Vagamonde

Coasting the Konkan with David

2012-02-10T02:52:00.000-08:00

December 27, 2011 - January 9, 2012

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.

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.

Back at the airport, David finally gets his bike from customs. As he opens the bike box he yells:
- It's show time!
After which about twenty airport employees gather around to watch us assemble the bike.

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.

It's once again sensory overload with its traffic, smells and the exotic poverty.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:
- Namaste!
or hello in Hindi.
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:
- You must go to the family room he says.
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.

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:

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:
- Creeps with chocolate sauce
- Banana filters with chocolate rum sauce
- Massed potatoes
- Green piece masala, or Green peace masala.

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.

Jumping right into it in India

2012-01-13T06:43:00.000-08:00

December 14 - December 26

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.

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.

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.

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:
- Give me tea!
I tell her that this tea is not for kids. As I put away the thermos, she must have smelled the contents and says:
- Hey, that's not tea that's beer!
As we cycle away, she chases us, asking for anything she can think of. She finally gives up after we pick up speed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Michèle comments: A funny coincidence meeting that family from Toronto. Their daughter had just graduated from university. I asked her where she studied.
- Waterloo, she said.
- Me too! What subject?
- Mathematics, she said.
- Me too!
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

O my! Oman!

2011-12-20T04:20:00.000-08:00

November 25 - December 13

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Well that's all she wrote in Oman. It's time for us to move on to "Bizarro Oman": India. Will it break us?

All of our Oman photos are here.

Iran travels continue with more hitching than cycling

2011-12-06T03:16:00.000-08:00

October 31 - November 24

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.
- We don't have these in Iran he says.
The pictures show various sex shop paraphenalia including a mannequin wearing a strap-on dildo.
- Is that for lesbians? he whispers.
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.

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:

"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."

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.
- We won't let them pass and we won't thank them either because they are mullahs and they ruined our lives he says.
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.
- What about the Iranian channels I ask.
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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

For the morning at least, the travel gods grant us a bit more traffic free cycling.

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 sniveling 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.

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 houkkah. 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.

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.

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.

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.
- Hello mister! I will try to run you over and then come and talk to you!
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".

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.

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 Bertrand: The incarnation of the stereotypical competitive French male. Out to prove something in the hope that somebody cares, Bertrand has weighed every last piece of equipment; omiting 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, Bertrand takes off like a rocket just to wait 20 minutes at the first roundabout. In the morning, Bertrand 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, Bertrand 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 Bertrand 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 Bertrand was already in India, averaging 150 kilometres a day. Bonne chance Bertrand, la France a besoin de toi.

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. Tommie and Marie were there, whom we hadn't seen since Tabriz, as well as Geoffroy & Elodie from Belgium on recumbent tandem, whom we met briefly in Van Turkey. Also, Loïc (France) and Laurent & Gaëlle(Switzerland/France). All heading to India via the United Arab Emirates. And thrown into the mix of cyclists, a runner: Stéphane (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.

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.

Well, so long Iran. All this prohibition is setting my belt to the last notch from the lack of beer.

All of our photos from Iran are here.

From Attaturk to Khomeini

2011-11-25T09:00:00.000-08:00

October 18 - October 30

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.

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.

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.

Michèle comments: At that first village, I went into one of the shops to buy water. I wanted three1.5 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
- I invite you he says.
Good thing we got a ride because it takes us hours to find a hotel that is clean and cheap.

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 negociator 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.

I'll let the pictures speak for the beauty of Esfahan where we stay for two nights.

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".

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 mustache. 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.

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.

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.

Michèle comments: While camping at the city park, we met Kees & Nathalie 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.

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.

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 Hasanabad 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 Hasanabad 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.

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".

Early in the morning, we cycle out of Hasanabad 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.

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.

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.

Michèle comments: In Hasanabad, 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, stupified, 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.

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:
- In the name of God.
We ask him how many people live in his village; he replies:
- 11 people and 20 cats.
When it's time for us to go to bed he adds:
- And now, we will never see each other again.

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.

To be continued...

Turkey, Kurdistan towards the Iran border

2011-10-31T20:22:00.000-07:00

October 1 - October 17.

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.

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.

The train cars are set up in compartments of six seats. One car is packed with famillies 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.

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.

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 truely 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.

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. (Here is a youtube video of "barre Russe" by the Cirque Eloise of Montreal.)

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 lound 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

In Tatvan we met up with our travel partners Tommie and Marie. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 arsonal 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 Quoran 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".

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.]

Well, thanks Turkey it's been fun. We'll see you in Iran.

All of our Turkey photos are here.

The wacky adventures of Michèle, Benoit and Jacques

2011-10-12T05:29:00.000-07:00

September 17 - October 1.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We didn't end up staying in Pamukkale. Instead, we pitched our tent in a farmer's field.

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.

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.

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 soley for practical purposes. Everyone at these shops has a special intercom. It's only purpose seems to be to order tea: The chai network.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

To be continued...

South to Izmir and eastward with Jacques

2011-10-03T03:50:00.001-07:00

September 4 - 16.

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.

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 chararcter. 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 familly for their hospitality and we hope that İsmail decides to go to London to deepen his English skills.

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.

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.

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.

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 bosums 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.

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 accomodation 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.

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.

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:
1. You can peel me as a child.
2. You can adopt me as a shell.
and finally:
3. You can adopt me as your child.
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.

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.

I have to say that the site is empressive. You can imagine the wild orgies and Biggus Dickus rounding up his troups for the next glorious battle. The crowds were minimal too. There were even several minutes where we had the place to ourselves.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Suprisingly, 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.

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.

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 engeneer 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:
- Best seller, best seller!
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:
- Where are you going!?
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.

To be continued...

Turkey begins with more eating than cycling

2011-09-11T06:01:00.000-07:00

29 August - 3 September.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 abnoxious 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.

To be continued...

Eastward bound

2011-07-17T17:13:00.000-07:00

Where 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.

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.

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.

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:
- What is all that loud music?
- Oh, that's a funeral going on.
- (After a pause) THAT's the way I want to go out!
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.

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.

Notre trajet en Macédoine et en Grèce (vidéo)

2011-05-24T15:41:00.000-07:00

Benoit explique notre trajet en Macédoine où nous avons parcouru 500 kilomètres et en Grèce où nous avons parcouru 96 kilomètres.

Notre trajet en Italie et en Albanie (vidéo)

2011-05-24T15:39:00.000-07:00

Benoit explique notre trajet en Italie où nous avons parcouru 282 kilomètres et en Albanie où nous avons parcouru 187 kilomètres.

Notre trajet aux Îles du Canaries (vidéo)

2011-05-24T15:36:00.000-07:00

Benoit explique notre trajet sur Gran Canaria, Lanzarote et Fuerteventura des Îles du Canaries où nous avons parcouru 629 kilomètres.

Our route through Macedonia and Greece (video)

2011-05-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

Michèle runs through our journey of 500 kilometres by bicycle in Macedonia and 96 kilometres in Greece.

