres from the top when he had to turn back for his cellphone, I shuddered at the thought.</i><br />
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The ferry that will take us to Denmark awaits. A thirty-six hour journey across the North Sea. More in the next post.<br />
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All of our Iceland photos are <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/108434754373417615450/Iceland2010#">here.</a><br />
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All of our Iceland videos, plus others, are <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/lazydaisypedals?feature=results_main">here.</a> </div>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-76730808055663189352012-05-21T03:07:00.000-07:002012-05-21T03:08:36.279-07:00Ready or not here we go<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: red;">This blog post is from the beginning of our trip, that is, two years ago. Iceland in May 2010. We have gone back to our notes to redo the old posts in the writing style that we established later.</span>
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<b>May 25, 2010 - June 7, 2010</b><br />
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Despite the excitement, the flight to Iceland was somewhat routine but there were a few funnies. Our first destination being Boston, we had to clear US customs in our own country. I step up to the kiosk for the scornful and tight-lipped officer to stamp my glorified coffee voucher. First, he types a few things in his computer.<br />
- Is this yours? he asks.<br />
I look over to see a picture of my bike on his computer screen. I had never seen that before. Being excited and in a good mood, I had to resist the urge to say "wow, that's really cool!". <br />
- Yes it is I tell him.<br />
Next came that loud thump on my passport and off to Boston we went.<br />
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On our approach to the Boston airport, I thought we were going to land in the ocean. At the last second, the runway appeared. Then, it's through the rat maze we go to catch our connecting flight to Iceland. At the check-in counter the Iceland Air employee asks us if we already paid for our bikes.<br />
- Of course we did. Even though we didn't.<br />
And good thing we didn't, because on the plane, we get nothing but a glass of water. No matter, with the excitement, we don't really care.<br />
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On the seat in front of us is an American family who looked like they lacked certain cultural subtleties. He's got an high and tight and overgrown John Waters mustache. She's about as wide as she is tall. The only thing we could make out is that they were heading home to the army base in Germany.<br />
- Shut the fuck up and be good the woman yells to her kids. <br />
This was our cue to put in our ear plugs and close our eyes. When we open them up, the plane was already on its descent into Keflavík.<br />
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Once out of the airport, we assemble the bikes for a short ride to the hotel where we'll spend two days getting our bearings. Once in our room we sit silent: we can hardly believe that this trip has started. Later that night, we look out the window to see the start of the season of perpetual light. For the next month, there won't be any night. <br />
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<i>Michèle comments: We just arrived in Iceland and already we are exhausted. It was difficult, this past month, with all the last minute preparations and saying goodbye. Finally, it was here. The start of our bicycle trip. We found ourselves in the land of the midnight sun. At this time of year in Iceland, the sun sets around 11:30pm and rises around 3:30am. For some silly reason, I imagined the four-hour night to be completely dark, just as the night is in Montreal. So when I awoke in the hotel at 1:00am, I was startled and confused by the illuminated scene outside. How could it be so light out? Then, realizing my mistake, I shook the confusion out of my head and went back to sleep, still feeling pretty stupid.</i><br />
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All showered and rested, it's time to go look for a restaurant. Down the street, it's slim pickings. At one restaurant we have a look at the menu.<br />
- I have some nice whale meat the owners says.<br />
Whaling is a big issue here in Iceland. However, being firm believers that we are in the 21st century we decide to go to the Thai restaurant next door. Then, it's back to the hotel to get ready to start riding the next day. <br />
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Before we know it we are on the road. The weather is nice and the wind is at our back. Our equipment is shiny new; we feel fresh and squeaky clean; ready for adventure. The ride takes us right into the lava fields that stretch for kilometres. You can see large lava tubes that form small caves. There is a bit of moss but in general, the scenery is black and lifeless. <br />
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We get to the town of Grindavík which has a small campground. This is the town that is next to the world famous Blue Lagoon. It was just our luck that Iceland was in the midst of an election. Maybe this prompted the volcanic eruption that almost fucked our plans around. Luckily, the volcano stopped spewing just before we left. Anyways, nothing gets stolen in Iceland, so we leave all our stuff at the campground to go to the supermarket: one of the political parties is there trying to round up support. The candidate hands us a pamphlet and invites us to a BBQ. <br />
- We can't vote for you I tell him.<br />
He tells us that it doesn't matter and that we should come anyways. The lure of food and beer is irresistible to a cyclist. Our species would not last long if it was hunted. With punctuality we show up at the party's party. We say hello to the candidate before bee-lining for the beer and hot dogs. Once seated, the people-watching takes over. Occasionally, some of them come up to ask us questions. One of them in particular, an older rough-looking guy, wants to show us something. He looks from side to side and lays a fat line of snuff on the back of his hand. Then, he inhales the whole thing, smiles and walks away. Later, all the other parties will join the party. By that time we are tired and before we leave, I ask the candidate what he will do if he is elected. He gives me a weird look as if the question caught him by surprise.<br />
- When tourists come here they go straight to the Blue Lagoon and never come into town. I hope to change that he says.<br />
We say thank you and head back to the tent. The next day we join all the tourists at the Blue Lagoon to swim in the water heated by the power plant next to it. They don't really tell you that it's not a natural hot spring. Anyway, we never did find out who won the election but the candidate did get his wish: we stayed in town for two days.<br />
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<i>Michèle comments: We were sitting outside a bakery in Grindavík one day. Coffee is called the national drink of Iceland. It usually goes with sticky sweet desserts drizzled with chocolate and icing. That was what we were there for that day. Two young boys about ten years old came blasting up the road on their bicycles. They were riding rough, like young kids do, up out of their seats, their bikes shifting back and forth with the force of their pedal strokes. They skidded to a stop in front of the bakery. Only then did I notice the toddler in the baby seat on one of the bicycles, helmet on and strapped in. He was unstrapped and plucked out of the seat by the kid riding the bike and plunked on the ground. The two older kids went into the bakery and selected some bread, as the little one waddled in front the display case of sweets banging on the glass. The bread paid for, the baby was plunked back in the seat on the bike, the safety strap just clicking into place before the older brother (I'm guessing) was back to power pedalling down the road with his friend. I loved it, because it was such a contrast to the overprotective world of socket protectors and table corner bumpers that we see all the time in Canada. It reminded me of my friend who moved from Canada to live in Holland. At first, she freaked out at seeing people on bicycles loaded with kids and babies and groceries, thinking it unsafe. <br />- Of course it's safe, they'd say. You're just not used to it in your country.</i><br />
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We decide to take a dirt road out of Grindavík that follows the coast. The sun is shining which is unusual for Iceland. Not far into the ride, we see a sign that says "Free Camping". How can we pass that up. The only thing you are asked to pay for are the showers and the fresh duck eggs that sit in a basket at the entrance of the bathroom. Again there is no-one is sight except the owner in the distance, banging on some nails. The nights are cold but we are well equipped. It is silent and in the morning it's poached duck eggs all around. How lucky we are to be vagamonde.<br />
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Aside from volcanic eruptions and lunar landscapes there are many large 4 x 4 trucks with tires so big you would think you travelled back to the eighties to a monster truck show. You can see many youngsters cruising around in these things with all the obnoxious attributes: peeling tires and loud music; SNAFU I guess. At a campground, a Scottish man tells us that the trucks are used to go on ice fields in the winter. To get better traction, the tires are deflated so that they almost look flat. <br />
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We tell the Scottish guy that we will be in Scotland in a few months. In asking about the weather he tells us that sometimes the midges are not bad and that if you don't like the weather ... wait five minutes. Then, the topic of wild camping comes up. In Scotland, you are allowed to pitch your tent anywhere. Always joking around, he tells us that when he sees people camping on his land he usually takes out his gun to fire a warning shot.<br />
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In the morning there was a lot of wind which stirred up the leftover dust from the Eyjafjallajökull volcano. We had to go in town to buy masks to filter out the tiny particles floating in the air. Mixed with a good downpour, it took a few hours to pedal out of this black rain. Once in the clear, all our stuff was covered by a thin film of mud. Lucky for us the campground in Þingvellir has a washing machine. <br />
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<i>Michèle comments: At Þingvellir (pronounced 'Thingvellir'), we meet Roland, a cyclist who is a treasure trove of tips on how to do Iceland on the cheap. Go for coffee at the N1 gas station stores, he told us, where you get unlimited refills and there is milk to be had à volonté. He was wild camping whenever he could and grabbing a shower at the municipal pools where the entrance fee was way less than the rate for a campsite. Later we would meet again, and get more money saving ideas from him.</i><br />
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We cycle back towards Reykjavík which means cycling on a busy road. It's a few kilometres to a less busy turn-off where the wind is in our face: so strong that we can't even ride.<br />
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However, there is a B&B not too far. Once there we ask if there is a spot for our tent. We are told that we can camp in the adjacent field but warned that we are in the windiest place in Iceland and that every year tents just fly away. So, we decide to shell out the money for a room. In the morning the caretaker invites us for coffee. After some small talk he tells us that he has cancer but that he is better now. <br />
- I am getting stronger he says.<br />
Then he offers me a cigarette which I politely decline.<br />
- I don't understand, people nowadays don't smoke anymore he says.<br />
We chat for a bit longer and then I offer to help him clean up.<br />
- This is my party he says, I will clean up.<br />
When we step outside, the wind has died and the sun is shining. Looks like a great cycling day.<br />
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The nice weather and the absence of tourists are a real treat: campgrounds are so vacant that sometimes no-one comes to charge us. And, there is no shortage of hot water.<br />
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The days are infinite which removes the stress of finding a place to crash before night falls. Yet it seems that you can never avoid a dark cloud over your head: despite a very generous chunk of savings, I find myself unable to stop stressing about our cash outflow. I have many talents for risk but money and general business is not one of them. <br />
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<i>Michèle comments: A bit tired of camp stove food, we decided to splurge on a meal at a hotel restaurant. We had heard that Iceland has a great reputation for innovative cuisine, a mix of local ingredients and international flavours. This restaurant specialized in seafood. Not wanting to push our wallets too far, we ordered a seafood stew that was amongst the less expensive items on the menu. It was more like a swirl of fluffy seafood soufflé and it was delicious. At the table next to us, there were two couples; one, locals from Iceland, and the other from Germany, I think. The Icelanders were ordering the best the restaurant had to offer, clearly trying to showcase the fantastic food to their friends. The hotel reception guy, doubling as a waiter, stood there all smiles and puffed up in pride as they were finishing up their meal.<br />- Is it to your satisfaction?, he queried, his hands clasped in barely-contained joy.<br />The man of the German couple replied:<br />- I like fast food. Hamburgers. Ketchup. This was ... good, but not my taste.<br />The waiter somehow managed to keep his smile, though I think inside he was exploding. Later that evening, he was back at reception, temporarily having recovered his calm.</i><br />
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Shortly after, Michèle was sitting in the lobby with her writing book in her hand: the ribbon bookmark dangling from the side. The book was held us close to her heart for some reason. She was smiling and looking up to the heavens when an old man walked in. He then looks at the book and says<br />
- Ah ... bible.<br />
For us, this could be the beginning of a long running joke.<br />
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Later that night, I dunked my feet in the North Atlantic. The temperature of the water was the same as the cold tap water in mid February in Montreal. So much for body surfing.<br />
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<i>Michèle comments: At the tip of the peninsula is the Snæfellsnes volcano, which some might remember from a Jules Verne tale as the entranceway to the centre of the earth. Putting aside the sci-fi fantasy aspect of his tale, how much can you trust his descriptions of Icelanders? After all, if you read 20,000 Lieues Sous Les Mers you might think that people from Quebec are harpoon-wielding whale-hunting Protestants. But, in Voyage au Centre de la Terre, Jules Verne did describe Icelanders as being voracious readers, and that, I believe, is true. I have also heard that they are fiercely proud and protective of their language. So that it is not "tainted" by words from other languages, the country votes on the adoption of a new word. For example, <b>sími</b>, the word for telephone in Icelandic, has its roots in the Old Norse word for thread; and cell phone incorporates a word meaning travel and so becomes a travelling thread. As much as I am fascinated by Icelandic, I don't expect to pick up much of it. They say that if you don't learn it from childhood, you'll spend the rest of your life in its study and still never master it.</i><br />
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<i>There's not much to worry about here in Iceland. Except for the wind. No worry of darkness: you can get up to pee at 3:00am and it'll be as bright out as a spring morning. No worry of crime: Iceland supposedly has one of the lowest crime rates in the world. There is rumour that even the prisons let out for the weekend so that the inmates can go visit their families. No worry about wild animals growling outside your tent: there are only lambs with wiggly tails, and clusters of horses with shaggy forelocks, and occasionally, a very friendly cat.</i><br />
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Iceland, to be continued ...</div>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-87114156260084846152012-04-19T05:55:00.003-07:002012-04-20T08:24:08.236-07:00From Tangalle to Volonne<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b> March 2, 2012 - April 14, 2012</b><br />
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Based on our last posts, people are telling us that we need to take a break. We couldn't agree more. Our exit from Sri Lanka is planned and ready to execute: we are heading back. First to France for the summer and then to Montreal where we will go back to work and think about what we have done, what we have learned and what we want to do next.<br />
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<i>Michèle comments: In the last post, I wrote about Benoît's gaunt face and weight loss, but didn't provide the followup. We found good food in Arugambay! (Like the jumbo prawns that David is savouring below.) Sometimes it was more than we would have liked to pay, but hey, you can't have it all. The hollows in Benoît's cheeks filled in and all was well again.</i><br />
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My cold has passed and all our internet business has been dealt with. So, it's time to leave Arugambay. Today we did something that we haven't done in a long time; start riding early. With our panniers packed and clipped to our bikes, we start the ride by going through a nature reserve. Being Friday and a muslim area, most people are off feeling the privileges of prayer. For us, it's a few hours of peace and quiet. We take the time to stop and listen to the sounds of undisturbed jungle and to get a glimpse some of the wildlife: peacocks, eagles and for the grand finale, a wild elephant in the middle of a giant marsh filled with lotus flowers.<br />
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Shortly after, it's back to the usual sound track; blaring horns and all the cliché comments from the locals. The traffic grew and grew till we got to our destination: Tissamaharama; the launching pad for jeep safaries into Yala national park. This is where packaged tourists pay ridiculous amounts of money to sit in a fish tank attached to the back of a pickup truck. Once comfortably seated, you are driven into the glorified zoo of Yala national park. Your "guide" will attract wild elephants with bits of food so that you can have your priceless Master Card moment. Don't even dream about finding a proper guide competent enough to take you on a three-day trek into the park. In Sri Lanka, it's whore tourism: in and out and collect the money. However, it doesn't stop the more daring from going into the park for a night of wild camping. More on that later.<br />
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Before we get to Tissamaharama we get a jeepless taste of Yala by taking a road that goes through the nature reserve. This is where we witness that feeding wild animals is indeed a problem. At some point, in the middle of the road, is a massive wild elephant. Apparently, this elephant is there all day every day blocking traffic to get food.<br />
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If you don't throw him something, it will be very difficult to get by. For a long while we stand way back and wait for the elephant to head back into the forest. However, it's not on his agenda. So, we inch ourselves closer; taking shelter behind vehicles. At one point, a bus pulls up so we try to use it to pass by the elephant, but a guy inside the bus throws a bushel of bananas right in front of me. The elephant turns around and I end up face to face with him; I could have reached out and touched him. With flashbacks from the close call two weeks ago, we turn our bikes around to go on the other side of the bus. Once there we follow the bus past the elephant and avoid getting trampled.<br />
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The next day we head toward Tangalle where we will rest up for a few days. We leave early to take another detour past a small nature reserve. At first, it was nothing but the same old continuous village and most of our time was spent throwing rocks at packs of dogs; they tend to gang up and give chase. It's yet another annoyance. Frustrated, I hurl a big rock at one of the dogs. Being a lousy shot, I end up hitting a window which, luckily, didn't break. Finally, we get to the nature reserve which is actually a bird sanctuary. The highlight was seing a fully fanned peacock trying to impress some females. If you squint, you might be able to see it off in the distance.<br />
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<i>Michèle comments: I'm a lousy shot too, so when I aim to throw a rock at a dog, I know that it will miss. Even a fake-out throw will scare away the snarly pack dogs. A few hours later, I was pedalling along the main road, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I felt a sharp sting on my leg. I looked down to see the rock that hit me and over to the side of the road to see the kid that had thrown it. Benoît was too far ahead to hear me yell that I was stopping. The kid ran between two houses with me in hot pursuit. I was enraged. A little old lady was in one of the houses; a family in the other. No-one had seen my assailant. I stomped and cursed when I realized that the kid had escaped me. Maybe it was a good thing he had, for I don't know what I would have done to him. The father of the family tried to calm my anger.<br />- Do you want a treat?<br />- No, I yelled back. I want to find that kid and tell him that it is NOT acceptable to throw rocks at people.<br />There was a long awkward silence. The father spoke again, slowly, as if he was choosing his words carefully.<br />- All the citizens of Sri Lanka, we say we are sorry.</i><br />
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Once in Tangalle we meet Joe: an American expat living in Japan for the last 20 years. Since we are interested in cycling around Hokkaido, we ask Joe about Japan. Being a cyclist himself, he gives lots of information about Japanese roads but he tells us of all sorts of strange happenings. Like how the police recently busted a fetish club where the prize sexual act was to eat the feces of the head mistress. If fecalphilia is not for you, there is a bar where you can pay an exorbitant amount of money to put your head on the lap of a young woman and have her clean your ears; I'm guessing all this is for men only. However, don't even think about getting Japanese citizenship. It is virtually impossible for an expat to get it unless you are famous or have lots of money.<br />
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A short while later, we bump into another cyclist. Adrian is from Australia and he is just starting his two year tour. We share some travel stories including his adventure into Yala national park. He tells us that he went in there for a few nights of wild camping despite the price, rules and regulations. He is more brave than we are: planting his tent where he could be visited by wild elephants. <br />
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We all decide to cycle together for a few days. As we leave Tangalle, I am struck with a disgusting sight: a monitor lizard eating a dead dog. A least one animal in this country is getting a good meal.<br />
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One of the days we all end up on a beach for beginner surfers. I've been wanting to go surfing for a long time. Adrian has been surfing all his life and he gives me a few pointers. Then, I plunge into the water to fight the shitty beach break all the way out. I end up having one good ride; following the break of the wave for a few seconds. After two hours, I'm left with chafed nipples, waxy chest hair and sore muscles. But the one good ride was all worth it.<br />
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<i>Michèle comments: One piece of advice to combat against touring fatigue (see Eric and Amaya’s <a href="http://www.worldbiking.info/resources/Touring_Fatigue_Bike_Touring_Resources.html">3 cures</a>) is to get off your bikes and try something new. For Benoît, it was surfing. For me, it was a cooking class. We found a guesthouse that offered "Mama's Cooking Class" for 500 rupees, and 300 rupees more if you wanted to eat what you prepared. Alex and Sibylle, from Germany, were also going to take the class.<br />- Do we go to the market? asked Sibylle.<br />- I have vegetables, said Mama. You no go. White people price too much.<br />The classroom was Mama's crammed little kitchen. She had prepped everything; we three, as students, mainly watched the assembly of ingredients. Class participation was in the form of stirring and sampling. I loved it. We made five dishes: four curries (dal, banana, pineapple and dambula) and a gotukula salad. My favourite was the pineapple curry. Once I get back on the rice-and-curry horse, I will make that curry again. </i><br />
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<i>Another way to amuse myself was in looking for the charming misspellings in English, usually in menus. The ones I love the best are misspellings that form real words; that is, they are only misspelled in that context. Thanks for your corporation. Fright rice. Chop sue. Banana pencake. Ginger bear. Courselow salad. Card & honey. ("Curd" is a yogurt made from buffalo milk.) And on a child's T-shirt: Sweat friend.</i><br />
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We say goodbye to Adrian and meet back up with David in a town called Mirissa: a picturesque white sand beach next to a beautiful highway bloated with traffic. The beach looks very jet-set with the sand as white as the people on it. We join the fun and have a relaxing time basking in the sun. There are hidden dangers however. The waves on this beach can be massive. By looking at people swimming, I'm estimating some of the waves at 2 metres high. I decide to go into the water for a little fun in the waves. I duck into the water to go under one of the large waves but don't push hard enough to get under it before it breaks. The wave crashes on my back. All 2 metres of it. Not sure about the physics at work but my back ends up being arched way past the comfortable level. To the point where I was getting visions of a wheelchair. I managed to get myself out of the water and back on the beach. I sit down not knowing the extent of the injury. Later on, we find out that the previous day, someone broke their leg whilst playing in these waves and even later still, we find out that someone died. Our hearts go out to the familly. As for me, in addition to being physically and psychologically tired, I am now injured. Going home now seems like the best decision ever made.<br />
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With the idea that the cycling is over, we decide to part with David who only has a few days left before he goes back to Canada. It was fun trying to keep up with him but the truth is ... we're knackered! <br />
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We spend the next three weeks back in Tangalle at a beach-front guesthouse; things could be worse. <br />
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<i> Michèle comments: We wiled away the time at the seaside. Sometimes it felt like a paradise; sometimes a prison. The days very slowly clicked by. Our waiter at breakfast one morning in Tangalle:<br />- You have been here for three months, no?<br />- No, but it sure feels like it.<br />Often there wasn't much going on, other than listening to the beach dog group howl in accompaniment to the tinny "It's a small world" or "Für Elise" of the musical tuk tuks selling ice cream and rottis. The waves at the main beach in Tangalle were treacherous. Big dumpy waves that could easily catch you off guard. I went in once, was immediately washing-machined, and scurried back to the safety of the shore as quickly as I could. For Benoît, swimming was out because of his injury. For me, swimming was out because I wanted a beach where you didn't feel on the edge of death.</i><br />
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<i>So, we read a lot, and did some writing. The one-year anniversary of my mom's death was during that time. To honour her memory, I wanted to meet some people whom I could treat to food and drinks. Things that would meet with her approval: being social and picking up the tab. Serendipity placed in our path Tiina and Miko, from Finland, and with them we shared some kotthu and later some Lion lagers. Mom's treat.</i><br />
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<i>A couple of weeks later and it was Benoît's birthday. Cheers to him!</i><br />
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We try to do our best to find good food. Sri Lankan food is actually really good when prepared properly. The problem is to find a good restaurant. We do luck out. Every lunch is spent at the Samagi restaurant where the owner prepares us something different every day. <br />
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Other than that it's all pretty boring. We spend our days hanging out with some of our new friends.<br />
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The big day has finally come: once again, it's time to head back to first world comfort; a journey that will take 48 hours. The ride starts with an expensive taxi to the Colombo airport. This is where I realize that riding in a car is not much safer than riding on a bike. Our driver is weaving through traffic and passing on blind corners whilst leaning on the horn: I guessing that avoids head-on collisions. The road is busy till we get to the brand new highway linking Galle and Colombo. Because it costs money there is virtually no traffic. It's smooth sailing for about an hour and a half. It could have been shorter but the driver kept driving way under the speed limit. After witnessing his psychotic driving I sit there puzzled.<br />
- The speed limit is 100 km/h I tell him.<br />
The driver replies by telling me that he is too scared to go 100 km/h. <br />
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Fast forward to Paris. Everything seemed to be going smoothly. With our luggage picked up, it's onto the TGV where we figure we are home free. As I lean back into my seat, I tell myself that I can finally relax. The problem is that we forgot the icing on our travel cake. As the ticket controller makes his rounds, he stumbles onto our bikes. Scornful and unhappy he calls us over. Apparently, bikes are not allowed on the TGV and it's a 160 euro fine for each. He also tells us that we will have to get off at the next station. France has always been drowning in its rules and regulations. You will never find anyone that can tell you exactly what's going on. They will always tell you the facts as if they’re carved in stone but it boils down to the personality of the person in charge: just like in the third world! The only difference is that things look a little bit cleaner around here: but for some reason, the stench remains. Luckily, another controller comes by who is a little "nicer". He tells us that if we pay the fine for one bike, he will make sure we get to Aix-en-Provence. Wanting to avoid the nightmare of being dropped off in the middle of nowhere I hand him the money. Now comes the chocolate sprinkles: the train is unable to stop at Aix because someone collapsed and died on the platform. Yet another tragedy that makes us sad for the family. For us, on to the next station we go to catch another train back to our destination. Once there, my parents' friends pick us up just has our rope reaches its end. Merci, Cathy et Jean-Jo, pour votre hospitalité!<br />