Our route through Italy and Albania (video)

2011-05-24T15:31:00.000-07:00

Michèle runs through our journey of 282 kilometres by bicycle in Italy and 187 kilometres in Albania.

Our route through the Canary Islands (video)

2011-05-24T15:29:00.000-07:00

Michèle runs through our journey of 629 kilometres by bicycle in Gran Canaria, Lanzarote and Fuerteventura.

Where extraordinary generosity is normal

2011-04-17T13:57:00.000-07:00

Because we don't need a visa, we pass the Macedonian border without any problems. Unfortunately, the garbage has a passport too. A huge mound is waiting for us on the other side of the dotted line. As we pass by, a pack of about 20 dogs are ruffling through the refuse, looking for their dinner.

It's night time and we roll into the town of Debar, not knowing where we're going. We ask a group of people for a place to stay and a teenager on a bike offers to take us to a cheap hotel which is located above a gas station. When we get there, the gas bar attendant asks us where we are from. When we say Canada, the first thing he tells us is that he spent 4 months in jail in Windsor Ontario. His immigration papers were, apparently, not in order. I head up to the hotel to check out the place. It's clean but it's full of men smoking cigarettes. I tell Michèle that I don't think we should stay there. She tells me she doesn't mind the truckers and that we are too tired to go anywhere else. Turns out everyone is really nice and we end up having a good night sleep.

The next day is another good ride with little traffic. We wind up and down the side of a mountain, following a river.

Unfortunately, some sections have so much garbage that you can't even see the natural ground or the wood of the trees. It's all candy wrapped with plastic bags. Much to my surprise, there is a guy standing in all the refuse by the side of the river... fishing. Back on the road, the traffic gets heavier. So, we hang a right and end up in a town call Vevčani. This is where my rear tire goes flat. Upon inspection, a karate chop is revealed on my inner tube and on the inside of the tire. The guilty party is most likely an Albanian pot hole. Anyway, finding the hole on the inner tube provides entertainment for the locals.

I end up spending way too much time on the problem. This gives me a chance to chat with the owner of the guest house. He tells me that the house used to be owned by the grandfather of the guy who invented the x-ray. There are pictures of him all over the house including one of him shaking hands with Einstein.

We have regained some anonymity. Macedonia is more touristic, so we no longer get the vacant stare of amazement when we cycle by. There should be a name for it. Can't think of one right now. The traffic is a little more tame and people are less car-centric than in Albania. This makes our ride to Ohrid a little more pleasant.

A few days later, it's climb time again. So, we call upon Granny to carry us up the hill. Sure enough she does on this glorious first day of spring. At the pass, it's not quite spring yet. In fact, the road is snowed in and cars can't get through. But we can... ha ha!

The fancy Albanian Mercedes will have to go back down hill. We will go down hill too, but on the other side of the pass. It's freezing cold and the temperature seems to drop to -20 as we get hit by the windchill from the descent. This is the first time a downhill ride has been more difficult then the uphill.

At the bottom, we can no longer feel our legs and hands. We go into the first restaurant we can find where we meet Alain, an Belgian man who speaks English and Macedonian. He helps us find a room for the night. It's clean and cheap. The only problem is the gas heater. We suspect that it was leaking. The result is that we both woke up with splitting headaches. Nothing a little "fresh" air can't fix. And it does, right into our face in the form of a strong head wind. The road is flat and the landscape boring, aside from the coal power plant off in the distance.

The next town is called Prilep. There, we find out that there is a monastery 10 kilometres away where we can spend the night and eat for cheap. But on the way out, when asking someone for directions, we find out that the monastery is high up in the mountains via a rough dirt road. By this point, there are a few people around us. One guy offers to put us up for the night. We accept and quickly find out that he is frustrated that he is unable to get a job on a Caribbean cruise ship. It's all about visa problems. Unfortunately, we are not well-connected politicians and could not offer any help with his visa problem. I did, however, fix a few glitches on his computer. We ended up having a very nice evening. His mother was exceptionally nice. Cooking us dinner and laying out pyjamas for us to sleep in.

In the morning, we head right onto a main road that is bloated with traffic. All day it's trucks and cars passing us at a hundred klicks. This is a fundamental problem I am having with cycling. I can't seem to get used to riding in traffic. Images of one of us being pulverised by some moron talking on his (or her) cell phone run through my head all day. The ride finally ends at Negotino. We are stressed out and in a bad mood. But it's about to get a lot worse because Michèle gets news that her mom has passed away. Like a huge monkey wrench in our spokes, the whole trip is put into question. It seems fitting that the next three days are spent in a monastery. The place is peaceful. It gives Michèle a chance to get herself together. During our stay, we make the decision to go back to Canada for Michèle to be with her family.

At first, the thought of returning home was met with depressive thoughts. But after several discussions, it seems like the right thing to do. This year has been filled with amazement but it's been difficult. We are tired. Sometimes numbingly so.

There is still a bit of cycling to do. First, it's another mountain pass to a town called Stip. Upon arrival, Zikica, our WarmShower host, is waiting for us with his dog Bush. He tells us that he would have named the dog something else, but the name was already established when he got him. Zikica tells us that we can stay as long as we want. This gives us the opportunity to get organized for the return home. In the mean time, Zikica shows us around town.

Our tour of the city includes the public baths which are much more liberal then traditional hammams. There is a section for men and one for women, but once in our respective areas, everyone is naked and washing up. Later on, Zikica introduces us to Katie and Eric. An American couple from Cincinnati. She is here on a scholarship and he's just chilling out but that wasn't always the case. Eric used to have the toughest job in the world: Commercial fishing in Alaska. Spending ten months out at sea on a small fishing boat. Working 14 hour shifts hauling crab traps out of three degree water onto a frozen deck. He shows me some video that makes our cycling journey look like a walk to the corner store. They too offer us all the hospitality anyone could wish for. Michèle and I want to thank Katie, Eric, Zikica and his family for everything they did for us.

Our next and final destination is Thessaloniki in Greece. When it's time to leave Stip, Zikica rides with us till it's time to say goodbye.

Because we decided to ride to Thessaloniki, our journey home seems way longer than it actually is. The final day is a ride that I would rather forget. Looking at Google maps, we thought that we would be able to ride on secondary roads. But after getting lost several times, we opted for the main road which ends up on a three lane highway for the last ten kilometres. Setting the stage for the mother of all infernal rides. Being the only way into the city, we bite the bullet and hopefully not the hood of a car. Like modern day water torture, cars whiz by us. One per second. Still emotionally fragile, Michèle has a break down every kilometre. Eventually, the traffic slows down and we get to the city centre. But we're not at the finish line yet. We now have to navigate through the streets of the old city in order to get to where we will be spending the next few days. We ask several people for directions without much success until a university student name Alex spends a good half an hour explaining the way to our destination. Despite the map looking like the blue prints of the brain, we find a way that is easy to follow. The map shows pedestrian sections. Turns out they're staircases. Our host lives at the highest point in Thessaloniki. We have to push our bikes up the hill and carry them up the stairs. Several times I contemplate getting a hotel room but I kept having the feeling that if we make it, then everything else would fall into place. At the top, we borrow somebody's cell phone to call our host because we can't find her place. Finally, she comes and meets us. It was like an angel coming down from the heaven to take us away from our suffering. At her apartment, Zoe makes us dinner. Giddy from the exhaustion, we pass out on her couch.