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The next day, it's a short car ride to Volonne, our final destination in France, where we will spend the next three months.<br />
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So, did India break us? No, but I think Sri Lanka did. On the positive side, I am proud of what we have accomplished with the documentation of this trip. Also, we have learned what type of cyclists we are. After travelling in this crowded part of the world, we have come to realize that we prefer the true lonely planet: wilderness, open spaces and wild camping.<br />
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<i>Michèle comments: Naw, we know that you care... and we thank you for following us in our travels. Your comments on our blog posts, your emails, and just knowing that you were out there somewhere reading our blog helped us so much to keep going.</i><br />
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All of our Sri Lanka photos are <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/117765925657915962311/SriLanka2012#">here.</a></div>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-46376658449836660172012-04-06T02:48:00.002-07:002012-04-08T21:19:48.823-07:00Pockets of paradise<b>February 18, 2012 - March 1, 2012</b><br /><br />After the fiasco in Kantale we head towards a town called Nilaveli where there's supposed to be a nice beach. On the way we see another wild elephant but this time there is an electric fence between us and the nature reserve. Many of these nature reserves have electric fences to prevent elephants from roaming. Not sure why, it would be a great way to reduce the number of tuk tuks in this country. Anyway, the fences looks like an electric fence for cattle, except bigger and with a much higher voltage.<br /><br />When finally in Nilaveli, we check into a proper guesthouse. The manager is an honest man who serves us delicious food by the handful for a good price. That night, we stuff ourselves to make up for our horrible experience in Kantale. <br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: The manager at the absurd guesthouse in Kantale had told us that 1000 rupees is the price for one person's meal. At Nilaveli, we were fed more than we could possibly eat of chicken or fish curry, rice, salad and at least three vegetable curries, all for 350 roupees per person. And fresh fruit for dessert. We felt redeemed. Even the palm squirrels were well sated in Nilaveli.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/chgk0qsRym" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-fJr0kurZYk4/T2rNaXU27kI/AAAAAAAABYY/ryvF4m9_Pcc/s512/DSC02569.JPG" /></a><br /><br />With a comfortable room, a bar and good food, we decide to stay a few days. The guesthouse is next to a beach that Trashy Planet calls "... a beach you can only dream of". Well, your dreams will come true if you're wishing for a swim. Aside from that, the beach leaves you hanging. It has more dead sea life than road kill on the highway, and most other guesthouses look like gorilla army compounds; fully equipped with security guards and barbed wire. Despite the warm water, David is a bit disappointed: he has been hauling his snorkelling equipment, including a four-pound weight belt, since India; the snorkelling remains few and far between. <br /><br />David and I head to the main town, Trincomalee. This town is unique as you can see herds of wild deer roaming the city. They are very tame and you can almost walk up and pet them.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/vTvNZL6X7m" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-c58lTSzijH4/T2rNeGO-TGI/AAAAAAAABYo/xMD9TWeHiOQ/s512/DSC02578.JPG" /></a><br /><br />After too many pictures of the deers, we cycle up a hill to a view point. At the top is another temple. I know that I said I was not going to visit anymore temples but we are more interested in the view. At the entrance, a security guard tells us that we must take our shoes off and leave them behind. So, we put our shoes beside our bikes. After we make our rounds and take a few cliché pictures we find ourselves back at the bikes. There's only one problem; no shoes! We ask the security guard where our shoes are and he points to the funniest scam yet. Someone has grabbed our shoes and put them with the "Shoe Watching Service". This is where you leave your shoes to have some jackass watch over them while you go to the temple; a service we did not ask for. A little pissed off, we grab our shoes and head back to our bikes. Then, one of the guys comes up to us and, you guessed it, asks for money. <br />- 20 rupees, 20 rupees he says!<br />Flabbergasted and awestruck, David and I call upon the gods of assholiness to have a good laugh at the guy's request. Then, we unlock our bikes and ride off while all the other scammers at the "Shoe Watching Service" are yelling:<br />- Money, money, money!<br />Fools, don't they know that god will reimburse them! Or, they could just ask Mr Mahinda for a small percentage of the fees that tourists have to pay to get into nature reserves and historical sites. I'm sure there is 20 rupees on that pile of cash. As for us, we roll away thinking that two can play at the scam game.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/KmbF1RIyTa" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-e8CLSWlCPLE/T3rgXgLbg0I/AAAAAAAABdY/9ZQXudjAifo/s512/DSC02588.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Back at the guesthouse it's time to get the bill. The cook, a young pretty woman, adds it all up for us and of course it doesn't add up. So, we ask to speak to the manager who is an old man with many missing teeth. As we wait for him to show up, David asks the young woman if the manager is her father. <br />- No she says.<br />Then, David asks if he is her husband. If her skin wasn't so dark her face would have turned beet red as she runs off into the kitchen with every staff member laughing hysterically. When the manager shows up we remind him of the prices he quoted us and he ajusts the bill.<br /><br />Once everything is straightened out, we leave the luxury of the guesthouse to get back to cycling and all its discomforts. For me it's a perpetual sore ass and a pinched shoulder. The ride is mostly flat and uninteresting as we cycle south down the east coast. Aside from counting kilometres I entertain myself by counting the number of times I see an advertisement for Hutch, Dialog or airtel; some of Sri lankan cell phone networks. Michèle is bored too and for the first time during this trip she puts on her ipod to kill the time and drown out stupid comments from the locals. However, we do get a few nice view points and a hint of something that we have been curious about: the 2004 tsunami. More on that later.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/t6QDg2aU8U" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4hU_VbR8fFs/T3633x0hPdI/AAAAAAAABdo/4rjJWnNgVGs/s512/DSC02603.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/U6PsRBRvMr" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-1NYvsivAZKE/T2rNm8F0gmI/AAAAAAAABZQ/J9V7QVsFY-w/s512/DSC02601.JPG" /></a><br /><br />At sun down it's once again time to find a place for the night. The only guesthouse in the area was destroyed by the tsunami. So, our only option is to camp. We try our luck at a Hindu temple. The guru looking guys give us the ok, but the only problem is that there is some sort of celebration. That means very loud music over treble-y speakers for god knows how long. We keep cycling and we find ourselves at a hospital where the grass is flat and freshly cut. David goes and asks the head doctor for permission and ends up taking a good 20 minutes. Turns out that the head doctor is a hot, young Sri Lankan woman who studied medicine in Australia. She gives us permission and once the tent is up, I head straight for bed feeling yet another cold coming on. Off in the distance we can still hear the Hindu temple blaring out gibberish and tabla.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/DGWZa9dxD8" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-RblpwLiSIxo/T367Q8WjZZI/AAAAAAAABd4/1NhonmO9tew/s512/DSC02593.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Next morning it's back on our bikes. Now bored of counting billboards I play a little game called Symmetrical Greeting. This involves greeting someone in the same manner as received. Usually, it involves yelling back something incomprehensible, saying hello in a mocking manner or just saying hello. I also try to have a little fun with one south Asia's annoying habits; standing there and staring. When we stop for a rest and a crowd gathers, I will go up to Michèle or David and stand there with an exaggerated vacant look on my face, following their every move. With Michèle laughing hysterically the crowd probably thinks we are crazy (or just assholes) and usually disperses. Yes, I am slowly losing my sanity. Michèle is much stronger and still hangs on to hers.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: As we were packing up camp at the hospital the next morning, a garbage fire near the front entrance was billowing its smoke into the main building.<br />- For the asthma patients, David said.<br />Nevertheless, we were grateful for a place to stay the night and thankful that we weren't at the hospital as patients. We stopped by to thank the doctor again and went back onto the boring east coast road. I had been eagerly awaiting to cycle that road, having heard that it was newly paved after the tsunami and the war, and that it was relatively free of traffic. Newly paved it was, and with new bridges as recent as last October. But there was just as much dangerous traffic as always, and not much lovely countryside scenery to make it worthwhile. I later heard a more accurate description of that road as "one continuous village." It was a struggle to stay smiling in the face of boredom and disappointment. But I was determined to smile and wave in return for any greeting that appeared genuinely friendly. Those usually came from really young children; so adorable with their big grins and enthusiastic waves that made their whole bodies shake. How long, I wonder, before someone teaches them to fleece the foreigner.</em><br /><br />We veer off from riding the east coast to go inland to a town called Ampara. The only thing there is a pagoda that has an elephant crossing. According to Trashy Planet, wild elephants go there every night. So, we head there and wait for a few hours but the only animals we end up seeing are a cat and dogs. Cute as the were, we leave disappointed. As we pass by a house a man says to us:<br />- Be careful of wild elephants!<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/jWuhABDyBg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Tw8az_WixPw/T2rNlEa0-DI/AAAAAAAABZI/QDPsbujyqa4/s512/DSC02597.JPG" /></a><br /><br />The next day we get to Arugambay and hook up with a cheap room. My newly found cold is in full swing and our travel fatigue is getting heavier. I peel myself out of bed to get some lunch. As we walk down the main strip, there is a minivan filled with young men who are aiming a camera at us. Michèle crosses the road and sure enough the camera follows her. It's another pathetic display of south Asia's obsession with white women. Tired and frustrated to have our pictures taken without permission for the last six months, Michèle gives the finger. To them, it's all a fucking big joke. We're just tourists and there won't be repercussions; not today. The straw breaks my back again and I slap the camera out of the guy's hand. The rest is boiled madness. The whole thing comes to an end with the voice of reason telling me that I will not be able to leave this country if I kill someone. As we walk away, four police officers are having a good old knee-slapping laugh at the situation.<br /><br />Later on, a local sympathises with me and explains that he is married to a foreign woman and that this sort of thing happens to them all the time. <br />- Do not worry about these men. They are stupid he tells me.<br />It gives me a boost in morale to have someone on my side. I thank the man and explain to him that we have been travelling for a long time and that the culture shock is getting to us. <br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Each day our nerves frayed a bit more. The pocket of paradise that we had found with the food in Nilaveli seemed like a distant memory. Little annoyances loomed like overwhelming traumas: like, in one guesthouse toilet, getting soaked by the fire-hose gush of water when the toilet spray nozzle broke off; and having a huge airborne cockroach in our room that was ridiculously hard to catch even though it was so slow in flight. The difference in travelling styles between us and David was becoming more pronounced. We already knew that he had way more energy than the two of us combined. We were already used to him racing ahead of us, then waiting for us at a roadside shop that sold chilled coke. Then, maybe my paranoia setting in, but it seemed on a couple of occasions that he was trying to ditch us: racing way farther ahead and then stopping in a less than obvious spot, his bicycle hidden from view. Are these symptoms of travel fatigue? I want to reread those books about long-term cycling tours that I had read before this trip. I don't remember the authors writing about falling apart mentally. It could have been in there, only that I didn't want to notice it at the time. We would eventually find David at his new favourite place to stop: at a Food City, a local grocery store chain that had extreme air-conditioning and freezers full of ice cream.</em><br /><br /><em>Benoit's hacking cough lingered on. Plus he was dropping too much weight. More than just the normal skinnifying effect of cycling. His face was scarily gaunt; his cheeks hollowed in. The same thing happened to him in Indonesia, he admitted, when he got sick of the food and stopped eating. The intense heat was getting to us too. It's hard to keep your cool when you're in a full sweat and you haven't even had your breakfast. I especially am not built for this climate. My legs get a nasty prickly heat rash when I ride in these sweltering temperatures. I ran out of sunscreen (because I have to reapply it like a million times a day) and bought a new one that was supposed to be SPF 60. It was more like SPF Zero and left me with a painful blistering burn. That tube of sunscreen went in the garbage. To be burned later, I guess.</em><br /><br />After incident with the minivan, we head to a guesthouse restaurant. At one of the tables is a British man whose sister is the owner of the guesthouse. The man is portly, chain smokes and seems to drink beer by the gallon. He also talks like a geek with a spitting lisp who has taken too much speed. On his laptop are all sorts of British comedy clips that we have forgotten about. This give us another boost in morale as we watch Eddie Izzard, The Two Ronnies and some others whose names we can't remember. He fills us in on all sorts of Sri Lankan gossip; like how corrupt the government is and how Sri Lanka is trying to become a luxurious tourist destination like the Maldives ... good luck. <br /><br />On a more serious note, he tells us about the tsunami and how his sister and her husband were in it. At Arugambay, there was seven waves in total; the biggest one measuring fifteen feet. At the time, a marine biologist was staying at the guest house. Feeling that something was not right the marine biologist says:<br />- I think we should get the fuck out of here.<br />They all barely get to the front gate when the first wave hits them. All of them were taken more than a kilometre inland and survived with some major wounds from the debris. Another guy later tells us that he lost 25 members of his family.<br /><br />After a few days in Arugambay it's time to leave again but not for us. I have a bad cold, so Michèle and I decide to stay for a week. David will go ahead and meet back up with us in 10 days. As for us, we move to a nicer guest house where there is Wi-fi. Our days are spent catching up on internet and planning our exit of Sri Lanka.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/DZVY0NY3Hg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-mr4YTIzfGbQ/T2rNqQA49VI/AAAAAAAABZg/92utaYUv00o/s512/DSC02607.JPG" /></a>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-82475269485533521472012-03-27T23:54:00.007-07:002012-03-29T21:47:45.689-07:00Sri Lanka's animals<b>February 8, 2012 - February 17, 2012</b><br /><br />Glad to leave Mudhahl's place, we hit the road to find that it's super busy. The worst are the buses that go as fast as they can to get a few extra customers. They constantly overtake and head straight for you without slowing down. For us, it's more close calls to add to the pile. When cycling gets this dangerous you question why you are doing it. Fortunately, the GPS takes us onto a quiet road. It's not too interesting but at least it has no traffic. We can now relax and enjoy the tropical farm land and wave to the confused locals.<br /><br />Michèle has another cold. She would have liked another rest day but couldn't take another day at Mudhahl's place. To add insult to discomfort the skies darken and monsoon rain starts to come down.<br /><br /><a style="CLEAR: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="http://goo.gl/photos/06YdPL69dR" imageanchor="1"><img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-cyOGEKv06Is/T2F6YQOPjZI/AAAAAAAABTs/gWSoPum3Ah8/s512/DSC02455.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We stop at the first guesthouse we find. The room is damp and smells mouldy but at least we are out of the rain. The manager seems nice enough. Later that night, he drives us to a restaurant so that we can get dinner. The next day, Michèle is still sick and needs another day's rest. So, David and I go to tell the manager that we will stay one more night. This is where we get another session of scamology. The guy tells us that the price he quoted for the room was the night price. Now, we must pay the day price. Trying not to laugh in his face we explain to him that it's not going to happen. After a short argument, he backs off. Sri Lanka is a country where you have to be on your toes. The bill is always more than the sum of its parts: it seems that more often than not, people will try to scam you despite the big smiles and the hellos.<br /><br />Once Michèle is feeling better, we leave our mouldy guesthouse to cycle to the Ritigali nature reserve. We were hoping to see wild elephants but we just end up seeing dung.<br /><br /><a style="CLEAR: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="http://goo.gl/photos/RHpBMCIOJ4" imageanchor="1"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-TFSe15_7GX8/T2F6anSRJqI/AAAAAAAABT0/5FUuyi1q9C8/s512/DSC02457.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Maybe that's a good thing because wild elephants are very dangerous; charging you when you get too close: more on that later. At the entrance of the nature reserve is an ancient stone path built by Buddhist monks some 2000 years ago. They were probably looking for a little peace and quiet on their journey to Nirvana. A silence long gone: making way for the blaring horns from anything motorized.<br /><br /><a style="CLEAR: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="http://goo.gl/photos/5Gy8usOzIz" imageanchor="1"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-v3OJC4BQZX4/T2F6cy2I8-I/AAAAAAAABT8/ZgwjAdbHkeU/s512/DSC02460.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The path eventually stops and turns into a regular hiking trail. At the start of the trail is a sign saying that Ritigali is a strict nature reserve and a permission is needed to proceed further. It was tempting to keep going, knowing full well that permission just means giving someone money. However, we agree with the concept of a strict nature reserve so we end up turning back.<br /><br />Back at the entrance of the nature reserve is an old man that drops his current affairs to waddle towards us.<br />- Money, money, money he says.<br />The old man has about four teeth left. All of them rotten to the core. Being a dentist, this is the first thing that David notices.<br />- Hi, I'm a dentist and I really want to pull those out for you David says. If I had my forceps, I would do it for free.<br /><br />Back on our bikes and back to the busy road. I spend most of my time either counting kilometres or looking in my rear view mirror. We do get a treat however: a set of tamed elephants out for a bath in a river.<br /><br /><a style="CLEAR: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="http://goo.gl/photos/ETpVRG0Ajp" imageanchor="1"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Pq15X6cK0Ug/T2F6g6-K95I/AAAAAAAABUM/ORFx4da1ttU/s512/DSC02466.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We stop to take a few pictures and much to my surprise, no-one is asking us for money which would have given me great pleasure to refuse to pay. We do get an offer of riding the elephant for $20 for half an hour. We declined the offer.<br /><br />At the next guesthouse, our host is a nice middle aged woman who seems very honest. She does, however, say the odd thing.<br />- Couples here no problem. I rent room few hours. I have permit!<br />We give her a chance and try her food which ends up being way too salty. So, the next day, David and I head to town to look at our food options. At one restaurant, a slime bucket tout comes up to us offering all sorts of services like massages and elephant rides. I ignore him but David, with his inquisitive nature, listens to what the tout has to say.<br />- How much for the massage, David asks.<br />- 2000 rupees for regular ... 2500 with happy ending.<br />Feeling like a slime bucket myself, I ask him if I can get the happy ending on the elephant ride. He gives me a confused look and tells me that it's not possible. Apparently, he's never heard of sarcasm.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: With the monsoon rain, lots of water. With the water, lots of mosquitos. The guesthouse where we stayed in Habarana had an astounding number of the biting beasts. A gecko hanging out in our room had a big pink belly full with all the skitter goodness. Our room for three had two "double beds" that might be considered to be that size if you were a hobbit. But Benoît and I thought, why not, it'll be cozy. We draped the mosquito net over the bed (almost all the guesthouses in Sri Lanka have mosquito nets) and tucked into sleep. There wasn't quite enough room for the two of us on that bed. I awoke the next morning with what looked like a bad case of knee acne. My knees must have been pressed up against the mosquito net as I slept. Hundreds of bites! We pushed the bed up against the wall to make room to set up our tent. The sweet woman running the guesthouse noticed my knees. Soon she found me some ayurvedic balm to put on the bites. And she brought us tray after tray of Ceylon tea with a nice ginger zing.</em><br /><br /><a style="CLEAR: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="http://goo.gl/photos/N0KNI1wAuk" imageanchor="1"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-nSB9fO2V50I/T2F6mCzLtaI/AAAAAAAABUk/wwl450uP1pQ/s512/DSC02480.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><em>I was still feeling like crap with my cold. Benoît had come down with a cold too. David rode to town one night to fetch us a meal of short eats and came back in a bad mood. His torch was missing. The first time in all his travels that he has lost anything. He suspected that someone stole it while he was buying dinner. That thought changed him. Instead of the perpetually happy David that we are used to, it has become No More Mister Nice Guy. He yelled at a restaurant owner for trying to charge inflated prices for a lukewarm rice and curry. He even refused a Sri Lankan man requesting a photo. So unlike David. I was beginning to worry about him. At least he was still engaging the locals in conversation, as in the time a tuk tuk pulled up beside us:<br />- Where are you going? asked the driver.<br />- Fifty metres from here, replied David.<br />- Tuk tuk?<br />- How much for 50 metres?<br />- 200 rupees, said the driver. (We think this should be the price for 100 times that distance.)<br />- How about free? How about some Sri Lankan hospitality? asked David with a big smile.<br />- Bye, was the answer and the guy drove off.</em><br /><br />We jump on our bikes to head towards Polonnaruwa. We take the highway, which has a nice shoulder: allowing us to be more relaxed and enjoy the scenery. The road goes through a nature reserve and as I come around a bend, I come face to face with a wild elephant. Just like a moose in Newfoundland, the elephant runs into the forest as soon as he sees me. I stop and turn around to see if I can get another glimpse. By this point Michèle is with me and we both look into the jungle. Sure enough, the elephant is about 30 metres in. Then, he turns around quickly to face us. He moves slightly forward and all of a sudden, he makes a grunting sound and charges us with the cliché trumpet sound we know so well from nature shows.<br />- Let's get the fuck out of here I yell to Michèle in a panic.<br />Michèle turns her bike around and almost gets hit by an on coming car. We get on our bikes and pedal as hard as we can. Luckily, the elephant was only giving us a warning but for the next hour, we were both checking over our shoulders every two minutes.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: I was worried about being pancaked by the wild elephant and then in my rush to flee I was almost pancaked by a van. Thank goodness the van driver was quick on the brake. I must have twisted a muscle in my back when I hauled the 40 or so kilos of my bike in that sharp about-face. By that evening in Polonnaruwa I could barely move from the spasms of pain. The shooting pains disappeared the next day, only to be replaced by a stiffness that lasted for a week. Despite my injury I felt that we were lucky to have had that encounter with a wild elephant. It certainly taught us respect! Keep your distance and give them their space.</em><br /><br /><a style="CLEAR: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="http://goo.gl/photos/7KgdvRyx5d" imageanchor="1"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4mJaHfYlKss/T2F6-pxrC3I/AAAAAAAABWE/wb_1o1gnfo0/s512/DSC02526.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In Polonnaruwa the weather turn to shit. That doesn't stop David from going sight-seeing at yet more Buddhist ruins. As for me and Michèle, we end up doing nothing because we are tired of churches, mosques, temples, dagobas and any other religious shrine that may exist. We much prefer encounters with nature, like almost getting trampled by a wild elephant.<br /><br /><a style="CLEAR: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="http://goo.gl/photos/0lhrJvT28h" imageanchor="1"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ZOJZVhTIGvs/T2F7E2oG6GI/AAAAAAAABWc/k1CCiZwPssQ/s512/DSC02537.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We leave Polonnaruwa without seeing anything but we don't really care. Back on the bikes it's towards Trincomalee that we ride. The map shows a secondary road that goes through a nature reserve. On the way is another ancient Buddhist temple ... OK, one more temple and that's it. On our way in, compassion becomes a mere buzz word as a young dog lies by the side of the path leading to the temple. His rear legs seem to be paralyzed and the only thing he can do is inch himself forward with his front paws. He does however manage to wag his tail slightly as we stop to look at him. We give the dog some comforting words ... not knowing what else we can do.<br /><br />At the temple, a tout is totally confused to see us arriving on bikes. He asks us where our tour bus is, if we want a guide and if we have our tickets. We all ignore him and David and I head in to have a look at the temple. Michèle stays behind. The sight of the paralyzed dog and the constant scamming is not sparking any interest in religion at this point. Off in the distance, the Buddha has nothing to say. Why would he, he is just a chiseled piece of rock.<br /><br /><a style="CLEAR: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="http://goo.gl/photos/cdmMtSrvR3" imageanchor="1"><img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Q6Uh4R_XOus/T2rNJAHAqLI/AAAAAAAABXY/lMMfY_6DOdw/s512/DSC02550.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We hang out for half an hour, taking pictures. At one point, the tout freaks out and runs towards me because I forget to take off my shoes to entering the temple. When it's time to leave we see that the paralyzed dog has managed to move himself in the shade: a comfortable place to wait for reincarnation.<br /><br />As for us, we pedal towards the jungle in the hope to find the secondary road towards Kantale. The road gets muddier and muddier to the point where there is so much mud in our mud guards that our wheels are completely blocked.<br /><br /><a style="CLEAR: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="http://goo.gl/photos/lTjc1P78u4" imageanchor="1"><img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-mZnF9XpGuoE/T2rNK0xDQHI/AAAAAAAABXg/UhoQikAc2g8/s512/DSC02557.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We turn around to head back the way we came. All the locals that tried to tell us not to go are laughing as we ride by. I am starting to get sick of being a subject of entertainment. In most of the countries we’ve been to, you are considered to be a clown for travelling on a bike. The poor man does not miss the opportunity to break the monotony of his daily life by displaying all sorts of annoying behaviours. The worst are kids who can go as far as throwing rocks or, like for David, getting his rear reflector smashed by a cricket bat. At the beginning you laugh it off. But it slowly eats away at you and after two years you are ready to get into a fist fight over some of these unwittingly disrespectful acts.<br /><br />That said, Michèle’s day is not getting any better. It’s funny, it’s always the smallest thing that makes you lose it. After the scams, the dog and the mud, Michèle rides through a puddle. The result is more mud in her mud guards. She throws down her bike down and walks off for a twenty minute walk-about. David and I patiently wait. I am glad that I’m not the only one that can blow a spaz.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: I was all gung ho for the ride on the jungle road. Even with a fluttery-heart fear of encountering another wild elephant. By the time we realized that the mud was becoming more like quicksand, my bicycle wheels were fused to immobility and I had to drag it to get the damn thing to move. That probably helped to prolong whatever injury I had done to my back. With a stick and the last remnants of motivation I had in me, I degunked the mud from my tires so that my bike would roll. When I saw a puddle coming up, I thought that by riding through it, I could clear out even more of the mud. I rolled into it... and got stuck. Then something in me snapped. I was hopping mad, literally!</em><br /><br />We end up staying in another guesthouse whose beds were too small and the next day, we ride through more forests to get back to the main road. This time we didn't get stuck in the mud.<br /><br /><a style="CLEAR: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 1em; MARGIN-LEFT: 1em" href="http://goo.gl/photos/6956FtbwwF" imageanchor="1"><img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Vzc74NCAEXQ/T2rNT-MOISI/AAAAAAAABYA/uSpps6EfQ0s/s512/DSC02562.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We don't get to Kantale till the evening where our guesthouse has, what I like to call, 5 star envy. The price of the room is what it should be but we make the mistake of ordering dinner. With no menu we order an assortment of dishes and we tell the guy that a meal for three people should not cost more the 1000 rupees: a sum that could feed six or seven people at a road side restaurant. It takes them hours to prepare the food and when it finally comes there is barely enough for one person. We ask the guy when the rest is coming and he tells us that this is the amount you get for 1000 rupees. So, another argument breaks out. Starving from the day's ride I tell the guy that Sri Lanka is not part of Europe and that they cannot justify these kinds of prices. The guy stands there defiant and tells me that Europeans stay at the guesthouse all the time and that everyone pays 1000 rupees per person. By this point, everything in the village is closed and we go to bed hungry.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: This guesthouse experience was bordering on the absurd. That afternoon, our host asked if we would like coffee or tea. It sounded like it was complimentary. Not so: it ended up on the bill. Little did we know when we said yes to coffee for the next morning that we would be woken out of a deep sleep for this delightful service. Knock knock knock we heard. It couldn't be for us. The knocks got louder and more insistent.<br />- Who is it? I asked, finally awake and pissed off about it.<br />- (Knock knock again.)<br />- WHAT?!? I yelled this time.<br />- Black coffee, came the answer at the door.<br />- What time is it? I asked, incredulous.<br />- 7 o'clock.<br />?!?! We ignored him and finally he went away and we went back to catching a few more zeds.</em><br /><br />In the morning we get the bill. The guy told us the previous day that there would be a service charge on the food. However, the bill shows a service charge on the room which I promptly tell him we are not paying. He starts to look worried. Not wanting to deal with it, I tell him to see David about the money. This is the time of the morning where David flosses his teeth and meticulously packs his things: a process that takes a long time. The guy paces back and forth, following David's every move; waiting for payment. At least we get entertained watching this guy wait for David. Then, finally David says:<br />- Hey, I should pay that bill!<br />David is much nicer than I am and ends up paying most of the unwarranted service charge: the bullshitting manager claiming the rest has to come out of his own pocket. Maybe he can compare notes on lamentations with Mudhahl.Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-28490235825979389982012-03-14T22:57:00.002-07:002012-04-18T08:09:21.137-07:00Sri Lanka: Monks, monkeys and money<b>January 25, 2012 - February 7, 2012</b><br /><br />In the last post we were getting ready to fly to Sri Lanka. With no consistency in protocol, we are at the mercy of the next dip-shit security officer. At the x-ray machine, the bikes won't fit flat into it. In the past we have put them sideways but this guy won't allow it. After a futile yelling match I have to unpack my bike so this idiot can do a visual inspection. He looks at the bike for about five seconds and reluctantly gives me the OK. Jokes on him, the dynamite is in the top tubes.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Travel fatigue is hitting us again. The plane hops have become our worst enemy. I have a theory about world bicycle tours: the ones that last the longest use mostly surface transport to connect the non-cycling bits. It is the arbitrariness that gets to me. At times there are policies at airports and with airlines, at times none, some are followed, some are not. Even when it works in our favour, like not getting charged an extra fee for our bicycles, the whole process is ridiculously stressful. We've become so discouraged that it has even crossed our minds to ditch the bicycles somehow, by selling them or by shipping them home by cargo. As whiny as all this sounds, I really believe that so much plane travel was a big mistake in this trip.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/UwrUyh0pyy" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JOZiaNIEFEM/T2F4gGShwUI/AAAAAAAABMc/X9_qczNT4jI/s512/DSC02273.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Once in Sri Lanka we find cheap accommodation in a town call Negombo, about thirty kilometres north of the capital, Colombo. Our first order of business is to get a visa extension. To do that we must go to the passport office. So, we pile into a jerky shit wagon that has closed blinds on all the windows. As the bus follows the sea of tuk tuks into the downtown core, I try not to vomit from the motion sickness. <br /><br />At the passport office it's the usual flock of people just itching to get out of there. We could have made full use of the corruption and pay someone to put our passports first in line but we opt for the long way. So, we wait and wait and pay and wait. I used my French passport to come in to the country. For some reason, French citizens pay less than Canadians; add to it getting into Turkey for free and the stupid thing has finally paid itself off.<br /><br />When finally finished, we climb into another shit wagon to go back to Negombo. Yes, there is motion sickness in that direction too and because it's rush hour, it takes two hours for the bus to do the 30 kilometres. Once arrived, I have a headache and nausia and it feels like I've cycled all day; we decide to stay one more night.<br /><br />When we get up, David tells us that the previous night a geezer came into the guest house with three young Sri Lankan men and a bottle of booze. They all went into a room and locked the door. We didn't hear anything but in the morning, while doing my laundry, I overhear the old man on the phone:<br />- Hello Jimmy, we have nice party last night. We have nice party tonight OK? Bye.<br />This won't be the last time we see old white males (and females) accompanied by one or several young Sri Lankan men. I guess it's two types of desperation that complement each other.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/lCjj7OA3lD" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-HZ-GMx2POpE/T2F48kTN8jI/AAAAAAAABN0/DRVIog7Y06Q/s512/DSC02303.JPG" /></a><br /><br />The next day is our first day of cycling in Sri Lanka. We follow a coastal road all the way to a town called Chilaw. Once there, we have lunch which included a delicious pineapple curry. Afterwards, we head to the train station to use the one and only public washroom. On the steps of the station is a giant monitor lizard. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/n78uX3iPG3" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-VRSR9woor2A/T2F5C6DFT-I/AAAAAAAABOM/rzv9i2GkwGA/s512/DSC02309.JPG" /></a><br /><br />We carefully take a few pictures, keeping in mind that one bite from this guy will induce an incurable infection. Unfortunately, the lizard is not the only freak there. A guy who is either drunk or drugged is sticking to me like shit to shoes; he winks and motions with his head to follow him. I ignore him and when Michèle gets back from the washroom, he starts staring at her. Then, he gets frustrated and grabs my wrist. I easily break his hold and he walks off yelling some gibberish. Maybe he would have had better luck with the geezer in Negombo.<br />- This place is full of CHUDs David says (Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers, a cheap horror film from the eighties about creatures living in the New York sewer system). <br /><br />We get the hell away from the train station to look for a place to rest for a few hours. We turn onto the grounds of a Buddhist temple and ask if we can take a load off. The head monk is very kind, the way Buddhists should be. He offers us tea, fruit and sweets. After an hour of rest, he shows us around the temple. First showing us a set of old Buddhist scrolls that were hand written several hundred years ago. Then, he takes us to a meditation room filled with sculptures in explosive colours: the buddha in the centre is connecting heaven and earth with the glow behind his head.<br /><br />It's time to say goodbye to the monk but first it's fresh coconut water right off the tree. Then we are back on our bikes and the race is on for a place to crash for the night. As the daylight leaves us so does the enjoyment of travelling. We try our luck at another Buddhist temple and get permission to camp. Tonight, it's bread and jam for dinner but at least we have a place to relax.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/E8jj7UphKM" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-ehstarjE61c/T2F5GNkwR5I/AAAAAAAABOc/dT5ksQJV2GY/s512/DSC02313.JPG" /></a><br /><br />The next morning we pack up, but before we leave, we go say thanks to the monks. Turns out camping is not free. It was the day before but now the caretaker wants 600 rupees; claiming that many people camp here and they all pay this amount. We reluctantly give him the money and ask to speak to the head monk. <br />- He doesn't speak English he says.<br />This all feels very fishy and since it is the caretaker asking us for the money, we figure that the fix is on. It's a small amount so we pay it and leave but Michèle is upset at the false sense of generosity.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: After meeting the kind monk at the temple in Chilaw, I realized something that has been missing. The encounters with generous people reinfuse us with much-needed energy and help to combat the travel blues. They also inspire us to be generous to others and to pay forward the kindness that we have received. But when the generosity rings false as in the case with the second temple, it brings back my cynicism. I had been so happy that this trip was restoring my faith in the goodness of the world. Not anymore. My gut told me that there was something not right about a Buddhist monastery asking for a fee to stay the night. Especially when there was no mention of it the night before. So there I was, NOT believing what the caretaker at the monastery was telling us. That left me distressed and numb, not wanting to be present here in Sri Lanka, not wanting to smile, to say hello, nothing. Eventually I got over it. It helped that we met a nice family in Kandakuli who let us stay a couple of nights for free in their unfinished guesthouse. If you are ever in the area, their guesthouse is probably ready for business by now: ask for Neel Sudath Kithsiri or his daughter Nimasha who speaks a bit of English.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/0L6CP1069h" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7NlGrb3wgQA/T2F5UTgsBFI/AAAAAAAABPM/Sx-up_27P-g/s512/DSC02330.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Up early to grab an overpriced boat to Bar Reef. The small motorcraft pounds our asses for an hour as we go upwind 15 kilometres. With the sea sickness not far away, we all jump into the water. The reef is in good condition and there are a lot of fish. There are some signs of general ignorance; fishing nets dragged across the reef; boats that dropped anchor anywhere they pleased. However, our boatman is very cautious and anchors on a sandy patch. He also tells us not to touch the reef. Back in the water, our six dollar snorkelling equipment starts to show its quality: within minutes, both our mask and snorkel are taking in water. This cuts our time in the water; Michèle and I get back to the boat to work on our sea sickness. Later, David comes back in after seeing two sharks. Now all of us are sea sick and the lunch that we brought no longer looks appetizing. David suggests we go back to shore. Then he says:<br />- I feel funny, and vomits.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/JF4tzhLQn9" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qKxEb5rYKYc/T2F5c9z5RLI/AAAAAAAABP8/H8Ysz-uaMnA/s512/DSC02344.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Back on the road, and at a rest stop, a man waves me over. I look at him with a suspicious eye. He kneels down and opens a basket. Inside is a live cobra. He pokes the snake several times to provoke it so that it stands erect with its oval body underneath its head. He motions to me to take some pictures. Sri Lankans are not very nice to animals; the stray dogs are the worst we've seen yet. Like the one with a tumour the size of a 30 ounce steak hanging off its ass: the owner kicks it out of the way to make room for us to enter his restaurant. Or the ones so mangy that they look like armadillos. Or even better, the one with the front paw so broken that it points up; you would think it was "Staying Alive". Sri Lankans also feed wild animals to attract tourists. I give the snake guy a disapproving glare and shake my head from side to side. He quickly packs up and leaves.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Daily my heart breaks when I see the sad state of the dogs here. My sister, a veterinarian, read with horror one of our posts from India about a dying puppy. Even though in Sri Lanka I have seen veterinary clinics and educational posters about the humane treatment of animals, the reality on the street is something else. I told her since that I actually feel relief, instead of sadness, when I see a dead puppy at the roadside; relief that it has been spared the misery of a torturous life. My sister was inspired to offer her services to organizations working with veterinarians in the developing world. A huge problem in these countries and I applaud every step in trying to solve it.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/39YL99rnM7" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-hgoDkw1FemI/T42AHeGm2EI/AAAAAAAADpU/toAxqhu7jko/s512/LiannaVolunteering.jpg" /></a><br /><center><em>In the meantime, Dr Lianna volunteering at home in Canada</em></center><br /><br />On Feb 4th we get on our bikes to ride to Anuradhapura. Today is Sri Lanka's independence day and it's just our luck that the president and every imaginable Sri Lankan government official is heading to the same place we are. The Sri Lankan president is named Mahinda. In pictures, he looks very friendly, with his bright smile and thick moustache: you want to put your arm around him and sing For He's a Jolly Good Fellow. The thing I find strange is that he is democratically elected and yet he is already on the money. However, some Sri Lankans don't seem to mind.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/gvu5b5KG6N" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-_Jw5Xq65ehM/T2F7H6ZoeMI/AAAAAAAABWs/4RUSqGKqoiM/s512/DSC02724.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/yRBfS4cQ1U" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-sicPD6iGCxE/T2F7G2W0qtI/AAAAAAAABWk/nLPDw5AP0y8/s512/DSC02605.JPG" /></a><br /><br />Anyway, Mahinda flew in to Anuradhapura, unveiled a symbolic monument and quickly went home. What he left behind is booked accommodation and inflated prices. <br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: About that Mahinda sign: One of the staff at a guesthouse approached us with a marker and a piece of cardboard. He wanted our help in making a sign for a protest that would be happening that day. Something about US involvement in Sri Lankan affairs. He first wanted us to write "Keep off Mahinda freedom". We told him that we didn't know what that meant. In basic English he told us his opinion of his country's president. So that is what I wrote for him on his protest sign. He seemed really pleased.</em><br /><br />Tired from UN and government vehicles passing us at 150 km/h, we get to Anuradhapura to find that every hotel is full. Outside an expensive hotel, one of the employees tells us that his uncle, Mudhahl (not his real name), has an extra room in his house. At first we are supposed to be invited but then there is some mention of money. It's all very vague but we are tired so we decide to go to Mudhahl's place. Right away I get a strange feeling from him. At first, not really knowing if we will pay him for the accommodation, we invite him for dinner and take him out for drinks. When it's time to head back, all I want to do is go to bed but when we get to Mudhahl's place, his nephew is there pounding the hard liquor. Of course we are requested to join them and after several refusals we give in. If there was ever a time where I was not into bullshit drunken compliments and pats on the back this was it. We try to keep a smile and have a few drinks. During the small talk we get a bout of first world envy: Mudhahl's nephew tells us that he would love to quit his job as the hotel accountant and move to Canada. Once in the promised land, all he would have to do is scrub toilets he tells us. His salary would be so high that he could live like a king. I don't bother correcting these types of people anymore, especially after they've had a few drinks. We smile and nod.<br /><br />Mudhahl likes to play the lamentations of the poor man. He's got the weight of the world on his shoulders. Why shouldn't he, 30 years of civil war and one tsunami has got to weigh a lot. Life is hard for Mudhahl despite owning his own house and running a business cleaning cars and renting vacuum cleaners. One afternoon, hard at work cleaning a car, Mudhahl calls over to Michèle with a face so long a thousand violins couldn't depict the misery.<br />- Look Michèle, this is my job.<br />Despite being Buddhist, Mudhahl is fascinated with every single gadget that we pull out: asking us where we got the item and of course, how much does it cost. One night, as I head out to get beer, Mudhahl wants to tag along and ride Michèle's bike. I reluctantly agree and when we get back he starts to ask us if we want to sell our bikes once we leave Sri Lanka. We beat around the bush and tell him that he wouldn't be able to find high-end bicycle parts in Sri Lanka and that he should stick with the bikes you can get here. Besides, I don't want to give him a heart attack telling him the price.<br /><br />The only redeeming thing is Mudhahl's wife: a kind-hearted woman who saw to it that we were comfortable. She also cooked us three delicious meals per day. There was also Mudhahl's young daughter that they call Baby. A happy kid that Mudhahl used in his lamentations.<br /><br />Mudhahl has all the clichés, including South Asia's fascination with fair skin.<br />- Baby loves white skin he tells me.<br />Another sentence for the shit list along with "Your country?", "What is your religion?", "Job?", and "How much this cycle?". I look at him with the desire to reply "Personally, I prefer skin with excema". I ended up saying nothing.<br />Then Mudhahl tells me<br />- Baby is going to cry when you leave. It is my problem. I will have to be there for her. <br />The next day, as we get ready to leave, Baby is all smiles; giving us homemade gifts for our journey. <br /><br />Not really knowing what to pay him, I hand over 6000 rupees for three nights of room and board. A gesture that would have insulted a Turkish or Iranian host. Mudhahl gives me a smile, shakes his head from side to side and put his hand over his heart. At one point, I thought he would say our money is no good ... he quickly pockets the cash. So much for purging want and desires. You may think I'm being harsh on Mudhahl. That's because I've haven't mentioned his master plan.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/uaQr2iPa5T" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Q7ZkB-17Adk/T2F6NzFB2fI/AAAAAAAABS8/ivkCBDaPnoU/s512/DSC02438.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: The Master Plan. Aka Mudhahl turns creepy. Upon arriving in Anuradhapura, I became sick with another cold. The second one in two months. The guys went out on bicycle to explore the ruins at Mihintale for the day. I was stuck indoors resting at the family's home trying to get better. The first hint of creepiness was when Mudhahl suggested that I stay there, as in for weeks or months, and let Benoit and David continue cycling in Sri Lanka without me. I told him no, I was not going to stay without the others. I explained that this trip is something that Benoit and I have planned for years and that our friend David has joined us for three months of the trip.<br />- Benoit is your brother? he asked.<br />- No he's my husband.<br />- But he is younger than you.<br />So what? I felt like screaming at him. But I didn't, reminding myself of cultural differences. He continually dropped not-so-subtle hints about sending gifts to his daughter from Canada. Another foreigner had stayed with them. He sent gifts at Christmas. Mudhahl yelled something to his daughter and in a moment she returned with a game in a colourful box. The evidence of the kind foreigner.<br />- I told Baby that if she is nice that you will send her gifts from Canada, he said with a smile and a nod to her. <br />There were more little things that he did and said that were very odd. Too many to describe here. What took the cake was when he started in on his Master Plan: his idea of having us move permanently to Sri Lanka where, with his help, we would open a hotel and restaurant and run package tours. Do I need to remind you that he has known us for a total of two days at this point? He started talking non-stop, new aspects to his idea fueling his tongue. The tours would start in India and continue into Sri Lanka. The tourists would visit this important site and that important site. They would stay at these hotels and in these cities, he rambled on. He had prices in mind too. Operating costs, profit margin, the works, as if he had been dreaming of this for ages and only now has seen a way to realize his dream. I tried to interrupt him, to say that what he was describing is NOT AT ALL our style of travel. Anything I said he didn't hear or would dismiss immediately.<br />- We want to return to Canada to rest after all this travel, I managed to interject.<br />- You can go there for one week or two for a holiday.<br />All he could think about was tapping into the tourist market and using us, and all our worldly contacts, to help him to do it. He was trying to sell the idea as him helping us to make money. What was underlying it, I am without a doubt, was HIS desire to make money. The main thing that I took away from that conversation, or rather monologue, was How Not To Do It.<br />As soon as Benoit and David returned, I took them aside to fill them in on the Master Plan. They were as creeped out as I was, maybe more. The next day we left under threatening skies. I was still sick with my cold, feverish and shivery. It poured rain on us that day. But ya, I would rather be riding ill in the pouring rain than spend one more moment with that guy. To end on a positive note, we met a truly hospitable Sri Lankan family that rainy day when we spied their very large veranda and ducked in for shelter. The family invited us in for tea and biscuits as we dried off. The twin daughters were English teachers and spoke beautifully. They also wanted to invite us for lunch. We wanted to stay, and perhaps we should have, but we pushed on into the rain. Thank you, Kalpana and Manoja, and your family, for your kindness!</em>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-82492339384639108502012-02-25T23:12:00.002-08:002012-02-25T23:19:25.727-08:00Coasting the Konkan all the way to the tourist oasis<b>January 10, 2012 - January 24, 2012</b><br /><br />My cold is getting better and I managed to download a GPS track that will take us all the way to Goa: things are looking up. One morning, the track takes us onto a turnoff. The road is quiet and traffic free. We go down a hill and the road gets narrower and narrower till it becomes a foot path that leads us to a beach. The beach is deserted, clean and the villagers stare at us as though they've never seen tourists. Looking down at the GPS I can see a straight line on the map all the way to the other side of the bay. Conclusion ... we have to back track to the turnoff. <br /><br />Once back on track we realize that the countryside is getting much cleaner. We pass by a picturesque river with pristine water and virtually no garbage.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/I0YqRIEIAB" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-VD7j7T2H8kM/T0nL8ezYBHI/AAAAAAAADlA/VCjU4OHZjEE/s512/DSC02144.JPG"></a><br /><br />On a bridge crossing, we encounter three british folks who are travelling in a rickshaw. They are part of a friendly race across India. In the Kormageddon, they've come all the way from Jaipur; doing a few hundred kilometres a day. We all hang out on the bridge which bounces up and down every time a truck goes by. With their british accent that omits most t's, they tell us about their adventure ... we do the same. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/cwPmDEt07R" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eiIz51Y7U0E/T0nMC7bWjCI/AAAAAAAADlQ/AElW0kFD1QI/s512/DSC02150.JPG"></a><br /><br />We are all heading towards Malwan to spend the night. I look on the GPS for some accommodation and the only thing that shows up is Hotel Swastik. India is covered in swastikas. You see them on temples, cars and houses. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/E0u7RyAyw2" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XUvP3uRGCow/T0nMqcPkz5I/AAAAAAAADmw/I-FFe9NCZv8/s512/DSC02192.JPG"></a><br /><br />I haven't done my homework on this but I believe its symbolism is far removed from the evil one we know so well. We skip Hotel Swastik and end up staying in cheap beach bungalows for three days. My cold still lingering, I refrain from swimming; sticking to walks on the beach where the eagles and crows are in a perpetual dog fight above the coconut trees and the crabs create miniature sculptures on the sand.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/42EOBnxF65" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-DiHkN-H6Xj4/T0nMOXCN62I/AAAAAAAADlo/lRQiMYSpTd0/s512/DSC02172.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/Ez3T0FuwJe" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-AAoKYfc4r-s/T0nMKz6KzkI/AAAAAAAADlg/stCCsvw2xuM/s512/DSC02170.JPG"></a><br /><br />As we leave Malwan, we take a detour to Maltaki beach; a beach all the way out on the tip of a peninsula. This gives us a late start and on the way back, we stop for lunch at a familly restaurant of questionable cleanliness: the food ends up being really tasty. Like much of India, in front of the restaurant are several cows. One of them is grazing on plastic bags as though it was Scotland green. The bags are gobbled up in one go and disappear straight towards the four stomachs. Not the most appetizing sight but we are really hungry.<br /><br />Back on the road and I'm leading the pack on a downhill. At the bottom, school just let out and kids are running all over the place; yelling out things I don't understand. I stop a ways down the road and wait for Michèle and David but no-one comes; something is wrong. I turn back and see that they are both surrounded by kids. I come up and ask:<br />- What happened?<br />David replies:<br />- I ran over a kid!<br />I look over to see Michèle patching up a child's knee. The scrape looked pretty bad but overall, he seemed okay. We pedal on.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: I was trailing the pack on that downhill, with David slightly ahead of me. I saw the whole thing when David ran over that kid. We had both slowed down because so many kids were criss-crossing the road. The kid that David would run over was crossing the road at a lazy pace. Other kids started yelling something at him. Then he did what I would call a squirrel manoeuver. If he had just kept going, even at that lazy pace, he would have made it to the other side unscathed. But like squirrels do, he turned back in the middle of crossing the road and stepped right into David's path. The kid cringed, David braked hard, but the impact was inevitable. The kid's sandals flew off and he got a nasty scrape on the knee as David's front tire rolled over him. Before the kid could get up, an older man appeared and started yelling at the poor little guy. I didn't need to know the language; the tone said it all. <br />- Do you want to get yourself killed? What if that had been a motorcycle and not a bicycle?<br />By the time I found a large enough bandage in our med kit, a crowd of a hundred curious classmates had gathered around. The kid seemed grateful for the bandage but he had a look in his eye like he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him away from all this attention. He would be okay. His embarrassment was bigger than his injury.</em><br /><br />My cold is finally over but David and I have a nasty cough which I'm blaming on the atmospheric pollution. People here tend to burn their garbage (when they get to it) and cook on open fires. Add cars and general progress to the lot and multiply by a billion. The result is smog that envelopes the whole country and probably spills over onto others. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/BU3qZchkc5" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-t2uCxKiR0Ks/TzTvO8cJiWI/AAAAAAAADfg/fsfiTIdNj3g/s512/DSC02004.JPG"></a><br /><br />So, after my four hour coughing fit during the night, we ride out bright and early. The traffic seems to get busier and at one point we get to an area that looks like a truck convention. Hundreds of them parked by the side of the road. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/84RlYJrvME" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-82m9hZHrq3I/T0nMfqa3MnI/AAAAAAAADmQ/OQEdOkMs61M/s512/DSC02186.JPG"></a><br /><br />Then we see something that we haven't seen in a long time; white people. Goa must not be far. Then, all of a sudden, it's dread locks and patchouli; hundreds of them barrelling down the road on rented scooters. We follow the flock all the way to Mandrem. Once there, we try to get orientated by asking directions from a ratty looking woman who is walking towards us. First, David asks her a question and gets completely ignored. <br />- I think that woman is French he says.<br />Then Michèle gives it a try with the same result. When the woman walks by me, I don't bother saying anything: she is not concerned with us mortals. I just watch her slowly walk toward the sunset.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: A bizarre transition as we passed from Maharashtra to Goa. First, the trucks: hundreds parked and hundreds more coming. We couldn't figure out why there were so many. Whatever the reason, it was a depressing sight. Next, the tourists on scooters, almost outnumbering the trucks. It made me extra nervous to be in that traffic: the large loud belching trucks and the tourists trying to pass them, no-one paying much attention to us little people on bicycle. Then, that snotty woman: why she was so blatantly rude, I'll never know. It was just such a striking contrast to the overly helpful Maharashtrans when it comes to giving directions.</em><br /><br />Mandrem is a nice place. On the beach are people meditating and doing sun salutations. Fifty metres away are packs of Russian tourists getting shitfaced. No need to swim fully clothed like they used to do in Europe in 1910; it's tits and ass everywhere. The restaurants are pricier but excellent, and there's wi-fi everywhere. Goa really is a tourist oasis where you can take a break from culture shock.