The next day, the hunt is on for boxes to pack our stuff. Lucky for us, Thessaloniki has a garbage strike. So, there's plenty of choice. Later on, we meet with Konstantinos, a friend of Zoe's. He's the one that originally got us in contact with her. He shows up with two bike boxes. One less thing to stress about. Once packed, both he and Zoe give us a lift to the airport. Thanks guys, you really made our trip so much easier.

At the airport we wait till 2:30 in the morning to go to the checkin counter. The agent is half asleep. So much so that he forgets to charge us the 300 euros to put our bikes on the plane. What a bonus! The rest of the flight goes without a glitch (aside from the 5 Euro coffee at the Zurich airport). In Montreal, our bikes arrive without a scratch on them. The sun is shining and a tail wind pushes us all the way to our friends place where we will be staying. I guess my hunch was right to keep pushing to the top of the hill. Everything did fall into place.

Michèle writes:
My Mom's health had been in steady decline for years. So I kind of knew, when I said goodbye to her before Benoit and I left on this trip almost a year ago, that it would be the last time I saw her alive. That made our departure even more difficult. However I was encouraged by the thought that my Mom would want me to fulfil my dreams of travel. In fact, I believe she would have been mad at me if I hadn't left. I would think of her often as I pedalled along. How much she would have loved the journey I was on, with every day bringing new discoveries to all my senses. In my emails to her, I tried to capture those experiences in words so that she could armchair-travel with me. Even though I knew my Mom's death was imminent, and would be a relief to her to be free of the pain of illness, it was a shocking blow when I heard the news that she had died. For some silly reason, I thought that I would have been more prepared somehow. I wasn't expecting to feel as overwhelmingly sad as I did, and more surprising, that all the strength would go out of my legs. Forget pedalling, I was even shaky walking down a flight of stairs. I was so grateful to have the quiet calm of the monastery in Negotino where we could rest for a few days as I dealt with the chaos of emotions and memories. It comforted me also to see continuity of life in the form of a brand new litter of puppies from the monastery's dog. How Benoit and I got from Negotino to Thessaloniki is almost all a blur, a slow-motion ride that seemed to last an eternity in my mind but that took only a week in reality. What stands out crystal clear against the blur are the people who showed us such extraordinary kindness as Benoit and I prepared to make our way home to Canada. My heartfelt thanks to Zikica and his family, Eric and Katie in Stip; Zoe, Konstantinos and Giorgos the neighbour in Thessaloniki. It was as if we were held aloft by their helping hands. I felt the need to be home, and to help my family in preparing a memorial for our Mom. After saying a proper goodbye, I hope the strength will return to my legs and the motivation to continue our travels. I know that is what my Mom would want. I can almost hear her now, saying, "Pack me in your bags and take me with you."

All our photos from Macedonia are here. All our photos from Greece are here.

Meet the Balkans: Albania

2011-03-19T03:04:00.000-07:00

At 23:00 we start our crossing of the Adriatic. The No Smoking rules that we are accustomed to are not applicable here. The whole ship is hot boxed with tobacco smoke. Aside from that, the heat is on full and the whole ship smells like gas. We lay out our mattresses and get a few hours of sleep. In the middle of the night, I get a coughing fit that lasts a good two hours. I find ferry rides interesting. There is always a multitude of services that are never open. Like an onboard swimming pool. They're always empty. Or, in the case of our boat, a discotheque. Again, closed... thank god.

We roll into Durres. People are curious but very nice. Several people offer their help. Someone even prints us a map of the city. But, as in every country, the under 25 males are a bit of a nuisance. Mouthing off broken English phrases in a mocking manner. One of them even says "What's up my nigga!" as we walk past him. I'm guessing he heard that in a rap song. Other than that, Durres is quite nice with interesting historical sites.

Looking at the map, we opt for a road that looks less busy. At the beginning, this road takes us through some industrial areas. The road conditions are worse than in Quebec (if you can believe that). Huge pot holes on the roads and open man holes in city streets. There is an incredible amount of garbage on the side of the road, but there is a car wash every kilometre. Cars seem to be the only things that are kept clean. Shiny new BMWs and Mercedes paint the automobile landscape. These cars are always driven by young men. Some of them really young. Not sure where they're getting their money from, but I don't really want to know. Maybe they have rich parents.

Michèle comments: Besides the Beamers and Mercedes, there were a ton of "furgons" on the road - mini vans that shuttle people from town to town. Often, we'd pass a furgon pulled over to the side of the road for the passengers to have a smoke break. On one occasion, I saw one stop to let a young boy out of the van. I thought he had to pee, but no, he got out carrying a blue plastic bag filled with garbage, which he then threw in the ditch. Then back in the van and off it went. But there is hope: Benoit said that France in the 70s was garbage-strewn and had too many drivers with dangerous driving habits. So Albania just has a bit of catching up to do.

Aside from the litter, you can see the remnants of the communist era. Like small bunkers that look like oversized pressure cookers. There are tens of thousands of them scattered all over Albania. They were built under the orders of Enver Hoxha, the Supreme Comrade, to push back an eventual invasion from less worthy communists.

A some point during the ride, we pass by a huge abandoned factory. Grey and crumbling, with enormous smoke stacks. There is a sinister, apocalyptic feel to the place. I can only imagine this factory running full tilt during the harsh communist rule.

The days' ride ends when we get to a town called Milot. The machismo is there to greet us. One guy asks Michèle if she smokes pot while a young kid shows us a Kalashnikov clip. Not the best welcoming party but that's about to change. We have to find a place for the night, so we start asking around. Within minutes, we have a crowd around us. In the crowd is a young woman who speaks English. After a few bouts of translation, a man offers us an empty apartment for the night. When we get there he says to bring up our bikes right away and to not open the door to anyone during the night. By this point I'm starting to overload with culture shock again. I need sensory deprivation. Luckily we have an empty apartment for the night.

Michèle comments: I had a strange uneasiness since we arrived in Albania. Not sure why, but it was there. The young woman in Milot helped put an end to it. She accompanied us to the bakery and various food shops in the village. As we walked along, perhaps sensing my uneasiness, she said, "Don't be afraid here. We really like visitors from other countries." We only spent something like an hour with her, yet it was enough time to be deeply touched by her kindness. When saying goodbye and thanks, my eyes were all misty with tears!

I end up sleeping really well despite the guy telling us not to open the door to strangers that might be knocking in the middle of the night. Besnik is his name and he just did us a huge favour. In the morning, he gives us a wake up call at 7:00. We thought we agreed on 9:00 but that's OK. Beggars can't be choosers. Half asleep we pack up our stuff and hit the local coffee shop. Michèle and I have two coffees while Besnik polishes off two rakis. We try our best with the few Albanian words we have but the conversation is kept simple.