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/nafD0QdFYu" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-phuFfLy4yBA/T0nMsakUzRI/AAAAAAAADm4/RFRwrVT5hvM/s512/DSC02199.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Goa is an escape from India while still in India. At first, it annoyed me to be amongst the droves of tourists. But then I decided to get over it and just enjoy the benefits of the tourist bubble. Having real coffee, for one thing, and sipping on tax-free, i.e., cheap, port wine, readily available in the formerly-Portuguese state. At Mandrem beach, many signs are in Russian, and even on Google maps, its name appears in cyrillic script. No wonder that place is dubbed Moscow beach.</em><br /><br />Next to our place is a puppy that is kept tied up all night. It is yelping so loud that the sound goes right through my ear plugs. After hours of trying to get to sleep, I burst out of bed cursing my face off. I reach into my pannier for my knife and storm out. I grab the puppy and wedge my knife between its neck and collar. In one stroke I slice the collar to cut him loose (you didn't thing I was going to kill a puppy did you?). Proud of my good deed I walk back to the house to finally get some sleep. The only problem now is that the puppy is at my heels. So, I slam the door in its face and head to bed. About five minutes later, the yelping starts again but this time it's right outside our window.<br /><br />Next stop is Anjuna. No nice beaches here. The only attraction for us are yet another batch of friends from Turkey and Iran. Tommie and Marie are here pursuing a yoga course that will allow them to teach. On top of it, they have left their bicycles behind and bought a motor bike. We have dinner and a few drinks, share travel stories and future plans. They give us encouragement for our summer idea: more on that later.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/SKOWvMrBBf" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-PYi51qbJ4tY/T0nMxKlIFII/AAAAAAAADnI/4NAJ5bKrILY/s512/DSC02206.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: It felt good to share the ups and downs of long-term bicycle travel with Tommie and Marie. They have been on the road from Holland since May 2011. They understand how easy it is to become discouraged and how dreams of the future are sometimes the only things that keep us going. The evening drew to a close and again we went our separate ways, saying 'au revoir' because it feels certain that we will meet yet again. Happy continued travels, you two!</em><br /><br />We leave Anjuna to go to a town called Panaji to get our Hep A booster. Despite India being a prime location for medical tourism, the vaccine cost us more than in Canada; go figure. To get to Panaji you must use the main highway which means heavy traffic or in other words... a shit ride. Once there, Michèle and David go hotel hunting while I sit quietly trying to calm my nerves from riding in heavy traffic all day. Then a man stops in front of me. "Don't ask" I say to myself, but of course he had to.<br />- Where are you from, he asks in broken English.<br />I struggle to put on a smile but a full day of blaring horns in my face prevents me.<br />- I don't remember, I tell him.<br />He gets really offended as though I was denying him something vital; then he storms off.<br /><br />Later on, the straw breaks the camel's back as the penny pinching gets to me. At a photocopy shop, we copy four passport pages onto two pieces of paper. The charge should be for two copies but the guy charges us for four. Despite the charge being next to nothing, this prompts me to scream at the guy for a good minute with veins popping out of my head. After draining my frustration, next comes the embarrassment of an uncontrolled spaz: I head straight for bed.<br /><br />The next day we leave Panaji in the midst of rush hour. Then, it's mostly heavy traffic all day as every blaring horn tries my patience. The ride is long but we get some light traffic towards the end. Once we make the turn off to Agonda, we are greeted by the one and only tree that is inhabited by hundreds of giant bats. At sunset, they all fly off in a massive flock. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/nRllKyifPZ" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-D-k6Laq4a6c/T0nNLD4TpgI/AAAAAAAADoQ/wsDfkO3xdCQ/s512/DSC02242.JPG"></a><br /><br />Agonda is another tourist oasis where the food is great and the coco-huts are cheap. Not much happens here aside from sunbathing.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/q2q5z5RT98" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-opjRsdQZTV4/T0nM7OVLVqI/AAAAAAAADno/B6YI1wMRrHA/s512/DSC02232.JPG"></a><br /><br />Woke up after a bad dream: the ferry to Sri Lanka was booked solid for months in advance. Turns out that the reality is the opposite; the ferry is not popular enough and has been discontinued. For us, this mean another plane hop and all the exotic security incompetence that comes with it. More on that later.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Bad dream is right. What a disappointment to find out that the ferry was no longer running. This was a brand new ferry service, having been launched in June 2011 after some 30 years of no ferry connection between India and Sri Lanka. It was near impossible to get any official news of the service cancellation or if it would be resumed. The ferry company was not responding to emails and its website was 'temporarily offline' or something equally as vague. Without anything better to go on, we resigned ourselves to there not being a ferry. We brainstormed many options, all of which had to include a flight. Originally, we had thought our three months of cycling with David would be two months in India and one month in Sri Lanka. Finally, we opted for the other way around, cutting our time in India to one month. Hopes of clearer waters, for snorkelling, and of clearer air, for breathing, were among the reasons that led to our choice.</em><br /><br />I leave Agonda with a tear in my eye; so comfortable there. The ride to the airport is about fifty kilometres to a town called Vasco de Gama. On the way we can see that some of the giant bats had the misfortune to take a rest on a power line.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/j3ePFm5BbK" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-_eQRH2LTy9c/T0nNZI55GTI/AAAAAAAADo4/2HvR-velQ9w/s512/DSC02265.JPG"></a><br /><br />As we go into Vasco de Gama, we are greeted with the usual: a sea of refuse filled with all the semi-domestic animals.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/W3QqBjLDEl" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-LybKNQYgOyU/T0nNcRFG7GI/AAAAAAAADpA/k2upeUfngng/s512/DSC02266.JPG"></a><br /><br />We find a mediocre hotel that has satellite TV. Flipping the clicker box, we end up on a movie channel showing Romancing the Stone and after that, Conan the Destroyer. For our final night in India, we sit back and watch Arnie wield his massive sword to fight the bad guys.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Ahhh India. Nostrils assaulted by the stink of pollution and garbage, then soothed by a sudden waft of delicious smelling food and hints of incense. Ears blasted by non-stop honks in busy Mumbai, then calmed by the waves on the beach and nothing much else along coastal Maharashtra. Not nearly so scary a cycling destination as we were led to believe. Maybe we'll go back again some day.</em><br /><br />All our India photos are <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/108434754373417615450/India2012#">here.</a>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-52594770340628833342012-02-10T02:52:00.000-08:002012-02-10T02:56:36.725-08:00Coasting the Konkan with David<b>December 27, 2011 - January 9, 2012</b><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/CpThkzHx1g" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Tg02yi6BZVs/TzTwjJMWBtI/AAAAAAAADkw/iMjiS0l5emU/s512/DSC02478.JPG"></a><br /><br />Walking around Mumbai, we stumble upon an antique store. The owners are very friendly and are eager to show us around even though it is clear that we won't buy anything. One of the patrons gives me a quick lesson on Ganesh. Ganesh's head was cut off by Shiva. When Shiva realized that Ganesh was his son, he quickly replaced Ganesh's head with the one of an elephant. Ganesh is the remover of obstacles. His multiple arms hold attributes: the coconut and lotus flower are symbols of purity. A lover of sweets, Ganesh can be seen holding sugary treats. At some point, Ganesh needed to write down something quickly and could not wait for someone to bring him a pen. So, he cut off his right tusk to use it as a writing implement. His vehicle is the mouse, which I'm guessing means that he uses mice to travel around in this world (please don't hesitate to correct me). Being the remover of obstacles, Ganesh is a very popular in capitalist India. Hopefully he can remove some of the garbage and put it where we can't see it. Just like we do in the first world.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: I was thoroughly captivated by the owners describing the antiques. Like a child in Kindergarten at story time. There were ornate door frames and side panels of the huge temple chariots. There were many carvings, big and small. One piece was a large sandlewood carving of Ganesh in a reclining pose, his rotund belly encircled by a cobra belt. With the broadest of grins and dancing eyes, the taller of the two owners described the details of that carving of Ganesh like he was talking of an old friend. I want to find a copy of the reference book they had in the shop: "Living Wood: Sculptural Traditions of Southern India". I just wish the shop owners could pop out of the book and make those pieces come alive as they did for us that day. The antique showroom was in the basement of the Jehangir Art Gallery if you want to find the place yourself.</em><br /><br />Back at the airport, David finally gets his bike from customs. As he opens the bike box he yells:<br />- It's show time!<br />After which about twenty airport employees gather around to watch us assemble the bike. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/iQ44krtJ7U" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-nZFrPZXyGfI/TzTuGaJivDI/AAAAAAAADao/wzrT2RjRrgY/s512/DSC01886.JPG"></a><br /><br />Once the bike is assembled, we ride out of the airport shining like royalty. For the third time, we ride into downtown Mumbai, this time for another three day visit. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/Q9mt2JdbES" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-RJA9dn-xtZw/TzTwgPHprZI/AAAAAAAADkg/CWxM9LwkqsI/s512/DSC02474.JPG"></a><br /><br />It's once again sensory overload with its traffic, smells and the exotic poverty.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/eGJeOOQqe9" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-my7DJQtOkvA/TzTwhcY03PI/AAAAAAAADko/BkUxOWbbudc/s512/DSC02476.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: In all fairness to Mumbai, I want to add that Benoit's drawing could be depicting a scene in Canada. Just choose a large city there and you wouldn't have to look far to find someone passed out on the sidewalk with people hurrying past on their way to their busy lives. Perhaps with less garbage strewn on the streets in the Canadian scene. Perhaps not. As Benoit mentioned, first world countries like Canada put the garbage where we can't see it. Out of sight, out of mind. Sometimes we don't give a second thought to how much garbage we generate. Like the use of toilet paper. When buying a roll of toilet paper in Mumbai, we wondered why it cost so much. The shop owner set us straight explaining that it is a luxury item in India. Right then and there, we decided to give up the ol' t.p. and just use water. I'll be the first to admit that it is easier said than done.</em><br /><br />One day was spent going to Elephanta Island where you can see ancient caves containing large statues of various Hindu gods. Despite the large crowds, the site is fairly impressive. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/sPxsHtLX1o" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-oUOi5lidLOI/TzTuW6StdWI/AAAAAAAADbo/Ob4vMELrA1M/s512/DSC01916.JPG"></a><br /><br />However, like good capitalists, the Indians don't miss an opportunity to make a buck: on our way there we realize that the entrance fee is 25 times more for foreigners. You can think of it as a 2500% tax with a dash of racial profiling. The amount only adds up to 5 dollars but it's the principle that gets me. After a good rant and still pissed off about the new found fact, an Indian tourist asks me if he can take a picture of us. I tell him that it will cost him a hundred rupees. He gives me a confused look and laughs nervously. He didn't end up taking the picture.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/cZxiHW7hGJ" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-2xpjOmFyw2E/TzTuTB1PAMI/AAAAAAAADbg/Jjh1bWk8PMk/s512/DSC01913.JPG"></a><br /><br />The next day was spent at Mumbai's court house. In order to get in you have to wear pants and leave your camera at the entrance. Once inside it is difficult to know if the place is crumbling or if it is being renovated: there is rubble everywhere. Tarps covering windows and doorways and you have full access to any room or stairwell. Not really knowing where to go or what to check out we start going up random stairwells and walking down various corridors. Some of the offices are jam-packed with papers and folders stacked like mini skyscrapers. At some point we end up on the roof to go down yet another staircase that brings us to the other side of the building. Having a blast we keep going with our visit, when all of a sudden, an aging security guard, half asleep in his chair, jumps up and starts running towards us yelling that we are in a restricted zone. Very nervous and agitated, he escorts us back down to the entrance, yelling at the guards at the various check points along the way: the ones that were supposed to deny us entrance. Back at the main gate, the security guard goes in to talk to the chief who doesn't seem to really care about anything. After explaining to them what I just explained above, we are set free to keep going with our visit.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/1Bni4bHo4O" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-6manXxBDKOM/TzTuhaI5LrI/AAAAAAAADcQ/_4ngC832cQQ/s512/DSC01942.JPG"></a><br /><br />A little disgusted with the double economy, we decide to skip the Ajanta caves and head south towards Goa. Our journey starts with another boat ride across the bay: the same one we took the week before. This time, bikes are not allowed. After a ten minute argument with a set of security officers, the bikes are magically allowed again. While on the boat, someone has the great idea to start throwing potato chips at sea gulls. Before long, the boat gets swarmed with birds and all the excrements that come with it. Once the bag is empty the man discards the package overboard before getting another one to keep the fun going. But, like all fun it eventually gets boring and the man sits back down again. The arm wrestle with my bad eye cover rages on.<br /><br />We start cycling down the coast. It's around New Years and hotel prices are through the roof. This is where we encounter some Indian generosity. At one guest house we meet a set of young guys. Ten of them are sharing a small room. After starting up a conversation, we tell them that there is double pricing going on. They are paying half of what the hotel wants to charge us. This prompts one of them to step up and offer to pay the difference. We tell him that it's very generous but we can't accept: we will try our luck somewhere else. Down the road, we bite the bullet and check in to another overpriced hotel. The same conversation starts up with another guest. This time, when we tell him the rate we are paying, he says nothing but offers us a bottle of whisky. After this day of cycling it was much needed.<br /><br />Difficult to find accommodation during the holidays here in India. At some point during the ride, we see a sign that says "Camping". We go and investigate and we are led through a field and onto a beach. Once at the camp site, we can see several tents and tables. We figure that they are trying to sell the concept of a camping resort. When we ask him the price for one night the guy give us a quote that defies comprehension. One hundred and fifty dollars per person, per night. After a good laugh we walk away.<br /><br />We end up spending New Years in Murud. Partying not being on our agenda, we do the count down in our sleep. I'll spare you the details of what the beach looked like after a News Years Eve party. Most people were heading home but some were staying an extra day to get in a few more cricket games. On the beach, car and motorcycles are doing a hundred clicks on the packed sand with people hanging out of windows and riding on the roof; insane .. just insane.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/B3oHsyeImK" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-M4fzQzR5pFY/TzTurglAOkI/AAAAAAAADdA/aKtoY0s_vYY/s512/DSC01958.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: One morning in Murud we go in search of breakfast. Near the beach, there are many street stalls selling a variety of food. In one, we thought we saw a woman making "poha", a flavourful breakfast dish of rice flakes and chillies and spices. Turmeric gives the poha a lovely yellow colour. Spying a crate of eggs next to her pans, we thought that we should up the protein content of the meal. So we ask if we can have some fried eggs too. The woman looked confused. But she did as we asked and soon presented us with our breakfast meals. It turns out that she was making scrambled eggs with chillies and spices. No wonder her confusion! We had just asked to have eggs with our eggs.</em><br /><br />We stay one more night in Murud and head out the next day: finally, some traffic-free riding. As we wind through coastal roads, we stumble upon an ancient temple. No crowds or entrance fee here. The place is deserted. We park our bikes and take our time walking around the site.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/m9HTll1NJG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-B4tw-6RySHQ/TzTvBF4efvI/AAAAAAAADeo/Ag1hpNE5SgA/s512/DSC01991.JPG"></a><br /><br />The unbeaten track that we're following has a series of rivers that are linked by ferry. With no track for our journey, the GPS is next to useless; negligence on my part. We end up wasting a day going around in a circle trying to find one of these ferries. However, people are very helpful and they generally point you in the right direction. With David it's easy; he'll go up to anyone in a flash to ask directions.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/AZaNHdfxCg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-k9sdoJzL7H8/TzTvQ42ZkiI/AAAAAAAADfo/aMOAZBCwFQc/s512/DSC02007.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: I had heard some 'bad press' about the kids in India, how they swarm around your bicycle, touching everything, switching your gears and generally crossing WAY into what we Westerners perceive as personal space. But what we experienced with the school kids in India was quite the opposite. As we cycled the small back roads, invariably we'd pass groups of kids as they walked to school. The young boys would race us, trying to run alongside as long as they could. A difficult endeavour when they were carrying knapsacks that looked heavier than them. But never did they grab at our bicycles or impede us in any way. If we stopped at the roadside for any reason, yes they would swarm us. Yet they were so polite in their swarming that it was even a pleasure to be amongst them.</em><br /><br />Around these parts, getting lost is okay. The jungle offers a free show as we ride by gangs of monkeys, peacocks, jackals and all sorts of exotic vegetation. With less population there is less refuse and your imagination can run free. I try to imagine this place hundreds of years ago, when purity was not limited to lotus flowers and coconuts.<br /><br />As we gently pedal down the coastal road the day-dreaming gets to us. While David and I are cycling side by side, David cuts in front of me. I swerve hard to the left and end up falling on the asphalt. Luckily not much damage. Just a few scrapes and bruises.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/VoNMwLdEvJ" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2gpYfxSpy60/TzTv7IFSp-I/AAAAAAAADh4/K8jgiYrGqFM/s512/DSC02061.JPG"></a><br /><br />Camping has become difficult. The nights are cool and we don't have our sleeping bags. We could buy blankets but David and Michèle seem reluctant to camp. It's too bad because there are lots of interesting places to set up. When camping is not an option you are dependent on guest houses and hotels. This can be very stressful. One evening we get to a hotel tired and hungry: the hotel is full and it's getting dark. This is one situation that I absolutely hate about travelling; to the point of having thoughts of going home. We get word that there is another town with several hotels. It's only fifteen kilometres but Michèle and I are finished. The next logical step is transport. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/c1x2V57PcN" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-CPAmplECB4I/TzTwPMIVobI/AAAAAAAADjQ/lQgDx0FtSDE/s512/DSC02117.JPG"></a><br /><br />David decides to cycle it. Michèle and I pile our bikes and panniers into two auto rickshaws and get dropped off at the shittiest hotel yet: we are told it is the best one in town. No matter, it has a bar next door! An hour later, David shows up with his classic open line:<br />- Namaste!<br />or hello in Hindi.<br />Glad to be taking a load off we head to the bar which is also a restaurant. All three of us sit down amongst the heavy drinkers; not a single woman in sight and not a single guy eating dinner. A few minutes later, a nervous waiter comes up to us:<br />- You must go to the family room he says.<br />I imagine mom, dad and the kids going out for shooters but in reality the middle ages are not far behind: women are not allowed in the bar.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: It barely phased me that we were shuffled out of the bar and into the family room, all because of me - gasp - a woman in the bar/restaurant. I was too tired to care. The night before we had happened upon the nicest hotel room we've stayed in yet: a little jewel of a place in a village so small that it consisted of only one intersection. The contrast with the hotel we now found ourselves in was shocking us to numbness. I can't find the words to describe the filth on the curtain in our room. David in his eternal cheeriness chirped, "Oh I've seen worse!!" But still, he went out to investigate the other lodging options, returning with a sigh of resignation to announce that yes this was the nicest hotel in town. It was strangely fitting to see this misspelling on the hotel entrance wall:</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/plqG6jr4ue" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-OtMMiHHl684/TzTwRUGJ7eI/AAAAAAAADjg/4VKl_i1jlEY/s512/DSC02123.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>On the subject of english, I love the beautiful formality of the english we hear spoken in India. A man exclaimed when he heard that we had cycled in Mumbai, "There are not many who would have the courage to dare it." Then, there are the charming mispellings on signs that have english in them, like the one advertising "Engine repair and spear parts", or so many in the menus:<br />- Creeps with chocolate sauce<br />- Banana filters with chocolate rum sauce<br />- Massed potatoes<br />- Green piece masala, or Green peace masala.</em><br /><br />We wake up early. I feel like shit due to a lingering cold. There was also a four hour coughing fit in the middle of the night. As we pedal out, my legs feel like lead weights. I keep radio silence as I try to muster up enough energy to keep moving forward. At a rest stop we see several cyclists off in the distance: slowly inching their way towards us. Then we realise that it's our friends from Turkey and Iran. Geoffroy and Elodie are heading north on their spaceship tandem. We spend an hour exchanging stories and split once again.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/oD1ZFcI3Rn" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-kIsAiI6yBco/TzTwcv1ew5I/AAAAAAAADkQ/3vTJBVXxrZU/s512/DSC02139.JPG"></a>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-64178617848021906852012-01-13T06:43:00.000-08:002012-01-13T07:00:45.719-08:00Jumping right into it in India<b>December 14 - December 26</b><br /><br />For us, India starts at the Muscat airport where we jump through the familiar hoops; pack equipment, x-ray, check in, customs, boarding, flying, customs again, collect our stuff and find out that everything survived: all the worry was for nothing. At the Mumbai airport, it's the usual hustlers trying to push a hotel or taxi. It's six in the morning, we haven't slept all night and we have no hotel booking. Michèle is not a happy camper. This means it's up to me to find a hotel. At a reservation kiosk, I manage to book a room. It's expensive and not great but hey ... we're in India! In our hotel room we pass out. Several hours later we wake up to a symphony of car horns. As I look out the window, the first thing I notice are the women in crop-tops and colourful saris; drowning out the black cloaks of less colourful religions.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/HpVbUVa2VT" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-qap3M7F2LEM/TxA61av759I/AAAAAAAADZ8/2IAVBuPU-EI/s512/DSC02160.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/l7IoJu37dX" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-8czMZURZbWc/TxA4EGjRglI/AAAAAAAADVI/WIuyf5gCLj0/s512/DSC01702.JPG"></a><br /><br />The next morning, I pour a cold beer into the thermos and we set off on our first ride in India. Instead of shying away from what we've been dreading, namely people and traffic, we decide to jump into it and ride 30 kilometres into downtown Mumbai. After 5 minutes it's the sound of crushing plastic as a guy on a motorbike gets plowed head on by a car. Luckily he got up. <br /><br />After the squeaky clean, black and white of Oman it's a total shock; hundreds of years of clutter and accumulated junk. Generations of uncollected garbage. There are so many things packed so tightly that it looks sculptural. If Hindus have a god of art, in a stroke of genius he must have created Mumbai. Here, there are about as many cars as there are people. The traffic is retarded as the guy behind honks at the one in front of him. On top of it we have to remember to stay left. We follow the GPS south towards downtown, trying not to get distracted by the hundreds of photo ops.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/HFBMBxAlQC" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-dgiSgs3Q9_I/TxA3-aD8NSI/AAAAAAAADU8/EU3JQjQQMHc/s512/DSC01697.JPG"></a><br /><br />After several hours of riding, we pull off for a breather. I crack open the thermos and pour myself a cold glass of beer. It's not long before some kids come up to ask for money. Among them is a girl that speaks a bit of English. At the sight of the thermos she says:<br />- Give me tea!<br />I tell her that this tea is not for kids. As I put away the thermos, she must have smelled the contents and says:<br />- Hey, that's not tea that's beer!<br />As we cycle away, she chases us, asking for anything she can think of. She finally gives up after we pick up speed. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/bY74eHRuX4" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-2hs90llkdcg/TxA4L_wMjjI/AAAAAAAADVU/LdLytGiIkEI/s512/DSC01706.JPG"></a><br /><br />We finally get to Colaba; the tourist area. We got word of a hotel from a friend who stayed there the week before. Therefore we figure it must be good. It is cheap and well located, so we decide to take the room. Everything seemed fine till we get a rude awakening in the morning. Upon inspecting our mosquito nets we both find bedbegs stuck to it. I guess they were trying to get back to the mattress but started climbing the nets instead. Some of them are still engorged with blood, making a nice spash on the mesh as we crush them. I didn't think the filthiness would catch up to us this fast. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/isjoJAXYvg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-TRQYMSSZYec/TxA4jEbbRTI/AAAAAAAADV8/mCgzmTqrldo/s512/DSC01738.JPG"></a><br /><br />Forced out we check in to a much pricier hotel that is spotless. It's got wifi so I make a post on the Lonely Planet forum thinking I am doing a good deed warning other travellers about the hotel with bedbugs. What I end up getting are arrogant, mocking remarks from some of the forum's veterans. I have developed some frustration with Lonely Planet over the years as well as the thread pollution on their forums. I send a quick complaint email to Lonely Planet but get a polite middle finger. So, instead of getting in a pissing contest, the following image came to mind.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/1VyzYmMdVe" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-W9W06wi9l5A/TxA65QsKLwI/AAAAAAAADaA/lWXdyAFp410/s512/DSC02167.JPG"></a><br /><br />It seems that the poverty and homelessness we didn't see in Turkey, Iran and Oman has converged here; probably due to sheer numbers but I'm sure there are other reasons. Wild camping is not a problem for the ones stuck in the bowels of India's social ladder: just set up wherever you like. However, no fancy tents here. Just garbage and hard pavement. Shanty towns, packed like mismatched lego blocks, bursting at the seams with refuse. Half naked litters of kids, frassled hair and covered in soot, blend in with the dirty plastic bags by the side of the highway. The nouveau riche, shining like royalty, drive by, talking on the latest iPhone. We've all seen it before. Except this time you can't change the channel. On a bicycle, you don't miss out on anything. Stuck in the middle with sensory oveload; we are not sure whether to cry or take a picture. It almost seems like these people are being punished. For the final curtain, just as I thought the misery couldn't get lower, we pass by a large garbage can next to a fish market. A small child pops out of it holding a used razor. He is playing with it as though he's found a new toy. It's solidarity for Oscar the Grouch: at least one kid is suffering his fate.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/YPpb5iQJkA" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-dmXlOPArZ_s/TxA6xg5y92I/AAAAAAAADZ4/dBgnW6ByfKg/s512/DSC02162.JPG"></a><br /><br />In Colaba there is a sports bar where all the white people go to get drunk. The bar was actually hit by the Mumbai terrorist attacks several years ago. The contrast with its surroundings is mind-blowing. Outside you have kids playing in the gutter. They are so dirty that they look one colour. At the mid-range of the social ladder are the security guards standing outside: protecting the shiny teeth and the laughter that rivals with the honking outside. The high-tech security generally involves a squeeze of your knapsack and a waving motion to go in. I feel safer already. As we finish our overpriced beer and head back to the hotel we walk by yet another security guard at another establishment. He is patiently waiting for the next terrorist attack. He is also about 4 foot fuckall and looks about 90 years old; his legs about as thick as his billy stick. Down the street we burst in laughter thinking how cute he looks.<br /><br />As we wait for our friend David to arrive, we decide to take a ride down the coast for a few days. From the Gateway of India you can take a boat to the other side of the bay; bypassing the whole city. Although no-one here seems to celebrate Chrismas, the holidays are in full swing. This means lots of traffic from India's nouveau riche heading down to the beach in their brand new SUVs. At the beach, they're all clustered in one area. The rest of the 4 kilometre beach is virtually empty. There are all sorts of activities. You can get pulled by a jet ski, go on a calèche ride, ride a camel or get pulled by car with a parachute strapped to your back. All this is done with complete disregard for safety. The jet skis rush in at full speed to where everyone is swimming. The Indians don't seem to care though. Everyone is having a great time, fully clothed when they swim.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/RS6IL5S5Wu" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-kcPoqmcW4Ao/TxA575FXyHI/AAAAAAAADYw/Lat6z8QwEEM/s512/DSC01846.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/an1OVpvxiK" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-jjRqYi3LRcM/TxA6PzRO2sI/AAAAAAAADZg/nflUavZiDdg/s512/DSC01869.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: We were two weeks in advance of our friend David's arrival. Instead of it feeling like killing time, it was a chance to adapt to India after being in Oman. There, virtually no-one was on the streets. Here in India, the streets are jam packed with people, bicycles, scooters, motorbikes, auto rickshaws, taxis, buses, goods carrier trucks, and of course cows. Oman was so clean it was ridiculous: marble walkways buffed to such a shine that they looked wet. Whereas the filth and dirt of Mumbai is so over the top that you almost think you're on a movie set, because this shit can't be real. The traffic is insane, but now I am glad that I had some practice in crazy traffic in Iran. David has already cycled in India. In 2004, he went from Chennai around to Goa until his bike broke down. He told us that cycling in India is a challenge but one that is worth it. That is reassuring. It also reassures us that he agreed to return to India so that he could join us for a few months of our trip.</em><br /><br />On our way down the coast we stop in a town called Alibaug. Next to the hotel is a restaurant where we are the only tourists. At the table beside us is an east Indian family from Toronto. After chatting for 20 minutes they invite us for dinner. Once at their place, they tell us a little bit about India. Apparently there used to be way more garbage 20 years ago. Something I didn't think was possible. Also, the poverty was worse: you always had a good 10 people following with their hands out. Finally, they tell us to see India with the good eye and to keep the critical one covered. I'll try. We end up having a great time eating a home cooked meal with lots of beer. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/BmXyCzC4JD" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-xLZ8crU3XY0/TxA5u6--JEI/AAAAAAAADYU/tE2cq467_4Q/s512/DSC01835.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: A funny coincidence meeting that family from Toronto. Their daughter had just graduated from university. I asked her where she studied. <br />- Waterloo, she said.<br />- Me too! What subject?<br />- Mathematics, she said.<br />- Me too!<br />Then I nearly fell off my chair when I found out that she is also left-handed. "I don't believe in coincidences," said her mother. Now that I had met a leftie in India, I asked about eating with my left hand. I should not touch food with my left hand, she told me, but it's okay if I am using utensils.</em><br /><br />The next day we cycle farther south. The traffic is pretty bad. As a shady spot comes up I stop for a water break and wait for Michèle. This is when I see something that I've been dreading. Everybody passing me is motioning me to go back. Something has happened to Michèle. I race back with nightmare images in my head; am I going to have to scrape her of the road with my titanium spork. As I turn the corner to the final straight away, I can see her sitting in a chair with a crowd around her; a woman massaging her hand. Her panniers clipped another bike and she fell. It ended up being nothing serious; a few scratches on her hands and no damage to the bike.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: I was just getting over a cold. My sinuses had cleared so I was itching to ride. But I guess that I wasn't as steady on my bike as I should have been. One of my rear panniers clipped a bicycle that was parked by the side of the road. I couldn't recover, so... crash, down I went. As I was lying on my back in the middle of the road, I thought, Shiiiiiiiit someone is going to run over me. Then I looked up and saw the crowd creating a barrier around me. A man helped me to my feet, another pulled my bicycle up and took it to the side of the road, yet another jumped on his bike to ride ahead to find Benoit. I wasn't injured, just a bit stunned by the experience. I heard someone say, "Sit down, please". So I sat. And a woman came up and started rubbing my hand. It was a simple gesture but it made my eyes all misty.</em><br /><br />The Indian government should invest in a nut clipping campaign. Stray dogs are a huge problem here and life for these animals is tough. It's a sorry sight really. Most of them will come to you wagging their tails if you call them over. After a day of riding we stop at a guest house by the road side. As we look at the room we can see a dying puppy outside. Barely standing, the little guy passes out several times to finally give us a dying look: the same facial expression as a human being in agony. As we walk away, he stares off into nowhere with some strange breathing sounds. We didn't end up taking the room. Besides, the owner wanted four times what it was worth. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/BzMgmd8vlg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-nGyuFL1ED8M/TxA59AOktII/AAAAAAAADY0/2YKD1oiYTy4/s512/DSC01848.JPG"></a><br /><br />After several days, it's time to head back to Mumbai to meet up with David. Back at the pier to catch the boat back to the Gateway of India we can observe another genius of Indian anti terrorism. A security guard, chilling out at the snack bar with his gun resting on the potato chip rack. At first, I thought the gun was a toy and almost picked it up. Then, I burst out laughing which prompted the guy to get up to retrieve his prize possession. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/xsOtUzsr6v" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-mOY7zkJOKYM/TxA6ucANKxI/AAAAAAAADZ0/5rcMLbwW3hk/s512/DSC02165.JPG"></a><br /><br />Back in Mumbai, we do the whole ride in reverse to meet up with David at a hotel near the airport. He shows up late at night with all his panniers and no bike.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/zHqxqnk7Li" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2rtccPTfVXk/TxBAhN4-ehI/AAAAAAAADaI/xhlEaUt94Z0/s512/DSC01881.JPG"></a>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-41862900017100421132011-12-20T04:20:00.000-08:002011-12-20T04:37:32.611-08:00O my! Oman!<b>November 25 - December 13</b><br /><br />In the last post we were in Iran doing something we started calling The Great Shiraz Limbo. I guess we needed boredom. I'm not sure why. We could have watched the paint peel on the walls of our hotel room but instead we listened to the car alarms and the honking; all the while breathing the exhaust coming in through our window. It would have been great to follow the sunset with the crew we met in Shiraz but some things in life are not meant to be. We ended up patiently waiting for our flight to Oman. Some might find that incomprehensible ... so do we.<br /><br />The Great Shiraz Limbo comes to an end with a final ride to the airport. The traffic was the usual but someone made a rude gesture to Michèle: A macho guy licking his finger and pushing it into his fist. Instead of throwing a rock at his windshield, I file it under "It's time to go". At the airport, the staff is totally confused about the bikes; how? why? ... where you come from? Once we get our point across that we want to pack them up and put them on the plane, the check-in process goes without a hitch. Once on the plane we say goodbye to frowning Mr Khomeini and say hello to the friendly face of Sultan Qaboos. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/8z42aSTk3H" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-40HyzRBSgUY/TvB65Vdg2mI/AAAAAAAADUo/tEUOUtfukF8/s512/DSC01817.JPG?gl=CA"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/59tTeoLtTJ" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-eO8pqQh2T2w/TvB66aYsghI/AAAAAAAADUs/za0PXOlsgkg/s512/DSC01818.JPG?gl=CA"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Our flight from Shiraz was on Iran's Aseman Airlines. Mention that airline to anyone in Iran and you'll probably get what we got: a frown, a cringed look, and a comment about how terrible it is. Already that made us kind of nervous. Add to that the impossible task of finding out Aseman's baggage policy. We just wanted to know if there would be a charge for our bicycles, and if so, how much. Two visits to Aseman's office in Shiraz, one visit to their cargo office at the airport, and finally, many calls from the airport's Flight Information desk, and still we had no clear answer. I guess that most Iranians don't travel with sports equipment, let alone bicycles. As we went to check in for the flight, we held our breath, hoping that we'd have enough rials left to cover for the bikes. The check-in agent barely glanced at our bicycles, and handed over our boarding cards. No charge for the bikes! In the end, the flight was super comfortable and everything arrived in Muscat as it should.</em><br /><br />At the Muscat airport, the first thing we get is a 45 euro per person visa fee. Then, we meet up with my parents for two weeks of pampered luxury that includes beer and wireless internet. <br /><br />Oman is modern and everything looks new; like someone just won a mega lottery and decided to build cities. The predominant colours are white and black. Buildings are white, men are dressed in long white gowns and women are in black. Only the tourists are multicoloured. With subsidized gas five times cheaper than in Europe, Oman is extremely car-centric. On the highway, as the buildings whiz by the car window, we can observe the familiar sights; Burger King, KFC, Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds; all the shit food you could possibly want. The place is spotless. Hedges are trimmed and there's even people sweeping the highway as Mercedes, Hummers and large SUVs barrel down the road. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/AnBFXxNfXl" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-8ORF9zWkXeI/Tu1u1chxttI/AAAAAAAADTc/KFrFgpc1Y3o/s512/P1010646.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/M2aF2gSquG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XxcmrO0iYhc/Tu1u0lFXAiI/AAAAAAAADTY/4ka72aXFNAU/s512/P1010642.JPG"></a><br /><br />Everyone has their cheap labour. The US has the mexicans; In Iran it was the Afghanis and here it's the Indians. As we line up to get our passports stamped, standing behind several squeaky clean financial types, there is another lineup: Indians waiting to get their irises scanned. Not sure why. Probably for some security reasons.<br /><br />One of the tourist attractions in Oman is the grand mosque. It is brand new and was a gift to the nation from the Sultan. It is a marvel of craftsmanship and gives you an idea of what old mosques must have looked like when they were new. The details are uncanny: from stone engravings to door handles, everything is hand sculpted. The house size chandelier in the main prayer hall is hanging over the biggest carpet in the world; 60 by 70 metres and was hand woven by 600 women: it took 6 years to complete. Run your finger on any ledge, you will not find a speck of dust as the cheap labour scrub away at the place 24/7.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/i8bZVqegFJ" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-SiwVK0EXvbU/Tu1tWKGrgZI/AAAAAAAADM8/pVLMVfavdWw/s512/DSC01366.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/DxpyIwEFok" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-p3MazLtHb7k/Tu1taNu8_pI/AAAAAAAADNQ/qJvnkIEbLRo/s512/DSC01378.JPG"></a><br /><br />Oman looks a lot like the anti atlas of Morocco. The most interesting are the wadis: deep gorges with lush palm trees. There are many of them but one of the most famous is Wadi Shab. We walked up Wadi Shab, avoiding the self-proclaimed tourist guides that do nothing more than walk along with you and ask you for 10 rials (about $25) at the end of the day.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/1Qjz22Obst" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-G1UXomlWe0E/Tu1ttpScPBI/AAAAAAAADOk/WaeBTN7eY3U/s512/DSC01455.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: A cyclone hit Oman in 2007. We heard that it ripped through Wadi Shab, causing huge boulders to fall and wiping out a lot of the palm trees. Apparently before the cyclone, the wadi was ten times as amazing as it is now.</em><br /><br />My mother compiles list of sites to see from Lonely Planet's vague and questionable suggestions. Because of this list we end up doing a lot of driving. Something we are not used to. However, we're playing tourist and what better way to do that than a desert excursion. The desert camp is about 20 kilometres into the sand dunes, away from roads. This is where I realize what's been missing in my life: silence.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/D6HXSRmFuD" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-eVTmlnxBsec/Tu1t7lG3q4I/AAAAAAAADP0/T0WQaBcgOlU/s512/DSC01512.JPG"></a><br /><br />There were moments where I could hear rushing blood in my ears; anxieties vanish and life becomes contemplative. Unfortunately it doesn't last and the next day, after a quick camel ride, we are back on the road.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/j9LDMtdsbw" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-NeTSyeVMVsQ/Tu1uDM6rbLI/AAAAAAAADQc/l6CTzVYXzgE/s512/DSC01538.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Hmmmm, was there a connection there: I walk away into the sunset and Benoit gets the silence he has been missing?! It was astounding how silent the desert was. The dunes stretched as far as the eye could see. They are shifting eastward about 2 metres a year. Within five years, the desert camp will have to move or be buried in sand. One of the Bedouin family who runs the camp took us on a dune ride to watch the sunset. It was like sand driving was similar to driving in deep snow. Except, you wouldn't drive over a snow cliff, I don't care how good your tires are. But our Bedouin driver pitched us over sand cliffs in the 4WD truck. I thought my eyes would pop out of my head in fright. The more we freaked out, the more daring he became. Or so it seemed.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/0WDHyZj95X" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-nqRf7VrLnlI/Tu1uFdb_npI/AAAAAAAADQk/NWdRbobZYAw/s512/DSC01545.JPG"></a><br /><br />The Omanis are doing a good job preserving architectural design. Many of the new constructions are done to blend with the old. Even the roof water tanks and air conditioner covers blend with the surroundings. The ancient sites, which are mostly forts, are well renovated. The one we visited, Jabreen Fort, is totally open to the visitor. You walk up any stair and crawl into any cubby hole. There are many rooms with carpets where you can sit and relax. Your imagination is free to travel back in time and imagine what life was like back then. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/jIXwFEjsD5" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-dda1zfGi3UI/Tu1uLZwr1XI/AAAAAAAADQ8/eINkD2wWC-0/s512/DSC01563.JPG"></a><br /><br />After several more days of driving we say goodbye to my parents and go back to our nomadic life. Before we do so, we jettison some equipment including our sleeping bags: Our fleece and jacket will be enough to keep us warm at night. No so. The nights are actually quite cool and we end up freezing our asses off. We end up buying a blanket and using the large plastic bag used to package our bikes to keep us warm at night: not too fluffy.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: A strange feeling to be on our own again. Sure, we weren't used to being in a car so much, but we loved having Florence and Greg there to spoil us rotten. The memory of comfy guesthouses was still fresh in our minds. That made it harder to take sleeping under a plastic sheet like hobos.</em><br /><br />We cycle about 100 kilometres from Muscat to Wadi Al Abyad: yet another dense palm forest amidst a desert background. Time seems to stop here. The rustling palm leaves and the occasional buzzing fly are the only things breaking the silence. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/L6B5iKAH0E" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Q-SfrrPKKiU/Tu1unczFqMI/AAAAAAAADSo/hcNr9xexpSg/s512/DSC01652.JPG"></a><br /><br />At some point a man shows up to say hello. His hobby is to walk around the wadi shooting birds with a pellet gun. Trying to make some conversation, he shows us pictures of his new car, occasionally stopping to shoot a bird. Usually this would piss me off but I'm not at home. With some broken English he tell us that it's much nicer farther up the wadi where there are pools of water. The call to prayer comes on and he walks off to go pray for the souls of the poor birds that he killed.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/MZYgXzxPXj" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xx8OxP0U71k/Tu1upey40zI/AAAAAAAADSw/ydsqUGcIaRU/s512/DSC01661.JPG"></a><br /><br />In the evening, we wait for our full moon to appear but it does not. The night is pitch dark and the last call to prayer echoes through the palm trees. A I rush out of the tent for an emergency evacuation of the ten samosas we had for lunch, I look up at the sky to see a lunar eclipse.<br /><br />The next day we decide to venture up the wadi to find the pools that Pellet Gun Guy was talking about. With enough food and plenty of water, we push our bikes for several hours in search of a nice spot to camp. The scenery is beautiful: water, palm trees and the desert. Unfortunately, the wadi is not as clean as the highways. Every camping spot has mounds of garbage left behind by weekend warriors. Some of these sites are so dirty that you can't even approach them due to the rancid smell. I fail to understand how people think it's normal to go into nature and leave behind mountains of litter. Fortunately, we find a spot that we were able to clean up. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/vx1ajvXWeC" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-CW4Ezsz8oAA/Tu1utYS52EI/AAAAAAAADS4/vLRbJpqnjwE/s512/DSC01671.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/6eNoOIrlU7" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hU97bl0LkII/Tu1uu6QmZ6I/AAAAAAAADS8/60cyDrF-8Fg/s512/DSC01676.JPG"></a><br /><br />Well that's all she wrote in Oman. It's time for us to move on to "Bizarro Oman": India. Will it break us?<br /><br />All of our Oman photos are <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/108434754373417615450/Oman2011#">here.</a>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-52767007943610363852011-12-06T03:16:00.000-08:002013-12-30T16:44:37.338-08:00Iran travels continue with more hitching than cycling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>October 31 - November 24</b><br />
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In the last post we were up in the mountains hanging out with an unusual Zoroastrian named Ahmed. The next morning we pack up and head out. Ahmed was right, we did not see each other again. About a kilometre into the ride, we join back with the main road and it's back to the unpleasant busy traffic. Luckily for us, it's downhill to the next town. Once there we meet up with a guy who shows us his collection of pictures that other travellers have given him. As we flip through some images of Amsterdam, a picture of a sex shop shows up. <br />
- We don't have these in Iran he says.<br />
The pictures show various sex shop paraphernalia including a mannequin wearing a strap-on dildo. <br />
- Is that for lesbians? he whispers.<br />
I should have said "Not necessarily" but instead I just nodded. We end up giving him some of our travel pictures and it's time to head out again.<br />
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With no secondary roads to Yazd, we hop on a bus. We are curious about this city because of a poetic email we received via our website:<br />
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"I'm currently living in Yazd and will be more than happy to assist you while you are here. We have a small orchard in the suburbs of Yazd which is relatively quiet and cozy. I'm thinking maybe you're interested in staying in the orchard while you're here. The mornings are beautiful when the sparrows start their symphony in the pomegranate trees and drink from the pool and the sky is amazingly clear at night when you can find your favorite star in Yazd if you haven't found it yet during your journey."<br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/NjyfEqE57X" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-BZP2qeOAIxA/TtryfTU4FqI/AAAAAAAADIU/PVJ1l9wzLuA/s512/DSC01169.JPG" /></a><br />
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Throughout the whole trip we kept saying to ourselves "we must contact Pomegranate Guy"; and let's keep calling him that because his views differ slightly from the status quo. At first, we thought we would have to camp in his orchard but upon arrival, we find that it has a house connected to it. I've said it before and I'll say it again, when on a long cycling trip, it is a great feeling to be offered a comfortable place to rest for a few days. Pomegranate Guy speaks fluent English and acts as our guide for the duration of our stay in Yazd: giving us a break from the culture shock. As we get to know him better, he gives us a glimpse at the general frustration of the modern Iranian. As we drive through the streets of Yazd, we get to a narrow section where only one car can pass. There is car coming in the opposite direction but we get to the narrow section first. Inside the waiting vehicle are two mullahs.<br />
- We won't let them pass and we won't thank them either because they are mullahs and they ruined our lives he says.<br />
At his place, he flips through some of the thousands of channels made available by his illegal satellite decoder. Iranians have many ways of getting around censorship. Be it legal or illegal. There are special programs to get access to blocked websites. You can even go as far as marrying someone temporarily in order to have sex with them legally. Gay marriage not included of course. <br />
- What about the Iranian channels I ask.<br />
He starts flipping through them with a gentle scorn. Criticizing every detail. It is easy for us to dismiss this frustration as entertainment because we have never experienced life in an oppressive regime. We must always keep ourselves in check that things are not as funny as we may think.<br />
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The next day, it's back to driving around Yazd. At one intersection, Pomegranate Guy points to a pack of Afghani refugees. Like Mexicans in the States, Afghanis come to Iran to do the work that Iranians don't want to do. It is easy for them to cross the eastern border that spans a vast desert. Once in Iran, they usually become cheap labour for construction sites. The dizzying heights of misfortune always astound me. How lucky we are to be vagamonde. <br />
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Well, we want to thank Pomegranate Guy and his family for their hospitality. We hope that he will get his wish so that we can one day meet up in New Zealand. Before we leave, I ask one last question. How is Iran on the football world stage? He tells me that Iranians are not concerned with that. They only care about beating all the Arab countries.<br />
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<i>Michèle comments: We have met many Iranians who are very curious about what life is like in Canada. I feel kind of bad that they stumble upon us as their window to glimpse into that world. No car, no house, no cell phone and no desire to have these things: I wouldn't call us typical Canadians. I was trying to explain all this to a young Iranian man who wanted to know about our life in Montreal. He looked at me, stunned with confusion, like a sci fi computer caught in a loop of illogic: "Does not compute, does not compute." He asked about children. I said that we didn't have any. He was silent for a while. You could almost hear the whirring in his brain as he was trying to make sense of it all. Then: "If you did not have finance problems, then you would have children, yes?" I had to smile at what he came up with - that we had to be desperately poor, or else we would want the car, the house, the family. I didn't attempt to set him straight. How does one discuss such personal life choices with someone who probably would be shocked that I prefer my tea without sugar?</i><br />
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From Yazd we turn our handlebars towards Shiraz where they used to make great wine back when the mullahs didn't have a say in it. Now all that is left is the word Shiraz written on bottle labels at the liquor store. The road on the map shows up as secondary but it's the usual busy highway ... sigh. The scenery is mediocre but we do find a nice camping spot in an abandoned orchard where there is a neglected garden containing eggplants and tomatoes: We help ourselves. <br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/dILuZzB90Q" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-6dFk3ITLefI/TtryjuuR98I/AAAAAAAADIg/i-28pSTBVCk/s512/DSC01174.JPG" /></a><br />
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After dinner it's lights out even though the sun hasn't completely set. A few hours later, we are quickly woken up again by howling jackals. Some of them sound like they're just a few metres away but as soon I get out, they vanish from sound and sight. We have yet to see one but you do see their dens which seem to be scattered all over the place.<br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/ARjx4f5BTt" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ikKDEYTKTTE/Ts_Aw2zcXMI/AAAAAAAADFM/eA799NCXdQI/s512/DSC01005.JPG" /></a><br />
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The next day it's time to feel under-the-weather; low energy and headaches. To add to the discomfort is a strong head wind and something we haven't seen in months: Rain clouds. On top of it there is a steep climb. Fortunately for us we are not gifted with the toughness of some adventure cyclists. Nor do we feel shame in finding other solutions for shaving off kilometres. So, for the first time, we try hitching a ride. It takes about five minutes for Yosof to stop with his Zamionette. Zamionette is the name we have given to the Zamyad: An Iranian-built pickup truck that comes in only one colour; blue.<br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/hh9Wk31RmI" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-9Aj5Nh_FfF0/Ttrym1WmNoI/AAAAAAAADIs/HcENNsB-MSc/s512/DSC01180.JPG" /></a><br />
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Yosof hauls onions from Shiraz to Yazd and he has just dropped off a load. There is plenty of space for our bikes. We shave off close to a hundred kilometres of dusty desert riding and best of all, we avoid the head wind. Yosof drops us off in Abarqu where the only interesting thing is the 4000-year-old cypress tree. Not sure how accurate that figure is. <br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/rJnzsN8Zbg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-zZa618USAEc/TtryphRU3mI/AAAAAAAADI0/CYAbf50UVpc/s512/DSC01182.JPG" /></a><br />
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The next day is much of the same thing: The rain has cleared but the headwind is even stronger and the traffic is crazy. With no shoulder on the road, it doesn't make for ideal cycling conditions. So, we try our hand at our newly found skill; hitch-hiking. In about five minutes we get picked up by a small truck with a sealed cab. <br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/XIthbFNtC1" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-pU4YL3Pjw7s/TtryqnhqXaI/AAAAAAAADI4/sZPA7grK0cE/s512/DSC01187.JPG" /></a><br />
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That ride shaved off about fifty kilometres and gave us bad motion sickness. We are glad to get to the turn that is supposed to have less traffic. Guess what? It's just as busy. After several kilometres, we pull off for the night at an orchard. This one does not look abandoned but it has a small cubby hole that gives us total protection from the wind. Question is: Where is the owner and would he mind if we stayed the night? Well, probably not. Besides, we don't have a choice.<br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/JEc10c0QQV" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/--BkqG60RNs8/TtryrjW7fjI/AAAAAAAADI8/6K2MfrmPD6s/s512/DSC01190.JPG" /></a><br />
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Sure enough, at six AM the guy shows up on his motorbike. He looks a bit annoyed but ends up cracking a smile when we finally manage to explain the situation. It was a bit awkward but at least we get an early start. <br />
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Sometimes travelling on a bike gets boring. Sleep, eat, cycle. This can go on for days with not much else happening. At least we have our new activity to keep us entertained; hitch-hiking! Yet another Zamionette picks us up to let us off at the top of a pass at 2800-metre elevation. At the bottom of the hill, on the other side, we set up camp again at an orchard this one at 2300 metres altitude. That night, we push the limit of our equipment by camping in subzero temperatures. Not sure how cold it got but the water in our water bottles was frozen the next morning. Luckily for us the rising sun is on our tent: Made out of non-breathable material, it warms up immediately. <br />
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After breakfast it's straight back onto another Zamionette for 30ish kilometres. The guy drops us off on the outskirts of a village where the road splits. Most of the traffic seems to be going one way. The other road looks relatively quiet. Finally, some ideal cycling conditions. The road leads us to the bottom of a steep hill where we decide to stop for lunch; eggplant and tuna: It wasn't very good. By the time we finish eating it's getting late. So we catch another Zamionette ride over the mountain pass. The driver stops at the next town where we hope to find a hotel. We don't want to camp in the cold again. Unfortunately we are shit out of luck on the hotel. So, the guy offers us to stay the night at his place. With no other choice we accept. As we roll into town, everyone stops their current activities to stare at the honkies piled in the back of the blue pickup. At the guy's place, the first thing I see is a guy huddled up to a heater, sleeping. Our driver wakes him up in order to give us the heater. It is the poorest family we've stayed with. Everyone there looked very tired as if a long day at work just ended. No-one expressed interest in us. Maybe even a bit annoyed that we are there. They didn't even ask where we were from: A question we usually get 20 times a day. We all sit around for what seems to be hours without trying to communicate anything. The only thing that seems to make them happy is a small child that was getting all the attention. In the kitchen, a woman is preparing dinner. Plucking a freshly killed chicken. In the meantime, our driver is watching a religious show on TV. Mildly motivated he occasionally mumbles a few prayers along with the sermon. The meal was delicious but a bit disturbing. Most of the food was given to us. Everybody else ate very little. Making us feel uneasy. After dinner they offer us their room for the night. We get into bed and close our eyes to open them back up the next morning where we quickly get back on our bikes and ride towards the sunrise. Shining like royalty in the crisp morning. Leaving the less fortunate behind. How lucky we are to be vagamonde.<br />