Michèle comments: Something that has been throwing us for a loop in Albania is the head shake side to side for yes. We stopped to ask for directions, pointing to a village on our map where we thought we might be. The guy said "Po, po" shaking his head side to side, which we interpreted as a no. "Po" does sound like no, after all. We continued on, confused about our location. It was only later that we remembered the different head shake thing and that "Po" means Yes.

We say goodbye and start riding towards a town called Burrel. On the map, the road looks secondary but the traffic remains heavy. The road is so beaten up that you could call it a dirt road. The scenery gets much nicer though. It's mountainous, so we just look up to avoid looking at the garbage. Albanians are very surprised to see people travelling on bikes. It feels like we are the first tourists they've ever seen. Every five minutes we wave to someone. As always, kids take extra patience. As we pass by them, they all say the same thing: "Hello", "How are you", "Fuck you"... probably another rap song influence.

Michèle comments: While in Burrel, we found out that a Swiss couple cycling their way to China had stopped there two weeks before us. It felt reassuring that we were not the only people touring through Albania by bicycle in March. We just wished that they were slower or that we were faster so that we could have met.

As mentioned before, the driving is really bad. At every kilometre, there is a memorial of somebody who lost their life. Not too reassuring. We are being extremely vigilant by pulling over when we hear a vehicle approaching. At some point during the ride out of Burrel, a truck comes into our lane and heads straight for us. The driver honks and swerves at the last second to avoid us. As he passes, he waves and laughs as though it was a big joke.

Really pissed off, we roll into the next town and head to a coffee shop. But the kindness of the people quickly dampens the incident. The owner refuses to charge us for the two coffees. This small gesture gives us a boost in morale and we end up having a ride that makes it in the top ten. Ending at the Macedonian border.

All of our photos from Albania are here.

Across the ankle of Italy

2011-03-12T04:46:00.000-08:00

We hate taking the plane with our bikes. Here is the reason why. We got up at three in the morning. At four, I was starting to worry that our stuff wouldn't fit in the taxi van. It finally did, and after 40 euros, we get dropped off at the airport, just in time for the nightmare to start. Multiple lineups with only one person working behind the counter. Obscure bicycle drop-off areas where we are asked to wait with only 20 minutes left before our plane leaves. Huge security lineups that we had to butt in front of to get to our gate on time. In Barcelona, while boarding our second plane, I watch one of our bikes being loaded into the cargo hold. The box has two huge holes in it. Keeping in mind that it cost us 50 euros for each bike.

Unable to stop running through my head disastrous scenarios, I spend the whole flight chewing my nails. Turns out that my bike is fine but Michèle's forks are slightly bent out of alignment. Luckily I was able to straighten them with the help of Francesco, our WarmShowers contact in Naples.

Our bikes assembled, we follow Francesco through the large and narrow streets of Naples. Some of them jiggling our teeth off the gums due to the cobblestones. We are tired, but stress seems to vanish during the ride. Francesco lives in a large apartment with exquisite design. He shows us pictures of his travels, including pictures of Iceland that make ours look like some cheap polaroids. They feed us like kings and it's off to bed.

Michèle comments: Seeing Francesco's photos from Iceland brought back such good memories of our travels there from way back in May/June 2010 at the beginning of our trip. I would love to return to Iceland one day. I loved the perpetual summer light, but I am even curious about going there in winter. But now we are in Italy, and determined to head east towards Turkey. Francesco had recommended that we cycle the Amalfi coast, from Sorrento to Salerno, but the weather wasn't being supportive of the idea. We knew that we couldn't stay in the constant good weather of the Canary Islands forever, but I don't think we really expected to face chills and rain right away.

The next morning we decide to take the train to Benevento. It's pissing rain and I've got a cold coming on. On top of it, the road out of Naples is supposed to be a nightmare. This is the first real rain we've had since Scotland. Strangely enough, I'm enjoying it. Riding through Naples is pretty crazy. Another car-centric city. I guess I should be academic and talk about the sights and history of the city. But all I'm noticing are street vendors selling umbrellas out of baby strollers. There is one every fifty metres. I guess they must be doing good business today. At the train station, it's the usual confusion. Where is the train and where do you buy tickets? We do eventually figure it out. Then, over the PA system, an announcement in english says to watch out for pickpockets. Michèle's face turns very serious. I tell her not to worry. There are pickpockets everywhere.

Michèle comments: Yes yes yes, there are pickpockets everywhere, but it disturbed me that there was suddenly this warning in english, as if to underline how the tourists are targeted. But I soon felt better after we stopped at one of the coffee bars in the train station. I love the coffee culture in Italy. Especially that you stand at the counter, with one foot propped on the ankle-level metal bar, and have your shot of espresso, as if it were a shooter filled with booze. I also love that the coffee is fantastically good and strong. We heard that bicycles are not officially allowed on the trains, but that we "should insist" if anyone tried to hassle us about them. I bought the train tickets, not mentioning the bicycles, and with the exception of trying to heave and squeeze the bikes through the narrow steps onto the train, we didn't have a problem at all.

We get to Benevento where we meet up with a friend who will host us for several nights. He is a member of an association involved in protecting the local environment. Later in the day, we drive by a group of workers cutting down trees by the side of the road. Our friend tells us that the trees are being cut illegally. He asks me to take a few pictures of the workers as we drive by. He slows down and pulls up beside them, gets out and asks to see their permit. They don't have it with them. He gets back in the car and we head out. Later that night, our friend gets a call from the police telling him he must come down to the station at once. After several refusals he agrees and we all head down. It turns out that the owner of the company cutting down the trees has accused him of racketeering. He proceeds to tell the inspector the real story and magically the charges are dropped. It's like a scene from a movie. There is an overweight, balding police inspector typing away at the police report while our friend dictates the full story in accelerated Italian. Michèle and I are sitting in the background, occasionally looking at each other. The whole ordeal finally comes to an end and the final result was that our names ended up in the police report. But the funniest of all, is that next morning, in the local newspaper, there was an article about three environmentalists threatening road side workers. I guess it doesn't take much to be an activist. You can read the article here.

Benevento has been a shower of hospitality. We have been treated like royalty, invited for dinner and driven around.

Our host even got us into a roman arena for free by telling the ticket agent that we were archeologists from Canada.

Michèle comments: While in Benevento, we stop by the Gilardi bike shop. There, I finally got my derailleur hanger straightened. Since we first got our new Sherpas delivered to France, we noticed that mine had been damaged during the transport. That was almost eight months ago. It seemed only so slightly out of alignment, but now my gears change as smooth as butter.

It's time to go to the next town and the weather is not great. It's cold and wet, but the good news is that spring is coming. For now, we are wearing long sleeves, fleece and rain gear. I've even taken the good old sou'wester out of hibernation and I am, once again, glad to have thick waterproof shoes. Shoes that were a bit too hot for the deserts in Morocco.

Michèle comments: After a morning downpour, the skies cleared and gave us some beautiful glimpses of the Italian countryside, with its villages perched up on hilltops. The traffic eased and our enjoyment of the ride increased. One notices very quickly that there are so many dogs! Most just bark excitedly at you from behind fences with "Attenti al cane" signs. Sadly, some chase after you, running out onto the road without any notice of the cars racing by. I watched with dread as one dog nearly got hit by a car as it tried to come towards me. The driver didn't slow down, but luckily the dog tucked its tail between its legs and scootched out of the way just in time. The dogs we encountered were "all bark no bite" and not at all scary. In fact, when we slowed down to pet them, they would turn tail and run away.

The road leads us to a town call Savignano where we have a contact. It's an old folks home where we were told we could possibly camp. Upon arrival, I go in and get shuffled to various people who don't speak french, english or spanish. The all look confused but entertained. One guy speaks a bit of english so I ask him if we can camp for the night. He gives me a strange look and says.
- Why don't you just use one of the rooms.
So, we end up setting up camp in a small gymnasium. But the hospitality doesn't stop there. A woman on staff asks us if we want to have pizza tonight. Thinking we would share one or two slices with her and some of her friends we say yes. Turns out that she brings us three medium pizzas plus three beers. All for us alone. And, in the morning, it's coffee, juice and croissants.

I have to admit that I have trouble with such unquestionable generosity. Would we do the same? I was taught to cling on to things, to mistrust people. I've even seen individuals laugh when others can't afford things. The need to return the favour to the universe is lurking. But until then, I will go to the penalty box and feel shame. Maybe others should do the same.

Michèle comments: The generosity since we arrived in Italy has caught us a bit off guard. Of course, we knew of the Italian reputation for hospitality, yet so much of it in such a short span of time left us blinking in surprise. The amount of food that was offered to us was above and beyond all our expectations. Both of us are hearty eaters (fuel for the legs is our excuse), but our stomachs just couldn't keep up with the enormous meals coming our way. Instead of outright refusing yet another helping, we came up with the idea of accepting the food for the next day's picnic lunch!

In the morning, the old bitties of the home race for a spot beside a radiator. One of them sits in the heat while counting her rosary beads. After the arrivedercis and the grazies, we head towards a town called Candela. It's cold and rainy and I'm starting to get sick. I get flashbacks to Scotland where we both had a cold for two months.

When we get to Candela, the night has fallen and something tells me that our fortune has deflated. We look around for what is called a Pro Loco: A volunteer run tourist centre where we were told we could probably find accommodation. But all we get is a wild goose chase. It's dark, cold and wet. Camping is not an option. So, we end up staying in a nice, but expensive, B & B. The next day, the weather is sporting thick fog and heavy rain. The owner of the B & B gives us a deal on the room for a second night.

The next day, the sky is clearing. So, it's on to the next town. The road is flat and we have a tail wind. We eat up 96 kilometres without noticing it. Our final destination that day is Trani. Once in this city, we head down to the cathedral. It's the tourist attraction there. It's strange, I don't seem to be on this trip for the historical sights. Sure, it looks nice but I feel mildly interested. I sit back and look at the herds of tourists. There's even a guy playing the accordion. He comes up to me and plays a few bars. Then, he does what most living tourist attractions do. He puts out his hand and give me a wet puppy dog look. My tourist hide has became thick. So, I guess my generosity will have to wait. At the moment, it's being drowned out by my strong dislike for tourism. For us it's off to an other expensive B & B we can't really afford.

Michèle comments: The road from Candela was flat and not so interesting. The only thing that broke the monotony was seeing a group of army guys in camouflage by the side of the road, huge machine guns in hand. That, and the flooded fields from all the rain lately.

The next morning it's time to go to Bari. Aside from the villages it goes through, the road has industrial scenery and tons of traffic. What a shit ride, especially entering Bari. At our meeting spot, we wait for our WarmShowers contact. We are tired and stressed from all the cars and trucks passing us. I inch a little closer to a bad cold.

Michèle comments: We heard that Italy gets a lot of its gasoline from Libya, and with the troubles there recently, the price per litre has shot up. Yet, it doesn't seem to stop people from driving. Cars cars everywhere. I remember a time about two years ago when it cost $1.50 per litre of gasoline in Montréal, an outrageous price for Canada. In Italy, it costs more than 1,50€ per litre.

As promised, a nice big cold is in full swing. Colds are much more difficult to deal with when on the road. You have to rest a long time to make sure the sickness has passed. If you don't, it will creep back in with the first effort you make. Especially if cycling in cold and wet. This rest period can be expensive if you are forced to spend five nights at a hotel. This time we are lucky. Alain (our host) lets us stay for three nights while I get better. I sit in his apartment, with not much to do, while Michèle goes out to run errands.

Unfortunately, we don't get to hang out with Alain for very long. He is extremely busy with his courrier business (Bari Bici Express). At his office, a friend of his interviews us about our trip. It's entertaining reading. Most of the stuff he wrote goes from completely wrong to darn right strange. You can read the article here. We end up going out on our last night and we all ride together to the catch the ferry to Shqipërisë (Albania).

All our Italy photos are here.

Our route through Morocco (Video)

2011-03-12T04:28:00.001-08:00

Michèle runs through our journey of 1279 kilometres by bicycle in Morocco.

Notre trajet au Maroc (Vidéo)

2011-03-12T04:25:00.000-08:00

Benoit explique notre trajet au Maroc ou nous avons parcouru 1279 kilomètres.

Volcanic paradise before heading east

2011-02-26T03:03:00.000-08:00

I'm sick of running errands! We have done as much planning as we can for our eastward journey. The rest will have to be figured out on the road where you can only make do with what you have. We loved our apartment in Las Palmas despite all the noise, which included a cat with blue balls howling outside our window every night.

Michèle comments: The plan so far for our eastward journey is this: catch a flight, which we hope will be our last plane ride for a long long time, to Naples Italy at the end of February. From there, cycle across the 300 or so kilometres to Bari, and then take a ferry to Albania or Greece. It seems that Croatia is not an option, because the ferries from Bari to Croatia do not start running until late March (we think, but we have been having a hard time confirming this). As always, the days ticking on the Schengen clock are hanging over me like a dark cloud, which would make (non-Schengen) Albania and Croatia preferable to (Schengen) Greece. My 90 days allowed in the Schengen region are finished around mid March.

Now we are officially back on the road and what better way to start than with another overnight ferry ride. This time we are a bit more organized than with the ferry from Laâyoune. We brought sleeping bags and mattresses. The boat is empty. There are at most twenty passengers and a handful of cars. The rest is freight. That means we can park our ass anywhere and set up camp. When midnight rolls around, we head to bed. Then, it's time for Terminator Salvation. Starring Neverheard Ofhim and Whogives Ashit. This movie is dubbed in Spanish with English subtitles. Talk about lack of efficiency. It's loud, and the TVs are set up like in a sports bar so that you can't escape them no matter where you sit. I concentrate on the sound of the boat engine to lull myself to sleep. But it's being drowned out by sounds of gun fights and car chases. Not to forget the "nuclear power plant" flavoured air freshener wafting in every five minutes. Anyway, the credits finally come up and we can get a few hours of sleep.