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For the morning at least, the travel gods grant us a bit more traffic free cycling. <br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/1dG0rGWrQE" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Ja8OHWlg3lo/Ttry5mvkNbI/AAAAAAAADJs/YwTyorZvrEs/s512/DSC01221.JPG" /></a><br />
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The quiet road ends several kilometres from Persepolis: An ancient city of yesteryears turned tourist trap. From far away, the tall columns make it look like a factory. We get to the site with only an hour left before it closes so we decide to stay the night nearby. All the hotels are way too expensive. At one hotel, we ask if we can camp. The guy at reception is a snivelling little prick and I tell myself that, other than motorists, we have found our first asshole in Iran. He tells me that its $10 to camp and that there is no hot water for showers. When I ask him if we can borrow a blanket for the night he says no. He does all this in a very dismissive manner. If you happen to go by the Persepolis Tourist Complex, please give the finger to the guy at reception for us.<br />
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About a kilometre down the road, we find an army base that looks perfect for camping. Feeling desperate, I ask the guard if we can camp inside the compound. He says no but offers a spot just outside in front of the guard post. Not ideal but it will do for one night. Beats giving 10 bucks to an asshole. With the tent set up underneath barbed wire and next to a busy road, we try to get some rest. But the fatigue goes deeper then just being physically exhausted from the cycling. We need a real rest. A place where we can be isolated from the culture shock and be master of our domain. In other words a comfortable hotel room. In the meantime it's party time outside our tent. It's Thursday night and everyone's buddy is coming by to drink tea and smoke hookah. The traffic eventually dies off and the drinking buddies finally leave. We finally get a few hours of sleep to be woken up at six by the exhaust of a parked truck: The muffler directly aligned with our tent. I jump out of the tent to yell at the guy and motion for him to move his truck. Luckily he does. Rudely awakened, we pack up, say our thanks to the military guys and head to Persepolis. <br />
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At the ancient city there is the usual tourist-wrangling refuse. Here, it's guys trying to get you to ride their sorry-looking animals. Access to the site is cheap and as we enter it's an instant disappointment. Most of the place is roped off so that you can't really get a feel for it. There is a path that takes you around like a boring museum. There are glass barriers and flood lights at every interesting spot. But the biggest eye sore is the huge football stadium size roof standing over a section containing a staircase in mint condition. Maybe it's just me but the whole point of going to an ancient site is to get a sense of time travel and to imagine what the place was like in its heyday. At Persepolis, I guess they used to play a lot of football.<br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/VGxFYdAv3c" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-rBgU1Q8tK-w/TtrzCxIa1CI/AAAAAAAADKM/TL5-2pIPSME/s512/DSC01248.JPG" /></a><br />
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<i>Michèle comments: From Persepolis, it was about 50 kilometres to Shiraz. I wasn't ready to cycle the whole way. A serious exhaustion was setting in. If we hadn't been so tired, maybe we could have seen past the tourist shuffling setup and enjoyed Persepolis. Our lucky streak with hitching rides in the Zamionettes ended that day. Half way to Shiraz, we waved one down; the driver stepped out and right away started to motion with his fingers "Money, money." Not quite sure what to offer, because all our other attempts to give money to the Zamyad drivers were adamantly refused, Benoit hesitantly took a 50,000 rial bill out of his moneybelt. Roughly $5 worth. The guy grabbed the bill and pointed to the moneybelt, clearly wanting more. How much more? Five fingers outstretched while waving the 50,000 rial bill and then at one of our bikes. Did he want 250,000 rials? Or 250,000 rials per bicycle? We weren't sure, but then I realized that I didn't trust this guy and decided right there that I didn't want a ride from him. With anyone else, I would have been happy to contribute to gas money for getting a lift. This guy, however, had a greedy gleam in his eyes that didn't fit with the Iranian generosity that we had come to know. So I flatly refused to go with him. And so we cycled all the way to Shiraz. The exhaustion I was feeling intensified. It wasn't so much a physical exhaustion, even though the two climbs on the busy highway next to the belching trucks were very tiring. The traffic in Iran forces me to concentrate so much that it leaves me mentally drained. What I normally love about cycling is that it calms my mind, allowing it the freedom to wander aimlessly as if my thoughts were lightly bouncing from cloud to cloud. With a few exceptions, this hasn't been possible in Iran. My fingers rest on the brake levers, just in case some driver cuts me off; my eyes constantly dart to my rearview mirror, in case I have to bail onto the shoulder to avoid a charging truck; and every fibre in my body feels tense tense tense.</i><br />
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Some people love attention. I do too, in small doses. Out here it's hard to get a moment to yourself. It's always the same question "Hello mister ... Where are you from?". I can't recall having said the word "Canada" so many times. As a cyclist, you are mere entertainment to motorists and we are starting to feel like zoo animals. One time, a couple stopped to film us and hand us candy. Some people will cut you off while on the shoulder of a busy highway in order to park in front of you so they can ask you questions.<br />
- Hello mister! I will try to run you over and then come and talk to you!<br />
We find this behaviour extremely dangerous and it has forced us to be rude to the people: Usually ignoring them or motioning them to move along. We feel bad about this because we know they mean well, but when it happens 20 times a day, it starts to drive you crazy. At the pinnacle of all this was a car packed with young women wearing chadors. Hysteric, they cut in front of us several times to finally drive away with one of them sitting on the edge of the window yelling "I love you". It could be worse I guess. She could have said "Go home you fucking assholes".<br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/fm0StVWLsC" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-ZowOTAiqAQU/TtrzZu6U0SI/AAAAAAAADLY/tiuMcXy5y8E/s512/DSC01298.JPG" /></a><br />
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<i>Michèle comments: Some people cannot hide their astonishment at seeing us. They stare, mouths agape; if they're driving, they'll slow to keep pace with us. And stare. The windows rolled down. I call those people the monkey-watchers. They'll snap photos without asking us first. They'll laugh amongst themselves while staring some more. We're just monkeys on display at the zoo. Some monkey-watchers try to go the extra step to shake our hands or to give us candy, but it feels like a weird gesture and leaves us feeling uncomfortable. On the opposite end of the spectrum from the monkey-watchers are the people who make every effort to speak to us. If they speak English, we would hear them say that this is the greatest day for them. If we don't have a language in common, the look on their faces and how they would clasp our hands would express so clearly how happy they are to meet us. They'd also extend an invitation for a meal, or to stay with them, or to help us in any way.</i><br />
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While in Shiraz we take care of things that have been collecting dust on our list; Administrative bullshit; Internet; Shopping and of course much more. At some point during our stay, we meet a group of cyclists. Among them is Loïc, a French cyclist who started in northern France three months ago. With a great sense of humour, he tells us about his trip so far: A journey we would call nightmarish but the stories are hilarious. Loïc started his trip with Roger: The incarnation of the stereotypical competitive French male. Out to prove something in the hope that somebody cares, Roger has weighed every last piece of equipment; omitting fenders and sawing off his toothbrush handle to increase performance. He has a sophisticated cycle computer and keeps track of all the useless statistics it spits out. At the start of their trip, with the whole village on their bikes to do the first few kilometres with them, Roger takes off like a rocket just to wait 20 minutes at the first roundabout. In the morning, Roger packs his equipment in half an hour to wait with a pouting look on his face; helmet on and bike straddled. Loïc tells us about Istanbul. Instead of staying a few days to visit this unique city, Roger insists on leaving at 5 PM to do the 60 odd kilometres of nightmare cycling to get out of the city. It's only at 11 PM that they finally find a spot to camp; because getting a hotel room would discredit you as an adventure cyclist. The stories go on and on as we piss ourselves with laughter. For Loïc, the last straw comes a few hundred kilometres from Tehran. With Roger pushing like a mad man, Loic admits he can't go on like this. They split in five minutes without saying goodbye. Last we heard was that Roger was already in India, averaging 150 kilometres a day. Bonne chance Roger, la France a besoin de toi.<br />
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<i>Michèle comments: Shiraz started to feel like Laâyoune Plage in Morocco last December: a limbo land between countries, playing the waiting game before leaving. In Laâyoune Plage, we were waiting for the ferry to the Canary Islands. In Shiraz, we waited for our flight to Oman. Our bicycles sat on the balcony of our hotel room. Without them with us, we blended into the mix of tourists, not attracting any more attention than the occasional "Hello Mistère" or, my favourite, "Hey Lady" while snapping fingers. No interesting encounters. More often than not, our bicycles had been the starting point of a conversation, and then an invitation. Like Mohammed in Esfahan. I wonder if he would have approached us if we didn't have our bikes with us, if we were just two tourists strolling through the square. An early stop at Shiraz was necessary to renew our Iran visas about to expire. Once in Shiraz though, and settled into a cozy hotel, it soon dawned on us that we were through cycling in Iran. Finished. Nothing left in us even to ditch the bikes somewhere and tour around without them. So it came as a delightful surprise when all of a sudden we meet a huge crowd of cyclists in Shiraz. <a href="http://www.tommarieopreis.nl/">Tommie and Marie</a> were there, whom we hadn't seen since Tabriz, as well as <a href="http://eurasia.cyclic.eu/">Geoffroy & Elodie</a> from Belgium on recumbent tandem, whom we met briefly in Van Turkey. Also, <a href="http://loicvelomonde.blogspot.com/">Loïc</a> (France) and <a href="http://www.ogalau.over-blog.com/">Laurent & Gaëlle</a>(Switzerland/France). All heading to India via the United Arab Emirates. And thrown into the mix of cyclists, a runner: <a href="http://basketsdanslevent.blogspot.com/">Stéphane</a> (France) who is running his way across from Europe towards India and Nepal with only a 7 kilo pack! We hope to see them again, maybe in India.</i><br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/LPfw7ywj0D" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-0i20MX_BTJk/TtrzOsiMG7I/AAAAAAAADK0/h7J5zBsZ9cc/s512/DSC01269.JPG" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/wRJknpmwHP" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JPZxfo_3bG4/TtrzXYN3hQI/AAAAAAAADLQ/6g8u7SJFQTk/s512/DSC01287.JPG" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/NajiXdUXlE" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-iL72sMP0vgs/TtrzU8fy_CI/AAAAAAAADLI/KnXdAeIxZ2M/s512/DSC01285.JPG" /></a><br />
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<i>Michèle comments: I am happy to have visited Iran. We met so many wonderful Iranians and saw so many amazing things. I loved that we could camp pretty much anywhere. I always felt completely safe, except, I have to say it again, when cycling in the insane traffic. We had a difficult time finding quiet secondary roads. For this reason, I would not call Iran a great cycling destination. But at least we had four great rides while in Iran, and those are the memories I will keep.</i><br />
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Well, so long Iran. All this prohibition is setting my belt to the last notch from the lack of beer.<br />
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All of our photos from Iran are <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/108434754373417615450/Iran2011#">here</a>.</div>
Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-8552256488554011502011-11-25T09:00:00.000-08:002012-06-27T08:06:00.711-07:00From Attaturk to Khomeini<b>October 18 - October 30</b><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/w3NvEIeQRn" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-130aS4PnSO8/Ts_DCTpxiUI/AAAAAAAADHM/UWe67DwKXHY/s512/DSC01299.JPG"></a><br /><br />It has been 30 days of captivity. Every night we are awoken by the screams. With fear in our eyes we wonder: Are we next? ... just kidding. Our final approach to the Iran border is a downhill which continues all the way to Khoy: The first major city after the border. "Welcome to Iran” is the first thing we hear. At the check point, the border guard inspects our passports. I had been worried about our visas. They expire in two weeks and there was some confusion about whether the ending date was the last day in the country or the last day of entry. Apparently the latter. Bored out of his tree, the customs officer stamps our passports. As we wait, a man approaches us and says to Tommie “Come here please”. They both go into a room. The door is closed and locked. We look at each other with a “yikes!” look in our eyes. Later on it will be my turn. All the man wanted to know is that we are here on vacation and that we plan on going to touristic locations. This is pretty much the truth aside from our intention to wild camp, which we kept to ourselves. With the formalities done, and a mild fist fight outside (we were just spectators), we are set free. Off we go to explore our next country.<br /><br />The first kilometres are a bit rough. The road is either being built or renovated. At the first village, we go into a local shop to get supplies for the night. Outside, a rusty Toyota pickup is idling. In the cab are six guys dressed in dirty rags, each of them armed with Kalashnikovs. It feels like watching CNN Breaking News in 3D. We wave nervously. They wave back and ask us where we are from. We answer. To add to the nervousness, a man comes up to me and says in broken English “Leave! People here dangerous!”. As we obey his command, the scene gets more cliché: Another pickup. This one has a huge machine gun mounted in the cab with a guy ready to fire. The man is wearing an old-school motorcycle helmet and a camouflage get-up. It’s a scene from Mad Max. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/yfFqcPHvXN" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-_eTYB05Frzc/Ts_C98HIDeI/AAAAAAAADHE/8WDSwTnxC7A/s512/DSC01296.JPG"></a><br /><br />That doesn’t stop him from being friendly. He waves to us as we pass by. So do we. After several kilometres, it’s time to take a load off. We find a nice spot to camp by a river away from the road.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/HVxA50sOUx" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-eubjUv4CJzQ/Ts--CgOvYBI/AAAAAAAADAY/KfJL1SwkKYQ/s512/DSC00797.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: At that first village, I went into one of the shops to buy water. I wanted three 1.5 litre bottles, the shop only had two. In a new country, the first few days are always an adjustment especially with a new currency and figuring out how much things cost. A customer in the shop asked me the classic introductory question "Where are you from?". He introduced himself as an engineer, not from that village but from Khoy. At that point, his English seemed to run out so the conversation ended. He was still standing there as I went to pay. I held out a note of 10,000 rials. Roughly, that is about $1, which I thought reasonable for the two bottles. The shopkeeper accepted the bill and smiled. Then Mr Engineer from Khoy spoke to him in an angry whisper, and the shopkeeper slowly opened the till to hand me a 2,000 rial note in change. Outside the shop, Mr Engineer from Khoy talked to Benoit telling him that we should leave. In my mind, the danger in that village was that some people might rip you off 20 cents.</em><br /><br />The next morning is a traffic free downhill all the way to Khoy. This is where our luck takes a slight turn. First, we get an introduction to the kind of traffic we will be facing here in Iran: It's not great. Actually, it's borderline retarded. More on that later. Second, we get several annoying equipment failures: My rear wheel gets caught in a sewer grate; bending the rim. Later, the zipper of our tent will fail. These are the realities of travelling I guess. <br /><br />The one redeeming fact is that Iranian roads tend to be very wide with a paved shoulder. Most of the time, you can feel relatively safe. Enjoying the ride? That's another thing. From Khoy we get to a small town. It's Friday and the only shop open is a bakery. As we gather things to buy, the owner of the shop, Mr Habib, invites us to his home for food. The layout of the Iranian home is great. There is very little furniture. Just wall to wall persian carpeting with dinner served on the floor. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/RjKjQ9oNaA" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-ihpPriGvxbc/Ts--6BiggRI/AAAAAAAADB0/vF6HJL15-jQ/s512/P1070813.JPG"></a><br /><br />Tommie and Marie are music teachers and have taken over the entertainment. It's a good opportunity for me to sit back and be incognito. Being an entertaining guest is not my favourite activity. Fortunately for us there is someone who speaks English. Mehdi is his name and he invites us to check out ceramics shops. We all imagine artisans working on traditional pottery but instead we get to a market blotted with the worst kitsch I've ever seen. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/0Om39DlHk4" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-xDVpJP68p1Q/Ts--m-4ni4I/AAAAAAAADBU/5ZCCzSKhysM/s512/DSC00834.JPG"></a><br /><br />The place was quite busy and people were lining up to buy this stuff. It was a bit of a Borat moment when Mehdi asked me if we have such shops in my country. I told him yes. They are called Dollar Stores.<br /><br />The next day, the goal is to get to Tabriz. The closer we get to the city, the traffic grows into an infernal chaos waiting to be a bloody mess. I suggest trying to catch a ride in. It doesn't take long before someone with a pickup offers to drive us in. Once in Tabriz we try to offer money but the guy won't take it. <br />- I invite you he says.<br />Good thing we got a ride because it takes us hours to find a hotel that is clean and cheap. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/R7cjr6VRXP" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-8CuQorsK9e0/Ts-_AUeH-QI/AAAAAAAADCA/kgZrc9ozIuI/s512/DSC00854.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: A few days in Tabriz and suddenly it is time to say farewell to Tommie and Marie. They were heading north to the Caspian Sea and to Tehran; we would be heading south, hoping to find warm temperatures again. It was getting bloody cold in the northwest. I always think about what we learn from the people we travel with. I loved Marie's view on what was important: An autumn leaf that she found on the grounds of a castle tucked in with her other important documents. Tommie was a masterful negotiator and generally had a don't-take-no-shit attitude. That came in handy when we took the bus from Tabriz to Esfahan. After being assured numerous times that there was "no charge" for the bicycles on the bus when buying our tickets, at our arrival in Esfahan, the bus steward unloading the bikes started to demand "Money, money, money..." Benoit blew a spaz and we didn't give him a rial. He said later that he was inspired by Tommie.</em><br /><br />I'll let the pictures speak for the beauty of Esfahan where we stay for two nights.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/YsfzCtJRit" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-Yked_XbWA-M/Ts-_ymQtCxI/AAAAAAAADDY/EqeVDUT_1LA/s512/DSC00912.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/iET7Jwvl7s" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-pHPWjKLvDro/Ts_ALTAatHI/AAAAAAAADEE/Yt08FJxFfxg/s512/DSC00942.JPG"></a><br /><br />It seems that we stumble into peoples lives like mini eras. You become friends quickly and part ways just as fast. At the famous Imam Square, we meet Mohamed, an Iranian who speaks fluent English. He invites us to stay the night at his place. This is an opportunity for us to get away from the small talk limited to our Lonely Planet, English to Farsi book. Mohamed offers us more than just hospitality. He is a rich source of knowledge on Iran and the Middle East. It is so interesting to travel through the political landscape of a country in the eyes of anonymous local people. Not the journalist superstars who feed us bullshit by the handful. When we ask if he thinks things will change here in Iran he replies that people are not ready for change. They have to first decide what they want. Then he says something we will remember: "Sometimes you have to give up something you like before you can pursue something you love".<br /><br />One thing is for sure, we haven't met anyone that has anything good to say about the government. Women seem to like their headscarves even less. Even Michèle says she would rather wear a wig and moustache. Women seem to rebel quietly by putting their headscarves way back, showing most of their hair. Some wear tons of makeup. One young woman had eyebrows so trimmed that you are left wondering if it's the same down below.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/oUQDjsFcIh" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-uovXSpnQgZY/Ts_C_qd3D9I/AAAAAAAADHI/_Han2eqmEDY/s512/DSC01297.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: I was sick and tired of the headscarf by day two in Iran. I had thought that I would adapt well to the headscarf, it being only a temporary inconvenience for me. Benoit said "It doesn't suit you," and when I looked dismayed at his comment, he quickly added, "That is a good thing." One young woman speaking perfect English asked me, "How do you like your headscarf?" Before I could form a diplomatic answer, she replied, "I hate mine. But I have to wear it." As well as covering their hair, women have to (it's the law) wear clothing that covers their legs, arms, shoulders and most importantly conceals the bum. When we first arrived in Iran, I didn't really have any form-concealing attire so I had to wear Benoit's big baggy 'husband shirt'. I was the perfect candidate for the what-not-to-wear section of a fashion magazine. Many women are wrapped head to toe in the 'chador' tents of black fabric that flap in the wind and make them look like bats. Only at close proximity can you see the detailed delicate patterns of the fabric. It made me wonder why they bother -- why not just choose any old black fabric -- and then I thought perhaps that attention to detail is also a form of rebellion. Enough about the conservative dress code for women, let's talk about the traffic. The drivers in the city are the worst, like nothing I have ever seen before. Our initiation into riding our bicycles in traffic was in Khoy. It scared the shit out of me. It felt like 'straight street' driving: No rules. The best way that I can describe an Iranian driver is as a snake, looking for the smallest crack in between cars and slithering its way through. Honking instead of using a turn signal. Ignoring the dotted lines separating lanes, and often ignoring the solid line separating the oncoming traffic. Backing up in the middle of a busy road. Instead of slowing down to make a turn behind you, racing ahead to make a last second turn in front of you, forcing you to squeeze the brakes in terror while cursing at them for cutting you off. There is no chance of daydreaming in traffic here. Every second you have to be expecting the unexpected. I understand the Iranian driving technique better now that I think of it as a snake, but that doesn't mean I like it. The Iranians don't like it either, so they tell us, but they still drive like maniacs.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/MxlyB3ti61" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8NvSA56rr4g/Ts_G_tY51pI/AAAAAAAADHU/5EB8hLaa6Ww/s512/DSC01268.JPG"></a><br /><br />While some rules are tight in Iran, some are incredibly loose. Like camping for example. You can camp anywhere. Even downtown of a major city. Here in Esfahan, one of the parks turns into a tent city every evening. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/6qKF4S4KAj" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-HfLJUUxfv3U/Ts_AhxSxMuI/AAAAAAAADEs/B2h6aHSLZAY/s512/DSC00981.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: While camping at the city park, we met <a href="http://www.keesnathalie.nl">Kees & Nathalie</a> who are travelling from Holland in their Landrover. Somehow they have adapted to the snake driving. They even drove in Tehran traffic, which we heard is insane beyond insane. I worry about the state of my lungs being amidst so much pollution. Trucks belching black smoke, cars with engines idling, and so many people on motorbikes that it isn't funny. Our camp stove is complaining about the dirty gas too. It has been performing poorly ever since we have been using car gas here as its fuel. We hope that soon we'll be able to find cleaner fuel before our poor little stove dies completely.</em><br /><br />The next day, we follow a GPS track out of Esfahan which leads us to a massive highway full of moron motorists. On the outskirts of the city, it's nothing but industrial parks. No thousand-year-old mosques here. We finally get to the turnoff that gives way to lighter traffic. It is extremely dusty, to the point where you could call it fog. Wind is kicking up dust somewhere. It seems odd because the desert is mostly rock. We keep heading east: One night camping in the open desert surrounded by howling jackals and another in a garden beside a prayer room. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/qxx1jLe7Bu" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-tjv2I7S-IUc/Ts_AtaZg3mI/AAAAAAAADFE/uCWvTcKAwZs/s512/DSC01002.JPG"></a><br /><br />Dust is getting everywhere and the zippers of our tent fail several times. Disappointed by my choice of route, all I want is to catch a ride out of the area. But we keep pushing to a town called Hasan Abad where we get a bit of food and then sit on the sidewalk, pouting. You can guess what happens next. We get invited to spend the night. This is where we meet a school teacher. He doesn't speak much English but communicating with him seems easier. I show him on our map a road that goes from Hasan Abad to Yazd. He tells me that the road is a dead end. Determined to show us his town, we both pile into his car. As we head down on the infamous road, the dust seems to get thicker. Then, in the span of several metres, the rock desert and vegetation stops to give way to sand dunes as far as the eye can see. There is so much dust and sand being kicked up by the wind that you immediately get disoriented.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/OUwOzRQM0R" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-_PvtsKvOYuY/Ts_A-6foSsI/AAAAAAAADFo/XbjmDcxQprE/s512/DSC01038.JPG"></a><br /><br />I try to get out to take pictures but I can barely breathe or keep my eyes open. I can't imagine what a real sand storm must be like but I'm told that they can strip paint off a car. As we drive away, Mr school teacher says "... biciclette no". <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/5EKOgMeVfY" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hN4LHBxQknc/Ts_BG-WYIDI/AAAAAAAADF8/3bHJcpwC0tw/s512/DSC01064.JPG"></a><br /><br />Early in the morning, we cycle out of Hasan Abad on a quiet road. The wind died during the night, and with the dust now settled, we hook onto a long straightaway: The sand dunes on one side and flat, all the way to the horizon, on the other.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/XJfSkg5sXd" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-sHV_BTDV1jw/Ts_BUPiEBeI/AAAAAAAADGY/wKfdVNcbrOs/s512/DSC01087.JPG"></a><br /><br />Today we are blessed because there is a good tail wind. We are very careful not to take these types of conditions for granted. Out here, things can change quickly. At the end of the day, we stop at a ruined castle to find a place to camp.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/cb8vXxD8A3" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-kw4ziQ6TuV0/Ts_BhqJXnyI/AAAAAAAADG0/xw1hx5pKBwc/s512/DSC01111.JPG"></a><br /><br />It would have been ideal to camp inside but there are no flat spots. The best thing to do is to make tea and wait for a solution which shows up on a motor bike half an hour later. Ahmad is a Zoroastrian and he tells us that this is our home: We can camp anywhere we like. Zoroastrians believe in praying towards the light. In ancient times, the only way to make light was with fire. Therefore, there are many fire temples especially around the city of Yazd where one fire has been kept going for 700 years. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/yVYE7VopCU" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-hGeavD_xgvk/Ts_I2DRQqqI/AAAAAAAADHc/J7lwlarG04k/s512/DSC01126.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: In Hasan Abad, and again with Ahmed at the castle ruin, the solutions appear when we stop and wait. Imagine life as a horse-drawn carriage: Let go of the reins and let the horses have their heads. Things will work themselves out. At the castle, I was looking at the uneven ground, stupefied, wondering why we couldn't see a good place to camp. Running through my head was the thought, That castle didn't just appear before us for no reason. Once, a long time ago in Montreal, we had dinner at a Mauritanian restaurant. The owner was entertaining us with tales of sand storms in the desert. The sand obliterates the road and sometimes the cars get stuck. No solution seems possible. In such a case, he said, the first order of business is to make tea. I thought of that restaurant owner as we set the water to boil.