Michèle comments: Back on the road to explore a few more of the Canary Islands before heading east from Italy. The midnight ferry to the island of Lanzarote is run by Naviera Armas, the same company that took us from Laâyoune Morocco to Las Palmas, Gran Canaria back in December. It would be a six-hour journey. The internet on the ferry was working this time, so I took the opportunity for a quick video chat with my sister. I was crouched down in my seat, talking in whispers, trying not to disturb the passengers around us who would be settling down to sleep. It seems so ridiculous in hindsight to have been talking in such hushed tones when in less than an hour, the 1:00am movie, of the Terminator series no less, would be blasting out for our "viewing pleasure". So, no, I didn't get the best of sleep.

We get to Lanzarote early. It's still dark. Several hours later, the tourist office sets us up with some free camping on a small island called La Graciosa. The boat leaves from a town forty kilometres away. This gives us a chance to see some of Lanzarote. Being volcanic, it looks a lot like Iceland. Think of it as the Provence of Iceland. It's got it all, turquoise water, rolling waves and white sand beaches. We stop for lunch and watch paragliders land on the beach. After which we have a much needed power nap. A few hours later, we get to Orzola where we meet up with the guy who will take us to La Graciosa. We pile our bikes into his large Zodiac and off we go.

At the campsite, we set up the tent and proceed to sleep for more than twelve hours. This time, no gun fights and car chases. Just the sound of breaking waves. In the morning, a groovy German hippie tells us that we are set up outside the campground perimeter. From what he tells us, the ranger is not nice and will ask us to move. He also tells us that he's been here for a month and that he has lost the track of time. I want to get that effect too. I've been working hard to eradicate the multitude of useless stresses. The conclusion is that if you can't stop stressing, there is no point in being on this trip.

Michèle comments: In the picture above, my bike is leaning against the perimeter marker of the campground. We did have to move our tent from that spot. The bottle of golden liquid on my bike many people mistook for a big bottle of whiskey. That would have been a great idea. But I was carrying olive oil.

Not much to do on La Graciosa. The evenings are chilly but during the day, if the sun is out, it's hot! We are doing our daily exploration of the island. I've gotten into the habit of picking up garbage during our excursions. I could pick up a truck load, but I limit myself to a grocery bag full. There is so much garbage out there that it looks like the garden weed of the twenty-first century. You figure it should be harvested like any other plant. I am the new harvester I guess. I get strange looks from tourists who are here on speed vacations. You know, if you want to find what you're looking for, you should look in the garbage. I was able to replace my failing pedals with some virtually brand new ones. Thank you garbage gods, you sure are popular these days.

Michèle comments: La Graciosa was actually quite clean. Most of the island is protected reserve land. Yet there is always garbage washing up on shore. Benoit and I go about picking up trash as we stroll, trying to leave a place cleaner than when we arrived.

Like all the Canary islands, La Graciosa benefits from a generous tax exemption. There is no GST (TVA in France, VAT in England, ΦΔΠ in Greece ... sorry, I am getting that confused with an engineering fraternity whose only purpose is to climb a greasy telephone pole). The result is an influx of retired fifty year olds looking to drink cheap beer. As for me, my retirement will coincide with my reincarnation. I am, however, trying to drink as much beer as possible as we will not find any farther east. Don't worry if you don't get this.

I went to a spot on the island where I could stand and face west towards the open ocean. The waves are monstrous. Walking towards the shore, I place myself as close to the water without the ocean giving me a pink slip on life. Huge walls of water come towards me as I fight the urge to turn around and bolt.

Off in the distance, the waves are even bigger. So big that they seem frozen in time. I get a flashback to yesteryears where I would have rushed to the nearest rental shop to rent a surf board. That motivation is no longer at arms length. Now, I sit and watch cheery faced twenty year olds, surf board underneath their arm, heading towards the beach.

Well, it's time to say goodbye to La Graciosa, getting a ride back to Lanzarote on the large Zodiac that brought us in. After that we head straight into some climbing. Aside from the stunning views and unique landscape, Lanzarote feels a bit like a go-cart track. It's about half the size of Gran Canaria with just as many cars. Every road seems to be a main road. This doesn't stop tons of cyclists from riding. Some of them even have penis shaped helmets and ride carbon fibre death traps as fast as they can. They never say hello. Too busy making record time. Some do have a more recreational mentality. One guy even pats me on the back during a big climb.
- You're brave he says.

Michèle comments: On the island of La Graciosa, we met a total of three cyclists with heavy panniers on their bicycles. One from Portugal, and a couple from Germany. All with great maps. The first day of pedalling on Lanzarote, a peloton of paraplegic cyclists went zooming past us. "Let's catch up with them," yelled Benoit as he picked up the pace. "I can't ride that fast," I yelled back, and neither could he. Those cyclists left us in their dust.

Fast forward a few hours and we get to Caleta de Famara. Another hip surfing spot. There, we head straight to the beach where there is a huge "No Camping" sign. We wait for night fall and set up our tent. Nothing happened during the night except the usual wild camping anxieties. I kept thinking that someone was walking off with our bikes and Michèle kept thinking that mice were chewing through our dry bags. The result was a shitty night sleep.

The next night we spent in Arrecife at a cheap hotel. Showering had to be done. The first high pressure hot shower we've had in a long time. But that's all we got because outside it was party time. Music and yelling till the wee hours. The next morning, it was hard climbing back up the hill to the wine area of Lanzarote.

We stopped for lunch at a Bodega and proceeded to polish off a bottle of wine. The next several hours of riding went a lot smoother. All the way down to a tourist blackhead on the face of Lanzarote. There, we slept and the next day we took the boat to Fuertevertura.

We took three days to cycle across Fuerteventura. It is not as nice, geologically, as Lanzarote but offers more solitude. We can finally be on secondary roads with no traffic. Fuerteventura is simple. It doesn't seem to have the bells and whistles of Lanzarote. I like it. There are several spots with high tourist density but the rest looks like a scene from a spaghetti western.

We stop at a road side bar to fill up on water. Inside, there's the barkeep and a woman in a wheelchair with a pile of medication in front of her. We ask the barkeep if we can camp for the night. He tells us that there is a shelter in the childrens playground and that we can crash there for the night. Michèle asks if we're going to bother the kids playing. The guy tells us that there are no kids and that the playground is never used.

Michèle comments: Fuerteventura offered us two opposite experiences of wild camping. The first "wild camp" in the playground was a bust. At first, it seemed ideal. In a tranquil little village, with soft-lit street lanterns that started glowing as dusk fell. We were just snuggled into our tent, when with an automated timer click, an extremely bright fluorescent light went on over our heads. I guess it was to deter people from lurking in a dark and empty playground. We had to pull scarves over our eyes to sleep and pretend that we were in the perpetual summer light of Iceland. In contrast, the second wild camping spot was tucked in a valley in the midst of palm trees under a starlit sky. It truly was ideal. We both had the best sleep in our tent yet.

Well, we got a stick in our spokes. One of the countries on our itinerary has denied us a visa. This is a bit of a blow. I'm finding it hard not to take it personally. There is a guy, somewhere, that denied us entry. Not sure why but we don't want to complain too much. With our nationality, we have it pretty easy. We keep thinking about the Chinese couple that we met in Scotland. They spent a large sum on three attempts to get a two week visa for the UK. The guy seemed quite frustrated about this. During the night, he yelled out (in English) "only two fucking weeks!?!?" We were sharing a hostel room with them.

There really seems to be a cultural stream that most people follow. Each country has it's own. Within that stream there is the illusion of freedom. Veer away from it and you will see that there isn't as much freedom as you thought. Even for the fortunate jetsetters like ourselves. So, what's next? Who knows ... Suggestions?

Michèle comments: To end this post, I want to talk a bit about Javier, a cyclist from Gran Canaria and a member of the WarmShowers network of hosts for bicycle tourers. His was the only pin on the WarmShowers map for all the Canary Islands. We got in contact with him while we were in Morocco. In the few emails that we exchanged with Javier, he had generously offered us a lot of help for when we would be cycling the islands. In one email he informed us that he was no longer able to ride his bicycle, because of his cancer, which he described as "a bad one". Only a few weeks later, and before we left Morocco, Javier's sister wrote to us via an Anonymous comment on our blog. Javier had died. When he was in the hospital, he had asked her to let us know. (We didn't post that comment from his sister. It seemed a bit too personal at the time.) We never met him in person, though we wish that we had. As we were pedalling around Gran Canaria, Lanzarote and Fuerteventura, it helped to think that maybe he was nudging our handlebars in a certain direction to show us the best parts. What we saw of those islands by bicycle, we loved.

All of our Canary Islands photos are here.

Parking it in Las Palmas de Gran Canaria

2011-02-14T02:53:00.000-08:00

Today we rode down from the clouds back to the busy hive of Las Palmas. The road was great. Flying down and whizzing around corners. The Sherpa holding true to its stable geometry. But, even 35 kilometres of downhill is tiring. I guess the bumper to bumper traffic didn't help. It's really too bad, but Gran Canaria is saturated with cars. You have three lane highways on an island where you could cycle around in one day. It really defies logic. Anyway, in Las Palmas, we hook up with our Couchsurfing contact. Within five minutes it's like we've known them for years. At their place we break out some drinks and their magic smoke basket filled with all sorts of tobacco products. Smells like a party to me. They even have a hundred gigs of cool music. In the many shared travel stories, they offer to help us find an apartment for a month. So, the next day we all head out looking for "Se Aquila" signs.

Michèle comments: "Se Aquila" means "For Rent" in Spanish. We spent days wandering the streets of Las Palmas looking for those signs and calling every number. The problem is that no-one wants to rent an apartment for only one month. Or, if there is one available for short term rental, it goes for a fortune. On the evening of January 5th, we gave our relentless apartment hunt a rest and went to watch the parade of the Kings. This is the lead-up to the big holiday on the 6th, the Fiesta de Reyes, a holiday that, in the Canaries, is bigger than Christmas. Everyone was crowded around the street waiting for gifts from the Kings, that were, for the purpose of the parade anyway, candies thrown from the floats.

We had only one wish... Please, three Kings, bring us a place that we can call home for a month. The basics would be fine, a fridge, stove, table, and a spot to store our bikes. Anything more would be icing on the cake. By chance, after the parade, we met a guy at the tourist kiosk whose mother had a fully furnished apartment for rent. She was willing to rent it for only one month and at a price that our budget would allow. Within one day, all was arranged and we moved into our new temporary home. We couldn't have done it without the help of our Couchsurfing friends. To say thanks, we had them over to make paella (well, they had to show us how!).

One morning, very early, I hear ruffling trough the bathroom garbage. Sounds like a mouse. I pop my head in to investigate and instantly get a chill down my spine. It's bigger than a mouse. A huge cockroach. Enormous. At least two and half inches long. I've never seen a live insect that big. Being a real macho guy, I go back into the bedroom to tell Michèle to go kill it. She says no, but tells me to use one of her flip flop to whack it.
- It's too small I tell her.
I look over and the cockroach is coming out of the bathroom. For a second, I thought it was giving chase. So, in a fit of panic, I grab one of our metal water bottles and whack it as hard as I can. The head goes flying and the body remains still. Both parts still moving after the blow. It's so disgusting that I feel like throwing up. I manage to get it in the garbage and head back to bed. It takes me hours to get back to sleep. A good ten hours later, I peek into the garbage. The head was still moving!

Michèle comments: It takes a lot to freak out Benoit, and that night he was freaked out. He was shaking when he returned to bed. I didn't even want to catch a glimpse of the monster cockroach. Otherwise, I would be shrieking in nightmares, for sure. The next day, Benoit thought the cockroach wings would make a good trophy on his bicycle. But, after pinning them on to his headset, he soon removed them, disappointed that the dark wings wouldn't show up against the black colour of the bicycle frame.

Bike nerds only! One major equipment glitch is my bike seat. Several years ago, I fell into the trap of the over hipsterized Brooks saddle. No other piece of equipment have I given this much time and patience. Letting me down at every new adjustment. The saddle feels comfortable for about an hour. As the day goes on, it slowly becomes an atrocious implement of torture. Chafing my rectum, ever so gently. I'll spare you the rest of the details. So, after 130 dollars for the saddle, thousands of kilometres of wear in and countless suggestions on how to adjust it properly, it's time for it to go. At the peak of my frustration, the idea came to me to make a little video. Casting my Brooks Flyer into a fire and filming the leather burn. Then, after cooling the remaining metal, I would put the saddle back on my bike and ride around with the leather gone. Unfortunately, no such video exists because this stupid saddle is still worth at least 90 bucks.

In conclusion, I want to send a warning to people looking for a comfortable touring saddle. These bike seats are NOT for everyone. I've decided to leave behind products that were designed in the eighteen hundreds and try something modern. Just for a change. Who knows, maybe it'll work. I am now using a regular road saddle that is completely cut out in the centre.

The only pressure points on this saddle is where my femur meets my hip bone. Whatever that's called. Not sure how comfortable it's going to be but this new saddle has done something unexpected. It has corrected my riding posture. Another thing my Brooks was screwing up. But only time will tell if this new set up will work better. Maybe, for some people, there is no comfortable saddle.

Michèle comments: It really is an intimate relationship that one has with one's saddle. Witnessing Benoit's daily struggles with his Brooks was a form of torture for me too. It was so disappointing to watch how much he tried to make that saddle work for him. But it never really got better. The result was that he wasn't looking forward to riding his bicycle. Not a good thing when on a world tour by bike. On the flip side, my Brooks is still treating me well and so I continue to ride with it. Time will tell if that relationship stays true or if it sours.