</em><br /><br />We end up camping in an almond orchard where Ahmad and his friends bring us fire wood. Later on that night they will roast almonds, make fire tea and light up the qalyan. Ahmad has a unique personality and a unusual sense of humour that is difficult to describe. As he lights the camp fire he says half jokingly:<br />- In the name of God.<br />We ask him how many people live in his village; he replies:<br />- 11 people and 20 cats.<br />When it's time for us to go to bed he adds:<br />- And now, we will never see each other again.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Ahmed was an interesting character. He had a presence about him that made him stand out from the ordinary. He spoke in a sort of stage whisper. With his friends around, he acted the jester a bit. A village cat sauntered by and Ahmed said, "The cat's name is ..." followed by a word in Farsi. His friends collapsed in fits of laughter. For all we knew, he could have been saying as a joke, "The cat's name is Testicles." I decided not to repeat the Farsi words that Ahmed was teaching us, ... just in case he was pulling our leg. When Ahmed was not around, one of his friends was loud and annoying, like an awkward teenager trying to appear cool to hide his nervousness. His way of addressing Benoit as "Mistère, Mistère..." was probably meant to be polite, but it jarred at the nerves. Later, Ahmed returned with his friends, and the previously loud awkward one didn't say a single word, as if Ahmed's presence was commanding him to silence.</em><br /><br />To be continued...Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-76991649887063332402011-10-31T20:22:00.000-07:002012-06-27T02:38:18.860-07:00Turkey, Kurdistan towards the Iran border<b>October 1 - October 17.</b><br /><br /> In the last post, we were in Kayseri trying to digest the bad news of our friend's suicide. Devastated and no desire to get on our bikes, we ended up staying for four nights. This is also where we say goodbye to Jacques. His positive energy has shed new light on our trip. Regretfully, Jacques lost his hair during his three weeks with us. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/Dvwwivq57d" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-kHKu_itpI8s/Tq7k-wO0MkI/AAAAAAAACy4/T1TItZBdpB8/s512/DSC00667.JPG"></a><br /><br />Hopefully, he can join us in India so that it can grow back. For us, it's the train to Kangal: Known for its large dogs and doctor fish. <br /><br />The train cars are set up in compartments of six seats. One car is packed with families who have set up camp. Some of them are fully equipped with gas stoves. Vegetable peels litter the floor as well as random puddles from all the dish washing. Waste water is just thrown out the window. Seats are no longer seats. With blankets across all three they are now beds which, I'm guessing, they all take turns sleeping on. No rules and regulations here. It's all pretty crazy and I was glad that our car was less busy. <br /><br />After the train pulls out of the station, I realize why it takes seven hours to do four hundred kilometres. Checking the GPS, I observe long periods of time where the train is only doing forty kilometres per hour. But even at that slow speed, the train eventually gets to Kangal. It's pitch dark when we arrive and the station is nonexistent. From the cargo car we have to jump six feet down onto the tracks while the personnel hands us our fully loaded bikes. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/WW1vaIUjgg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-JF1ThrPFLEI/Tq7lCbVpCaI/AAAAAAAACy8/ImQmR31dMSk/s512/DSC00669.JPG"></a><br /><br />The train takes off right away and the only living thing in sight are the large dogs mentioned above: Our flash lights igniting the red glow in their eyes as they bark at us in a psychotic manner. But no matter, we are here for doctor fish. Small bottom feeders that will eat your skin problems. After a night of wild camping, we get to the little known tourist spot that attracts mostly Turks. The fish live in warm water which makes it easy to go into the pool. Checking it out reveals two old guys with two or three fish on their backs. Yet another tourist rip-off I'm thinking, but as I jump in, I instantly get swarmed by about three hundred fish nibbling at every part of my body. Lucky that I'm wearing swimming trunks. It takes a good half day to stop laughing. Finally you relax and let the fish do their work. It's a truly unique experience and the eczema on my right hand has almost vanished. Unfortunately we only stayed one day. It is recommended to stay a week for best results.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/xVEL3OpOA8" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-hqQraMX-iTQ/Tq7lJn4XfuI/AAAAAAAACzE/RB7EfgLfjgM/s512/DSC00678.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: The fish pools were segregated. Benoit went off to the men's pool and we agreed to meet back up an hour or so later. In the women's pool, the Turkish ladies watched my every move. I wasn't expecting much from the fish spa experience, because I too noticed only a few fish nibbling at the backs and elbows of the women in the pool. I thought, whatever, we only paid a mere 5 TL each for the entrance fee (about $3). Then suddenly I was swarmed by fish, little tiny ones that looked like bottom feeders and also slightly larger ones that would "dive bomb" at my toes and fingers. The sensation was unlike anything I have ever felt. I had no point of reference to prepare myself for the feeling of hundreds of tiny nibbling mouths on my legs and arms. Simply put, it tickled like hell. I burst out laughing, and the Turkish ladies laughed at my reaction. The only other sensation that I can think of that made me laugh out loud from the sheer newness of it was when I tried the Russian bar at circus school. (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pyb3ONCBCLI">Here</a> is a youtube video of "barre Russe" by the Cirque Eloise of Montreal.)</em><br /><br />The next day offers some ideal riding conditions; small country roads, no traffic, clear skies and a mild tail wind. It feels like low level flying. As I glide on the straightaways, the loud hum of the tires take my thoughts for a ride while the whole bike hauls my sorry ass down the road. It's mostly down hill to Malatya and the road takes us through some great scenery.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/iFXbx4FfTX" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/--8OLKP6va94/Tq7mxNteEsI/AAAAAAAACzc/wkYGoAB50PQ/s512/DSC00687.JPG"></a><br /><br />At a gas station, looking for some fuel for the stove, we get stopped by two police officers. One of them is really nice and speaks English. The other is a bit grumpy but he ends up cracking a smile later on. They ask for our passports and where we stayed the previous night. We tell them that we have been camping and that we intend to do it tonight. The guy who speaks English tells us that the commander (the grumpy one) says that it is not safe and that we have to set up camp at the gas station. Well, I'm not going to argue with him. They show us a comfortable spot and we pitch the tent. I really don't think that there was any danger. My guess is that they were just bored and wanted to be helpful. <br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: At that camping spot behind the gas station, we got another dose of Turkish hospitality and also a reminder of how scarred we were by Morocco. We had our camp stove going to cook our evening meal, when we saw two teenage guys walking towards us. Our eyes narrowed in suspicion. What do they want from us, we wondered. (That was the Morocco effect: Rarely did we meet anyone there who didn't want something, usually money, in return for their "kindness".) As the teenagers got closer, we noticed they were each carrying a melon in their outstretched hands. With huge smiles on their faces, one of them said a simple "Welcome Turkey!". They passed us the melons and then ran back to their tractor and were gone.</em><br /><br />The next morning, it's off to Malatya where we are greeted by Fatma, our Warmshowers host. It is such a great thing to have someone take you into a comfortable home when you arrive in a strange city. Fatma shows us around town and later on we all go to a restaurant to meet her friend Seher.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: We had an amazing stay in Malatya. And we usually don't enjoy cities because it is such a hassle with our bicycles. But Fatma and Seher made it so much fun: One day taking us to the apricot bazaar (Malatya is known for its apricots) where we sampled delicious sweets until our bellies couldn't take any more and the next day to a restaurant that offered a traditional Turkish breakfast consisting of a myriad of dishes covering the entire table.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/RtfJDDpQNt" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Kw97BMxb3rU/Tq7ni1GwiJI/AAAAAAAACz4/5bPDqWAuRKY/s512/DSC00699.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/jEI9czs5Ma" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Vyl8062zCqc/Tq7nnoNj_UI/AAAAAAAAC0A/dE-aHrj5T8k/s512/DSC00705.JPG"></a><br /><br />The bus ride to Tatvan was annoying. Another overnight bus ride where the driver wanted us to pay extra for our bikes when we were told there was no extra charge at the ticket booth. In the middle of nowhere, at some ungodly hour, the bus stops for a break and I get invited for tea by two individuals. As usual, I get out my few Turkish words but they both laugh and tell me that they are Kurdish. I had forgotten that we had entered into what some people call Kurdistan. There is a fight for sovereignty here and if you don't feel it in the air you can see it on TV. The CNN type news is full on images of fire fights that are replayed twenty times during the reporting. There is also the interactive maps showing you where the action is. For us, it's at most a hundred kilometres away: How exciting! <br /><br />In Tatvan we met up with our travel partners <a href="http://www.tommarieopreis.nl">Tommie and Marie.</a> The next day we all take a trek to Tatvan's main tourist atraction; Nemrut: A huge crater with a lake in the centre. We spend the day enjoying the fresh air and fried fish. While preparing the fire, one of our Kurdish guides tells us that the leader of the Taliban is himself Kurdish. Michèle and I give him a shifty smile and quickly change the subject to questions about mountain climbing in the area. <br /><br />The next day it's time to take the ferry across lake Van to the city of Van: Famous for its tapas breakfasts: Small trays of olives, cheese, some sort of creamy honey, breads and much more. The ferry is a rusty piece of shit where rules and regulations are mere suggestions. No restrictive access to the car deck on this ride. Being the only passengers on board, we were able to come and go as we pleased. We even got full access to the bridge and its equipment from the nineteen fifties. The ferry is used specifically for the train. No cars here. The train cars roll onto the boat with plenty of room for our bikes.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/49Sh8NTrS7" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-BcL8fa_y2xM/Tq7ovPaVnZI/AAAAAAAAC1M/H2op6sMXR5c/s512/DSC00745.JPG"></a><br /><br />In Van, the vibe takes a slight turn. The first clue is a man yelling out "Welcome to Kurdistan". In the city centre, and for the first time in Turkey, there are beggars. There are also a large number of kids desperately trying to sell anything from Kleenex to cigarettes. Some even walk around with a scale to weigh people for a few Kurus. <br /><br />We stay a few days in Van and opt for the main road to the Iran border. The road is being renovated probably because of the new border crossing we are heading towards. Or maybe it's for another reason, I don't know. It's busy and there is a lot of dust. Trucks blast their extremely loud horns in your face as they pass you. Yet another pet peeve to add to the list.<br /><br />Around noon, feeling hungry for some lunch, we pass by an army check point. One of the soldiers comes out and says that he needs to check our passports. The base has all the clichés; sand bag walls, armoured vehicles, guard dogs, a full arsenal of Kalashnikovs and a tennis court which the soldier, who is actually the commander, claims to be the best at. He tells us he is worried about our safety because there are terrorists lurking. Personally, I think it's another case of boredom but we're not going to argue with him. The commander, who speaks very good English, is actually a really nice guy and a progressive muslim. He tells us that what ever religion we choose, we all meet at the same point and that nowhere in the Quran does it say that women should cover themselves. While we wait for our passports, the lower ranked soldiers serve us tea and lunch. What perfect timing! As we relax and eat, the commander explains the conflict between the Kurd separatists and the Turks. Basically, it's the old story: The Kurds want their own country and the Turks said "Just watch me".<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: One last stop in the town of Özalp before finding a spot to camp for the night. Not just for food and water, but also to change money into rials before the border. This new Kapıköy-Razi border crossing was opened in April 2011. Before that, only passengers on a train could cross at that border. Since the road was nowhere near finished, we couldn't be sure that we would find services like a money exchange place at the border. Tommie wanted to exchange his remaining 100 Turkish lira, but we could only find 50-liras-worth of Iranian rials in that town. After cleaning out the Özalp exchange bureau, we left the swarms of curious kids behind and rode out of town. The landscape was quite barren. Not ideal for camping. But then we spied an appealing grove of trees at the next village. At first, Benoit was reluctant to ask if we could camp there. He had his mind around the idea of a quiet camp spot away from everyone. Already, some kids had noticed us approaching the village and were running closer to investigate. Sometimes, though, it feels like it has been predestined where we will sleep that night. It was close to sunset and the village garden and its grove of trees seemed like the only option. But soon any resignation turned to delight. The family whose house was nearby was so welcoming. They brought us tea, bread, cheese and yogurt and watched us as we set up our tents for the night. They showed us where the water point was and an outdoor toilet. Then, they waved goodnight and left us alone. The father of the family would come back every now and again to see if we needed anything and to chase away the neighbouring kids who were peering over the garden wall at us. Benoit loved the kid-chasing father and called him his hero. [About a week after we were in Van, Özalp and the village of Tepedam, we heard the terrible news of the earthquake hitting that area. At last report, there were at least 1000 dead. We worry for that family in Tepedam that were so kind to us. We hope that they are all okay.]</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/aMtPGCrojS" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-oht0Q_QKybY/Tq7p7i7CpKI/AAAAAAAAC2c/q-5ovPswfD4/s512/DSC00786.JPG"></a><br /><br />Well, thanks Turkey it's been fun. We'll see you in Iran.<br /><br />All of our Turkey photos are <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/108434754373417615450/Turkey2011#">here.</a>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-44701763809919285402011-10-12T02:39:00.000-07:002012-06-27T09:25:10.848-07:00The wacky adventures of Michèle, Benoit and Jacques<b>September 17 - October 1.</b><br /><br />In the last post we ran off in a hurry from a nutter. With that behind us, we continue our cycling journey. Jacques is a power house. He cycles up a hill three times faster than us, comes back down to see how we are doing and cycles back up. One day, we get stuck on a big hill in the middle of the day. The dark asphalt frying us like bacon in a pan. As usual, Jacques cycles ahead while we stay behind, pushing our bikes. All of a sudden it's the cavalry to the rescue. A truck stops and offers us a lift up the hill. The non-touristic Turks, god bless them: There's never any problems. We pile into the back with our bikes. The truck is used for hauling cows so the floor is full of cow shit. We laugh that we are in deep shit for taking this ride. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/vz6Cjpna1S" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-DILZbyWUNXo/TpV8deyYeII/AAAAAAAACr8/ikMYmRybmIQ/s512/DSC00403.JPG"></a><br /><br />They drop us off at the top and it's all downhill to the next town where we stay for two nights in a hotel to get cleaned up and to take a load off.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/RTAAPQYyXQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-TG9Vqg4HCE4/TpV8imNAZ9I/AAAAAAAACsE/y0yZeai1cWU/s512/DSC00407.JPG"></a><br /><br />Our efforts eventually take us to Pamukkale. Yet another tourist hub. As we come in to the town, Turkey seems to vanish. There are about a hundred hotels and guest houses. As we pass by, hotel owners chase us down the street to get us to stay at their establishments. I go into a restaurant to use the bathroom and the owner comes out to yell at me because I used the facility without buying anything. It takes 1 TL to shut her up. The sight of interest are these natural staircase pools filled with turquoise water. The pictures are out of this world. I imagine myself jumping from one pool to the other. Turns out that the pools only fill up during the spring runoff. This is when the tourist pictures are taken. The rest of the time the pools looks like dirty dishes in your sink. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/sPXfGXQaBx" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-vQHk_zojfVY/TpV9PjUI5xI/AAAAAAAACtM/aIiX8Rb0Fk8/s512/DSC00468.JPG"></a><br /><br />They do keep some pools going by pumping water into them. If you stand in the right spot you can see a resemblance of the pictures. There is also a section where you can "swim" in them. You get about a thousand tourists walking around in the murky bath water of the pool.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/rWTjJM6NXW" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-O3RTWMzBRis/TpV9R-zcwjI/AAAAAAAACtQ/eNGVzPHBhpI/s512/DSC00469.JPG"></a><br /><br />It is an oasis of liberalism. Loaded with macho Russian guys and their trophy wives in g-string bikinis (the only thing worth looking at). Next comes the "Antique Pool". It's a regular swimming pool in which they've put old roman columns. You can swim around and pretend you've found Atlantis; so romantic! Of course, it costs more to go into the pool and with the cost of food and drinks you would think that you're at the Zurich airport. But Pamukkale redeems itself with the massive ancient Greek city. Ruins as far as the eye can see. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/ZuYZkV0tJ5" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vZL1SGGfZUg/TpV9H8QCQmI/AAAAAAAACtA/gsDvtU3N-cI/s512/DSC00463.JPG"></a><br /><br />There is a road that runs through it, with regular shuttle buses taking most tourists to the swimming pool. This means you get the city to yourself. Like most archeological sites in Turkey, you can basically go into and climb anything you like. Jacques and I venture into a tomb chamber for a closer look. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/Ugg3AK5cK0" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-e_TrSyx-lRE/TpV9FawlW9I/AAAAAAAACs8/gnJqFbt6FBg/s512/DSC00455.JPG"></a><br /><br />We didn't end up staying in Pamukkale. Instead, we pitched our tent in a farmer's field. <br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Since we first arrived in Turkey, it was nothing but good weather. Sunny skies and hot hot hot. Until that day that we visited Pamukkale. The wind started to pick up, flinging dust into our eyes, and the skies began to darken. To get to the field where we camped for the night, we pushed our bikes across a dry little ditch, not thinking much of it at the time. Just after putting up our tents, the rain began and continued all night. The next morning, there was a mini torrent of water running through the ditch. "Just like 'Into The Wild'," Benoit joked. Jacques was amused that we had broken a basic rule of Camping 101. Of course, Jacques charged through the ditch river on his bike, his back tire fishtailing but he still stayed up. Just the thought of going across myself had my legs shaking. I eventually made it but Benoit had to come back for me.</em><br /><br />Turkey seems to be immune to globalization. As we stop for breakfast on the outskirts of Denizli, there is a large Home Depot type store next to the restaurant. After breakfast I head straight there to use the facilities. No one yells at me this time. The parking lot is empty and I seem to be the only one there. It's a different story in the centre of town where there are countless small stores selling anything you are looking for. As we wander around, Jacques starts drooling at the sight of a forge. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/pNaunQj41T" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-RaJSGg9LiLE/TpV9ddmXLBI/AAAAAAAACtk/2JuDpkFE_GM/s512/DSC00480.JPG"></a><br /><br />He is an amateur blacksmith so we have to stop and watch artisans build hand-made tools. Something you don't see in North America. Maybe there are a handful doing it in an artistic context, selling their workings for an exorbitant amount of money. Not here. It is solely for practical purposes. Everyone at these shops has a special intercom. It's only purpose seems to be to order tea: The chai network. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/QFFvu60nqL" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-66OeRHhevOw/TpV9bFZ8PlI/AAAAAAAACtg/qwlnBAaT5Rg/s512/DSC00479.JPG"></a><br /><br />Of course it's not long before we are offered some. Jacques contemplates buying a hand-forged axe blade for five dollars. He ended up getting it. <br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: From Denizli, we rode for a couple of days in the mountains over gravel roads to get to Lake Salda. We had heard about this lake from Mehmet, a cyclist in Izmir whom we found through Warmshowers. In fact, he and his friends were heading to the lake to camp for the weekend, and we aimed to meet them there. On the way to the lake, we were invited to tea as we passed through a small village in the middle of nowhere. Our hostess handed me a cellphone: on the other end was a group of kids who were scrambling to form questions in English. "Where are you from?" was one. When I answered Canada, there was a huge whoop of a yell "Whoaaaaa!" from the kids. A final push up a steep gravel hill and we could finally see Lake Salda.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/xJlwJvo8ao" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-hVuNqNZG_50/TpV-K-qzF_I/AAAAAAAACus/mOs2n8v_qmg/s512/DSC00517.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Its water was Mediterranean turquoise. Its shores sparkled with what looked like the whitest sand. At closer inspection, the sand was more like a sticky clay. It would envelop your feet like quicksand if you waded into the water and stayed for more than a second in one spot. The beautiful blue water beckoned and so we just had to go for a swim. We thought that we could just follow the beach to the camping spot where we had arranged to meet Mehmet and his friends. But it wasn't so easy. On our shortcut-via-the-long-way, we had to heave our bikes across a canal of water.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/cvfT3nKcMd" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-1D0ZIgh_BmQ/TpV-ZLnb5hI/AAAAAAAACvA/eS1XIVLBIf8/s512/DSC00524.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>In the end, we found Mehmet with his friends as they were setting up camp. In the evening, they brought out what seemed to be an infinite amount of meat to barbecue. That reminded me of a question about Turkish that I had. The word "çöp" means garbage. And the word "şiş" is the shish of "shish kebab". So why do some restaurants have signs outside announcing "çöp şiş"? Garbage meat?? After the uproarious laughter at my question died down, they showed me what "çöp şiş" is. They had brought some for their meal: it was just meat cubes on a skewer. We tried some. It was delicious.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/RYcQrfahDv" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-UmW8tK-REr4/TpV-hoRe5HI/AAAAAAAACvM/f9dGidrLlxU/s512/DSC00527.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Briefly back to the topic of garbage, the only downside to the gorgeous Lake Salda was the trash strewn around on the ground. The campsite had closed down, so we were camping there "illegally". Maybe there was no-one there to clean up the site. I dreamed that I had organized a cleanup crew, people coming from all over the world with stick spears and garbage bags to pick up all the trash.</em><br /><br />Several villages later, it's the medium-size town of Burdur where we hop on an overnight bus to Cappadocia. I'm the lucky one that get the vomit seat: Cargo delivered by the last passenger. That's OK, the bus ride is only 10 hours! At four in the morning the bus pulls into Göreme: The heart of Cappadocia. The stench of tourism lurks. We head several kilometres out of town to pitch our tent. When it's time to wake up, it's to the tune of a large flame thrower. The big attraction here is hot air balloon rides to watch the sunrise. Seven years ago, I remember you could see three or four balloons. Now, you can see seventy of them plastered on the skyline. It's actually really pretty to watch. The balloon that wakes us up flies by 20 metres off the ground with its passengers yelling out "good morning" to us.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/ufNgsPvXlu" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-881uCObaA80/TpV-wfK58NI/AAAAAAAACvk/OahrkNaVnG0/s512/DSC00553.JPG"></a><br /><br />After an expensive coffee, we decide to go to a paid campground so we can do laundry and take a shower. At the campground, the owner shows us a spot. We pay him and give him our passports. This is a common practice although not every hotel or campground will ask for them. Usually, they write down the information and give you back your passport. This is when the problems start. After an hour or two I ask for our passports back and the guy tells me that I will get it back once we leave. So, I ask him again to please return my passport. He tells me that if I don't like it I can leave right now. I tell him that's no problem and to, again, return our passports. The situation deteriorates to the point where I yell at him. The guy loses it and runs towards me with his fist in the air, yelling out gibberish. He then tells me that I should watch myself because he is dangerous. Luckily Jacques is there to diffuse the situation. We pack up our stuff, he returns my passport and we leave. Unless they are a police officers, no-one has the right to keep your passport. A passport is the property of your government and you are responsible for it. I would highly recommend to anyone going to Göreme NOT to go to the Panorama Camping. It is located at the top of the hill coming from Nevşehir.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/bnxmpsb9af" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-fZt8dmB87xk/TpWG5nNbU_I/AAAAAAAACx4/xLeX2UY4avE/s512/DSC00706.JPG"></a><br /><br />Instead of feeling unwelcome by the tourist trap of Göreme, we take control and end up doing four nights of the best wild camping yet. Right in the midst of the world famous rock formations where Jacques gives Biggus Dickus a run for his money. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/7ncXZYuhNQ" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Iq1rMxKLjNs/TpV_pDo0GnI/AAAAAAAACxE/895UUHMDipM/s512/DSC00620.JPG"></a><br /><br />We did not spend any money in Göreme and did our shopping in the neighbouring town of Avanos which is much nicer and friendlier. One morning we realized that we had bushwhacked across thorn bushes and ended up with five flat tires; Michèle two (same tire twice), Jacques two and me one.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/LwRjO0Tcqv" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-KtqcUDgoNWw/TpV_VqUjt-I/AAAAAAAACwg/Nh8fsprpbo0/s512/DSC00591.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: My no-flat-tire record was broken. Not once but twice. That hurt. I had done about 6000 kilometres on those tires without a flat. I was hoping to do 10 000 km or more. Our group flat tire fixing session happened on the morning that we were to ride to Nevşehir to meet Tacettin, the brother of Necmettin, a Turkish mathematician who was also a postdoc at the Centre for Nonlinear Dynamics in Montreal when I was there about 10 years ago. We got all our tires fixed and made it to meet Tacettin in time. His family was incredibly hospitable. He is a physicist and his wife is an engineer. They served us a huge meal for lunch. Including "mantı", a Turkish meat ravioli-like dish that is superb. All home-made. After stuffing ourselves on the delicious food, it was unfortunately time for us to go before it got dark. Outside, where our bikes were locked up, a small group of curious kids from the neighbourhood had gathered. Tacettin translated some of their questions: "Don't you fall over?" one girl asked me as I was attaching all my panniers to the bike. Thank you, Tacettin and Gülizar, for the lovely lunch and conversation. We hope to meet again.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/KUw92gS3Lq" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-EQLgLtosjvc/TpV_X-bqNII/AAAAAAAACwk/DDSIsIWxKVk/s512/DSC00601.JPG"></a><br /><br />We leave Cappadocia for our final ride with Jacques. On this ride, Jacques get his wish to camp inside a cave. On our way to Kayseri, we find the perfect-sized one. Two rooms and a bike storage cubby hole. The perfect little cave to spend our last night wild camping. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/EVPZeIHZ9k" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-SRjU4ghNl5s/TpV_wlmmngI/AAAAAAAACxQ/qDwGkAoRglI/s512/DSC00628.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/t2ERo2qxWc" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-PJC3T0F1WcI/TpV_t7d20DI/AAAAAAAACxM/s3EDMJWotQA/s512/DSC00627.JPG"></a><br /><br />In Kayseri we find a hotel with internet. I eagerly connect to check my email. After gmail finishes with its little progress bar I get hit with news so bad that it doesn't even register and I actually move my mouse cursor to go check another email. Our friend Noa, who has been suffering from the illusion that he was not worth anything, who has been clinically depressed for years, decided to end his life. <br /><br /><em> Michèle comments: Noa's death is a real shock. It is hard to deal with. It almost feels unreal. We had so hoped that he would win his battle with depression. It helps to remember him in happier days, carefree on his bicycle.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/3sol0YyXN9" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-ArlEPmz1Vl4/SrvlW_4ttbI/AAAAAAAABkY/ezh9bsF1DAY/s512/noa.jpg"></a><br /><br />To be continued...Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-73518102604558350192011-10-03T03:50:00.001-07:002012-06-27T02:40:53.804-07:00South to Izmir and eastward with Jacques<b>September 4 - 16.</b><br /><br />In the last post we had found a place to set up our tent and a bunch of kids gave us veggies and Turkish delight. The ride back to Bandirma offered some great scenery and unusual encounters with wild life. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/fBge7BsIvx" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-2fevg05wXBE/TmxcVrAM_mI/AAAAAAAACl4/001mPgxOQ88/s512/DSC00196.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/WgyaUSYiDg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-TBpV056BE34/TmxcUAZRidI/AAAAAAAAClw/M54xQ2s-dlU/s512/DSC00193.JPG"></a><br /><br />After a hilly ride we meet up with our new friends: The ones that invited us for the picnic. İsmail, our interpreter, tells us that we can stay at his brother's place for the night. After a tour of Bandırma, we arrive at our destination where we all relax, drink tea and have a little party. Later in the evening, İsmail's cousin Berkant shows up. Berkant is quite the character. Telling us all sorts of jokes like when before marriage, everything is yes yes yes! But that afterwards it's all no. Berkant also tells us the story of the Turkish flag. What it actually represents is the reflection of the moon and a star in a pool of blood. We tell him that the Canadian flag is just some leaf of a tree. Towards the end of the night, Berkant asks us to please give him permission to leave. We grant him his wish because we are very tired and have a long road ahead the next day. In the morning, after a Turkish breakfast, it's time to head out. We want to thank İsmail's family for their hospitality and we hope that İsmail decides to go to London to deepen his English skills.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/GIMLYy7UJn" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-CG9vdSMIMLw/TmxcWw8Ch7I/AAAAAAAACmA/a0-QkdyPVKk/s512/DSC00201.JPG"></a><br /><br />For us it's south to a town called Gönen. As we leave Bandırma, fighter jets fly past us. As a tail wind pushes us I think about how fast they are going, and how slow we are. The GPS is allowing us to navigate country roads. I have a feeling that it's the beginning of a beautiful friendship, the GPS and I.<br /><br />The scenery is similar to the European country side. Everywhere you look, someone is farming something. The only difference is that mosques replace churches. On the way to Gönen we pass by a lake famous for its pelicans. We stop to take pictures but unless you have one of those Paparazzi zoom lenses, the birds end up looking like pigeons. They all fly away as soon as you get within a half kilometre. Instead we get invited by some fishermen. This time it's to eat some watermelon.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/Pq2sL9KfAO" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-zDrFJl2kRZs/TmxcYNsKr8I/AAAAAAAACmI/Bww539PeMAM/s512/DSC00206.JPG"></a><br /><br />We finally get to Gönen and the only thing I can say is that I recommend the following hotel: Filiz Pansiyon. The owner was very friendly and there was plenty of space for our bikes.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments:One of the Filiz hotel cleaning ladies took a real liking to me. She cooed and clucked around me, chattering away in Turkish with a huge grin and twinkling eyes. Barely understanding one word out of ten, I guessed by her gestures that she was saying that Canadians and Turks are friends sleeping under the same sky. As we prepared to leave the next day, I was wearing my cycling 'kit', which for me is a sports bra under a regular t-shirt and spandex cycling shorts hidden under regular shorts. My #1 fan of the cleaning staff was there with a couple of the other ladies. She started staring at my chest, her eyes wide with wonder. Then more rapid-fire Turkish, which I think was to say "Look how small your boobs are," as she compared them to the ample bosoms of her companions. And to drive the comparison home, she squeezed a boob of one of the ladies with an "Ah!" and her voice going up. Then she gestured the same squeeze at me, but without touching my boobs (thank goodness), and her voice deflated with the "Ah". Squeeze, voice up, gesture, voice down, squeeze, voice up, gesture, voice down... repeated until we were all laughing.</em><br /><br />The next morning it's a big climb and at the end of the day we end up in a small village lost in the mountains. As we ask around for a place to camp a man by the name of Zeki Gül invites us to spend the night. By this point we are both very tired and don't have the energy to be a guest. We try to get out of the invitation but can't find a way to refuse. I am cranky but I try my hardest to be nice. Turns out that Zeki could easily run a B&B. He offers us a private room with everything we want. I offer him money for the accommodation which he promptly refuses. As usual, we hit the hay early. Before we do, we have to get our point across to Zeki's seventy year old father that we don't want to join him for tea. It takes a valiant effort and at times he seems to get mad. We finally get our point across and head to bed.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/K1CRXQwPR2" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-ZSxw7gwhHg4/TomW5GpmyTI/AAAAAAAACqY/HZZ5eKoxfqc/s512/DSC00665.JPG"></a><br /><br />At the crack of dawn, we wake up to the call to prayer which ignites a howling session with all the dogs in the village. Of course Zeki and his wife have a traditional Turkish breakfast waiting for us. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/d7o5LOQfkv" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-IHXNzf68sYQ/TmxcceG9dYI/AAAAAAAACmg/WXhtJlPZ-98/s512/DSC00223.JPG"></a><br /><br />Several villages later, we hook up with several young people who invite us for a picnic. The location is a small house at the top of a hill, overlooking the village. The owner of the house loves movies and heavy metal music. That doesn't stop him from offering us the Turkish hospitality. He invites us to stay for the night. So, we all kick back with beers and listen to Ramstein. Later, he tells us that he is trying to go to Canada to work and he ask us if we can help him "get in". We have encountered this situation before. Yes, we can give him a place to stay but there is nothing we can do to get him a work visa. There are, however, several options to explore, none of which seem to offer a solution. Finally he proposes something that took three tries with Google translate to understand:<br />1. You can peel me as a child.<br />2. You can adopt me as a shell.<br />and finally:<br />3. You can adopt me as your child.<br />I have never had such a request. I tell him that this probably would not work since he is 27 years old. Anyways, I'm finding it hard to understand this desire to come to North America. Turkey seems to be doing well economically. We haven't seen a single beggar. Besides, Turkey is much nicer then being stuck in Toronto, unemployed, in the dead of winter.<br /><br />Finally in Bergama: Our first tourist trap in Turkey. No free tea or invitations here. Even the kids are annoying. So, let's play the part and head up to the Akropol. One of Turkey's many Roman ruins that have been standing here long before the first call to prayer. Back when there were many gods.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/bKfujKueLR" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-zvWqEzwSIQY/TomKe3477tI/AAAAAAAACoM/DookhymReO0/s512/DSC00269.JPG"></a><br /><br />I have to say that the site is impressive. You can imagine the wild orgies and Biggus Dickus rounding up his troops for the next glorious battle. The crowds were minimal too. There were even several minutes where we had the place to ourselves.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/zA74zshfPM" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-O79HLDAmQ00/TomKhWDnr5I/AAAAAAAACoY/75zV_bsvqt0/s512/DSC00276.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: The contrast between tourist areas and the small villages along country roads is quite striking. In Bergama, the kids ran out in front of our bikes to block our path, or grabbed at the handlebars. In the small villages, the kids would wave and say hello how are you what is your name? where are you from? always friendly and sometimes really trying to be helpful. In Bergama, the english phrases came out as taunts in mocking tones. It is as if people from another country are no longer seen as human. Just monkeys in a zoo to poke at with a stick. So then the tourists try to ignore the mocking tones and the taunts, and in so doing, probably come across as less human. A vicious circle where no-one wins.</em><br /><br />Navigating small roads, we left the tourist trap of Bergama to end up in a small village called Seyitli. It's the end of the day, and, as we ride into town, it's not long before we are invited for dinner and to spend the night. We have learned to accept invitations even though we have been taught not to impose. Refusing is a huge disappointment for the Turks. Michèle is offered a change of clothes. Now looking traditional she is requested to help with dinner. Naturally I tag along but I am quickly motioned to go join the rest of the men who are more interested in drinking tea and watching football. We want to thank İlhan and his family for their hospitality.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/HD7JizgkG8" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-bBVZ1Wv9eY8/TomKnW2pdRI/AAAAAAAACo4/49v99Qm0rNQ/s512/DSC00306.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/gK0S3lcM66" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-q0wGCwDhzmA/TomKoM9n7-I/AAAAAAAACo8/kyRoxE9jHTI/s512/DSC00308.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: I loved that İlhan's mom offered me a change of clothes after a shower. She even put out a pair of underwear and bra for me. The traditional pants that the women wear are super comfortable. So baggy and loose, not a binding seam anywhere. It is too bad that the baggy legs would get caught in my chain, or I would wear them while cycling. I also loved that I was allowed to help with the meal. Well, all I did was peel and cut a couple of potatoes. They wouldn't let us do anything else to help!</em><br /><br />From İlhan's place it's all downhill to the next town where we want to catch the train to İzmir to avoid the heavy traffic. Just before arriving at the train station, I ride over a dead hedgehog and puncture my tire. Next comes one of my pet peeves: People trying to help when it's not needed. I know they mean well but it's so annoying. I finally get my tire patched, had another tea and we head off to the train station to arrive just in time for the train to İzmir.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/zMd1c6mSla" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-3oJrhrdTalw/TomKpi2qSzI/AAAAAAAACpE/kWpAhadFuGw/s512/DSC00314.JPG"></a><br /><br />We check into the hotel and wait for Jacques who will be joining us for a few weeks. While sitting with a few beers, Jacques laughs while telling us all sorts of hellish airport stories which ends with him getting to İzmir. He is missing one bag. So, we spend a good part of the next day cycling to the airport. We have to ride on a huge busy highway all the way there. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/QoanjyqK5C" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-yWJHHGAolHI/TomKskTqAsI/AAAAAAAACpU/AnjyzbtFchQ/s512/DSC00322.JPG"></a><br /><br />Surprisingly, it is not as hellish as I anticipated. Or I'm just getting used to shit traffic. At the airport, Jacques miraculously finds his bag which means that we can start our ride to Pamukkale: Yet another tourist trap. More on that later.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/eQ3xhscA2U" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-7RiLOY1l6fg/TomKvFvR9gI/AAAAAAAACpg/ifdg0THda2E/s512/DSC00328.JPG"></a><br /><br />Now that there are three of us, wild camping is more fun. In Turkey, it seems that you can camp anywhere. Since we are in a farming area, one of the nights we decide to go into a small town to ask for a spot. A man who claimed to be a mechanical engineer and a software developer shows us a spot at the outskirts of the village. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/YVz0H3F4cV" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-z7obGBZIZTg/TomK1Vym7lI/AAAAAAAACqA/JnzTtYk5fTM/s512/DSC00344.JPG"></a><br /><br />Right away I get a funny feeling about this guy. Something tells me he is not what he claims to be. He comes around to our campsite several times even after we have gone to bed. In the morning he gives us a rude awakening, very early, to invite us for tea and breakfast. The only thing is that he doesn't seems too happy about it. His home doesn't look like the home of a mechanical engineer or software developer. His mother goes off to prepare breakfast and in the meantime he shows us his collection of books. All of them in Turkish. The only one I recognize is an Anthony Robbins book. As I look at it he says to me:<br />- Best seller, best seller!<br />He also shows us pages of quotes from all sorts of people ranging from Albert Einstein to Charles de Gaulle. Then, in accelerated Turkish, he goes off on a rant about god knows what. Some of the words I could make out was tourist, kuran, muslim, capitalist system and psychopath. This goes on for quite a while to the point where Michèle gets upset. Jacques has a vacant look on his face and I'm somewhere in between. So, we decide to pull the plug: Fuck the tea and fuck the breakfast. This guy is crazy! We head back to our bikes with the guy not far behind us yelling:<br />- Where are you going!?<br />At our bikes, the guy grabs me arm to pull me back in the direction of the house. I don't like being grabbed and luckily he lets go. We finally get on our bikes and as we are about to pedal away he asks us for our phone number. Luckily we don't have one but if we did, we would have told him 555-5555.<br /><br />To be continued...Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-69608266495207946702011-09-11T06:01:00.000-07:002012-06-27T02:41:18.138-07:00Turkey begins with more eating than cycling<a href="http://goo.gl/photos/dxOw1UQoNv" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-dt-YPJj3g6s/TmysmnqtAjI/AAAAAAAACnU/48Z-qpBl7ZI/s512/DSC00251.JPG"></a><br /><br /><b>29 August - 3 September.</b><br /><br />The last four months have been therapeutic. Being back in Montreal enabled us to get back into a routine and be in our elements. Time was spent working, servicing the bikes, acquiring visas and new equipment and testing Mefloquine. This malaria med is cheap and hassle free. You only take it once a week. However, it can drive you insane. Hence testing it for three weeks. The result for me was nothing but Michèle felt high when she took it. She is worried about being on the bike and not being fully alert. Besides, we won't be hitting too many parties along the way. So, we have plenty of time to figure out something else. We won't be in malaria zones for a long time. <br /><br />I have to make a side note. It is not without anxiety that we leave again. There has been much bad news over the last two years. I want to say to those affected that you are in our thoughts and that we hope for a quick resolution to your problems. You know who you are. We feel fortunate that we have been spared by the universe and allowed to keep going on this trip. In addition, even though we feel more prepared and more synchronized, one negative attitude will outweigh ten positive ones. As we travel towards the "evil" zone, the nail-biting news-watchers are the first ones to dampen our spirits.<br /><br />We left Montreal in the midst of hurricane Irene. With high winds and torrential downpour, Michèle's sister Leslie was kind enough to give us a ride to the airport. At airports, I always stress that things are not going to go smoothly. Catching a plane with two bikes is like walking on a sidewalk, blind-folded and littered with dog shit. We almost stepped in a pile when some idiot security guard, with a staircase haircut, who looked and talked like Andrew Dice Clay, requested that we unpack our bikes so that he can inspect them. The bikes wouldn't fit into the x-ray machine you see. Luckily for us, this halfwit had a coworker with normal intelligence who suggested we take the bikes to another, much bigger, x-ray machine. Crisis avoided.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/j0zOmN445q" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-ykla1z5Af38/TmysnNDWpNI/AAAAAAAACnY/JZRvuvunL48/s512/DSC00252.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: The ten months of travelling that we did last year have given me a new 'zen' perspective on life. When I feel things slipping out of my control, I imagine that I am in a carriage being pulled by horses and I see myself dropping the reins and letting the horses have their heads. When I relinquish control, it seems that things just suddenly work themselves out. Like when the security guard was telling us that we had to open our bicycle boxes, tightly wrapped in metres and metres of packing tape, I felt my stomach twist into knots. Then the image of dropping the reins popped in my head and I noticed that behind us in line were two travellers with bicycles in even BIGGER boxes than ours. It was at that moment that the sensible security guard suggested that the bicycle boxes could go elsewhere for scanning. I also believe that my sister Leslie was our good luck charm that day. Thanks Leslie. Everything worked out in the end.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/wbz2H2W9Mn" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-lmmG-lpm4qk/TmxZhldjPOI/AAAAAAAACkA/vKfA1woL_XA/s512/DSC00127.JPG"></a><br /><br />Unfortunately for us, the incompetence of the Pierre Elliot Trudeau airport doesn't stop here. At the check-in counter, I ask if the baggage handlers will keep our bike boxes out of the rain. The woman tells me not to worry and that baggage handlers are used to this sort of thing. Well, fast forward about 10 hours and we find our bike boxes in a state of paper maché. Lucky that I wrapped each box with a hundred metres of packing tape; the only thing keeping the soggy boxes together. <br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Cycling from the Ataturk airport to the hostel wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. In fact, all I had to do was picture myself back in Montreal and it seemed that the drivers could have been from either place. There were some assholes honking and squeezing you off the road; and others who just tapped at their horns to warn you of their approach and then passed around you with plenty of comfortable space to spare. When we rode around the city, I was surprised by how hilly it was. We had visited Istanbul on a trip in 2005 and nothing of those hills stuck in my mind. Only by bicycle do you notice every change in elevation.</em><br /><br />With all the airport stress behind us, we head out into the controlled chaos of Istanbul traffic: The GPS guiding the way to the first place I want to visit, Decathlon: The dollar store of sports equipment. They have basic cycling shorts for $10. Sorry MEC. And they're made in Romania. So, being in Istanbul, I figure that the carbon footprint is minimal. Unless they have to be shipped to China to get the washing instructions sewn on.<br /><br />We spent three days in Istanbul. The skyline is littered with huge mosques. Despite being hundreds of years old, some of them look futuristic with their four minarets and multiple bulbous domes.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/gf1krqx6F7" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-I0okyLQoV7Y/TmxcFGOa9dI/AAAAAAAACkc/MHv0QaFtOPc/s512/DSC00139.JPG"></a><br /><br />Early in the morning, in our hostel room, it's the first call to prayer. I open my eyes and let the melodic chant take me on a mystical journey. The journey, however, was not so mystical a few hours earlier when three young French tourists decided to smoke a joint on the balcony next to our room. Des espèces de babacools à la con! Talking loud, they give us a full recap of their evening. Being French myself, I have no problem being rude and to tell them to skedaddle. I guess they're too young to have seen Midnight Express.<br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: On our first day cycling from Bandırma, we found ourselves in Karşıyaka, a village at the bottom of a long hill and at the dead end of a road. Not where we expected to be. An "oh no" sinking sort of feeling hit me. Of course, this always seems to happen when our energies are drained and as the sun is setting. A young guy got out of his car to help, we got out our map, and within seconds, he was joined by a crowd of young guys, all laughing and pushing at each other. Looking at the map more closely, it was clear that we missed the turn we wanted. The jostling crowd of young guys seemed to have elected a translator from their midst and one guy was pushed to the front. His English was pretty good, but his voice quavered as if talking to us was making him really nervous. I found that so endearing, that he seemed more unnerved by the situation that we were. Suddenly my "oh no" feeling disappeared and I knew everything would be okay. We left the village, intent on retracing our path as far back as Dalyan, where our nervous interpreter had said we could camp at the beach for the night. But retracing our path meant climbing back up the hill. Too tired even for granny gear, we got off to push. Not soon after, some rescuers appeared in the form of three young guys in a flat bed truck. They seemed to understand that we were lost. A short discussion in basic English like "Bike, truck, go, camp, beach," and off we went, ourselves and our bikes in the back. Soon the truck turned down a dirt lane towards the sea and we were at our destination.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/mQBRuoD5ay" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-h5WUT2Qoiis/TmxcKxUP7JI/AAAAAAAACk8/EOpVUKvgxBY/s512/DSC00166.JPG"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/67I4ix1JrC" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-kxjOcZq5Wfs/TmxcL78BjbI/AAAAAAAAClA/qYsYHuiJSio/s512/DSC00167.JPG"></a><br /><br />Shortly after we get dropped off by our young truckers, I find a small restaurant where I pick up two large beers to congratulate ourselves on a job well done. The good feeling is back: We have something to drink, a restaurant for food and a place to stay for the night. It's early September and for the Turks it's the Bayran holiday. Sort of like the construction holiday in Quebec. The beach is filled with Turkish tourists. Not a single foreigner in sights. That means we won't get ripped off! It smells really good because everyone there has a BBQ going. While we wind down from the wrong turn earlier on, it doesn't take long before a family calls us over to welcome us to Turkish hospitality. They fill our bellies with fried sardines, chicken kebabs and salad. We try our best to exchange a few words because they don't speak English or French.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/ZnoolqicSw" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-Bt_WVEEe_dM/TmxcMk0WPyI/AAAAAAAAClE/C2i-1baqanE/s512/DSC00169.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: Purple Derya, if you are reading this, your email address that you gave me didn't work so I couldn't send you the photos that we took with your family. Please contact us.</em><br /><br />It turns out that there are cheap rooms at the restaurant where I got the beers. We end up staying for two days doing absolutely nothing.<br /><br />When it's time to leave, it's not long before we are again invited for a picnic. This time there is someone who speaks a bit of English. We all relax in the shade and eat great food. <br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/iYcyV57PA4" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-uMIgwjMzXXc/TmxcRhY-P6I/AAAAAAAAClg/ZZ_b2hM-jdc/s512/DSC00182.JPG"></a><br /><br />Later, after a swim in the sea of Marmara, they offer to strap our bikes to the roof of their car so we can come spend the night at their place. Unfortunately, their car is too small and we have too much stuff. So, they give us more food and their phone number so we can call them once we are back in Bandırma. More on that later.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/g4N33An6wA" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-bn_tZxWf9BQ/TmxcQ1GF5AI/AAAAAAAAClc/Lu6uYF3C1jw/s512/DSC00180.JPG"></a><br /><br /><em>Michèle comments: While swimming in the sea, we learned that the small white jellyfish are "no problem" and that only the brown jellyfish will sting. That was good to know. Only two days early, I had wiped out on a slippery rock at the beach trying to sidestep one of the white jellyfish. I had skinned my knee for nothing.</em> <br /><br />In the next town, we are quickly pointed to a place where we can pitch our tent. There is no problem wild camping around here. No regulations typed out in tiny paragraphs that state "thou shall not camp". Nobody cares. Not a great spot but it will do. As we set up, three kids come over to investigate. By this point I'm tired and not in the mood to deal with obnoxious children. But these ones are different. They speak only Turkish but one of them seems very concerned about our well-being and that we will not have enough food for the night. Luckily, a woman who speaks English comes by to translate. Turns out that the kids are warning us about a crazy man who lives in the hills and that there are a lot of snakes where we are set up. I tell them that I'm not scared of crazy people and that I eat snakes for dinner. They all go scampering off and come back an hour later with bags of veggies and one bag of home-made Turkish delight: Very cute. All in all, it turned out to be a great camping spot.<br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/0x7ShJGnxe" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-JO_jGKdJXsk/TmxcSKq8q_I/AAAAAAAAClk/8oeIb7UbIiU/s512/DSC00188.JPG"></a><br /><br />To be continued...Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-44029335985423179832011-07-17T17:13:00.000-07:002011-07-17T17:22:21.109-07:00Eastward boundWhere we left off, it was the beginning of April and we had just returned to Canada following the death of Michèle's mother. After several months on familiar grounds, we are set to continue our journey around the world by bicycle. We will continue with our original plan: ride east ... and probably skip some sections by bus. This second leg of the trip will start in Istanbul on August 29. Once there, we will slowly make our way towards Iran, where we have been granted a 30 day visa. We are very excited to have the opportunity to visit this unique country. The post Iran journey is somewhat foggy, but we want to be in India by the beginning of December.<br /><br />La dernière fois, nous étions début avril et nous venions juste de rentrer au Canada à cause du décès de la mère de Michèle. Après plusieurs mois sur notre territoire familier, nous sommes prêts à continuer notre tour du monde en vélo. Nous allons rester avec notre plan original: pédaler vers l'est. Cette deuxième partie du voyage débutera à Istanbul le 29 août. Une fois rendu là-bas, nous allons pédaler en direction de l'Iran où nous avons obtenu un visa pour 30 jours. Nous sommes très heureux d'avoir l'occasion de visiter ce pays unique. Après l'Iran nous ne sommes pas encore sûrs de notre direction mais nous voulons être en Indes début décembre.<br /><br /><em>Michèle writes: Many times while on the road I longed for a day of boredom, my mind freed of the daily strategizing: where would we sleep, how far could we get that day, what would we eat? It has been good for me to return home to Canada for awhile. Now I feel that I have the travel bug again. I am itching to get back on the saddle and ride.<br /><br />My family threw a big party to celebrate our Mom's life as she had requested. We hope that we did her proud. At the house we rented in the country for the event, we almost had a noise complaint. A neighbouring farmer had called the owner of the house, and the conversation she recounted to us later went something like this:<br />- What is all that loud music?<br />- Oh, that's a funeral going on.<br />- (After a pause) THAT's the way I want to go out!<br />My sister Carole put together the obituary, which mentions our Mom and her bicycle. I remember her always riding to work. But sadly, I don't know of any photo showing my Mom with her bike. To honour her love of cycling (perhaps that is where I get it), I want to have some of my Mom's ashes in a pendant that I can attach to my handlebars.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/FTjsvY3puE" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-zbU7ZuDWKPc/TiNLn4Zj6HI/AAAAAAAACcw/dzglPPdUg-4/s512/RuthObit001.jpg"></a><br /><br /><em>Since returning to Canada, we have had three different homes. First, at our friends' place where they greeted us weary travellers with a table groaning with food. We stayed with them for three weeks. Thanks, Srinath and Marc for taking such great care of us! Then, we moved in with our friend Jacques who was ending the lease on his apartment : a huge space that was almost empty except for bicycles (you guessed it, Jacques is a cyclist). That brought us to the end of June, the big moving day for everyone in Montreal. For July and August, we found a furnished apartment to sublet. Our moving day was a snap: put everything we own on our bicycles and stop for a relaxing coffee and pastry along the way.</em><br /><br /><a href="http://goo.gl/photos/yd9zyZx5Ze" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right;margin-bottom:1em;margin-left:1em"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-tqrLCThyIqI/TiNLnLBAAiI/AAAAAAAACcs/tT7frExLh44/s512/DSC06133.JPG"></a>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-34648021046571456482011-05-24T15:41:00.000-07:002011-05-24T16:06:55.723-07:00Notre trajet en Macédoine et en Grèce (vidéo)Benoit explique notre trajet en Macédoine où nous avons parcouru 500 kilomètres et en Grèce où nous avons parcouru 96 kilomètres.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FXcJ3prSHeE?hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FXcJ3prSHeE?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-64751419724797437692011-05-24T15:39:00.000-07:002011-05-24T16:05:31.348-07:00Notre trajet en Italie et en Albanie (vidéo)Benoit explique notre trajet en Italie où nous avons parcouru 282 kilomètres et en Albanie où nous avons parcouru 187 kilomètres.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/eN44hHkIwL0?hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/eN44hHkIwL0?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-41659442121676816052011-05-24T15:36:00.000-07:002011-05-24T16:03:44.371-07:00Notre trajet aux Îles du Canaries (vidéo)Benoit explique notre trajet sur Gran Canaria, Lanzarote et Fuerteventura des Îles du Canaries où nous avons parcouru 629 kilomètres.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/wocHeunEDJE?hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/wocHeunEDJE?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-84232022469670773112011-05-24T15:33:00.000-07:002011-05-24T16:06:12.540-07:00Our route through Macedonia and Greece (video)Michèle runs through our journey of 500 kilometres by bicycle in Macedonia and 96 kilometres in Greece.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/f5XAS3YrZHI?hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/f5XAS3YrZHI?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4254416870217654274.post-57621111269509182822011-05-24T15:31:00.000-07:002011-05-24T16:04:40.680-07:00Our route through Italy and Albania (video)Michèle runs through our journey of 282 kilometres by bicycle in Italy and 187 kilometres in Albania.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DgWxSpU7MDg?hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DgWxSpU7MDg?hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Piston Tulip (Benoit)http://www.blogger.com/profile/11031558578585739540noreply@blogger.com0