One of my pedals in wobbling. They're too new to be falling apart. So, I contacted Vélo Orange to explain the situation. They were extremely helpful and promptly sent me a new pair! This is the kind of support you wish you have for all your equipment. Anyway, I didn't get the pedals sent to Las Palmas, because we were warned about the Canarian postal service and how it can take months to receive a package. To make a long story short, I'm left trying to fix the ones I have now till I get to where the new ones are waiting. The problem is a defective bearing. I hit several hardware stores and a few bike shops. No such luck, but I get pointed to an industrial zone where I should be able to find the ball bearing. The place is filled with all sorts of stores catering to the hardcore industry. There's a welding shop. It has a multitude of oxyacetalene tanks, huge arch welding units and all the accessories you can think of. Another store has nothing but pumps. So, I get to the one that has nothing but ball bearings. It is a huge warehouse. There are technical drawings of ball bearings all over the walls. Sample ball bearings of all sizes on display. I figure my problem is solved. I show the guy my bunk ball bearing. He gets out his callipers. Measures every last dimension. Flips through several greasy technical catalogues. Punches some numbers in a computer and turns towards me.
- No, he says.
I felt like John Cleese in the cheese shop skit.

Michèle comments: Benoit mentioned that the island of Gran Canaria is saturated with cars. The city of Las Palmas is especially car-centric. It was strange because it should be the ideal place for the recreational or commuting cyclist: long stretches of flat terrain, ocean views, and an almost steady temperature outside of 23C. Though, there are some indications of change happening. 1) There is Las Palmas En Bici, an organization promoting cycling in the city. 2) There are day rentals of bicycles, a basic city bicycle, frame painted yellow, with a little basket out front. 3) There are a few bicycle paths, some looked brand new and awfully empty, but at least they exist.

So, this blog post isn't about a lot of cycling. We rented an apartment, and we rested. It was a great pleasure to park our butts for a while. It also gave us a chance to return some of the generosity that has been offered to us. Our Las Palmas apartment had a second bedroom that we could offer as a place to crash overnight to some fellow travellers.

We had a Russian couple staying with us. They had lots of interesting stories about life in Russia. We felt a bit clueless listening to them. Anyway, life in Russia doesn't sound as easy as some other parts of the world. Like, where we come from. Upon their departure, they gave us several gifts including some very cool coins from the Soviet Union.

Michèle comments: Another almost-daily adventure for us in Las Palmas was finding internet. One place we found with free WiFi was a cool little ecologically-minded place called "Cafe d'Espacio". Great space, friendly people. But it didn't seem to have consistent opening hours. So we would park our bikes outside and connect to the internet anyway.

Our route through Scotland (Video)

2011-02-04T04:52:00.003-08:00

Michèle runs through our journey by bicycle in Scotland where we encountered some of the worst weather yet. The journey was 814 kilometres.

Notre trajet en Ecosse (Vidéo)

2011-02-04T04:52:00.001-08:00

Benoit explique notre trajet en Ecosse ou nous avons parcouru 814 kilomètres.

Our route through England (Video)

2011-02-04T04:51:00.001-08:00

Michèle runs though our route through England and comments on some of the key events. The route spans 742 kilometres. Not all of it done by bike.

Notre trajet en Angleterre (Vidéo)

2011-02-04T04:50:00.001-08:00

Benoit explique notre trajet en Angleterre. Du ferry à Calais jusqu'à Berwick Upon Tweed, nous avons parcouru 742 kilomètres mais pas tout en vélo.

Perched atop the Canarian clouds

2011-01-31T04:40:00.000-08:00

In the last post, we were on the ferry from Laâyoune and Las Palmas was off in the distance. Now we are ready to get off the boat. So, we head to the car deck to get our bikes. They're still there and in one piece. After almost suffocating from the truck exhaust, we get to the customs line up. It takes forever. Thank god we were able to eat the night before.

With all the bureaucracy done, we get our stupid passport stamp and roll into Las Palmas. The place is spotless. Every store we can think of is within a 10 minute walk. We wander around, looking for a place to park our asses and stumble onto the main beach. It too is spotless. Not a speck of garbage in sight. There's even a sand Zamboni combing it every morning.

Every hundred metres, there's a shower where you can wash the sand off your feet before you put on your shoes. There's even a woman getting completely naked to change into her bikini. Nobody cares. As we push our bikes on the promenade, herds of kids run past, not even giving us a glimpse. Our anonymity is back.

We spend three days in Las Palmas, running errands. One of them is to hit the local marina. The next leg of the trip will be heading east. We have this crazy idea to catch a ride on a sailboat to Greece or Turkey. Having a look around, we find that we are not the only ones. There are at least three posters of people trying to do the same thing. But for us, it's a bit of a long shot. Most sailboats are going west to South America or the Caribbean. On top of it, we have two bikes. We can always dream I guess.

Gran Canaria has a wide selection of free camping spots. So, we decide to hit the road to check them out. Gran Canaria is extremely mountainous. By now, that should set off warning bells, but it didn't. We should have left at six in the morning. But instead, at noon, we start a 35 km climb. The ride takes us through windy roads and into the clouds ... and eventually above them. With the night approaching fast, we are concerned that we won't make the campsite in time. We push on and the road keeps climbing like the Tower of Babel, all the way to the heavens. With 4 km to go, it's all systems stop. These are times where you need a gift from the gods. Wouldn't it be nice to have a large, empty van. Sure enough one drives up 5 minutes later. The guy agrees to take us the rest of the way. Both our bikes fit in perfectly. We don't even have to remove our panniers. The rest is a big feeling of relief as we roll into the campsite. Muchas gracias Maximo Ramos Talavera for giving us a push up the hill!

Michèle comments: Our delay in setting off that morning was partly due to making a stop at the Cabildo (government) office to get a permit for the free camping. These campsites are in nature park reserves on the island. While Benoit watched the bikes, I went in armed with only a smattering of phrases in Spanish. I tried to ask for an open permit for all the campsites on the island, but it doesn't work that way. It is kind of like reserving a hotel, where you have to specify dates and the particular camping area. Oh and another thing, you cannot have a permit on a major holiday or the day before the holiday, e.g., December 24, 25, 31, January 1, 5 and 6, the latter being the Fiesta de Reyes. Finally, I was able to get a pre-Christmas permit for the closest camping area to Las Palmas that is not for caravans only, and a post-Christmas pre-New Year permit for the next closest. It was kind of sad after all that effort with obtaining a permit to see the beauty of these nature park reserves marred by the presence of a gazillion cigarette butts and bits of broken glass. It makes one wonder who these people are who think, "What will I do this weekend? Oh I know, I'll go into some remote pristine nature spot and smoke a ton of ciggies, butt them out on the forest floor, whilst smashing some bottles."

In the morning, the sky is clear and the island reveals itself. We are up about 1700 metres. The view is stunning. It doesn't even look real.

However, it's was only for one night. Even though these campsites are free, you do require a permit, which seems to be rarely checked. Anyways, we headed back down part of the way to a town called Tejeda. There, we meet up with Jana (who we actually met in a hostel in Las Palmas) and Ian.

We all spent Christmas in the hotel restaurant and finally had the few too many drinks I've been longing for.

A few days later, it's back on the bikes. Being anonymous again and camping up in the mountains is giving us a chance to reflect on things. The big issue of the last six months was that Michèle had to leave the Schengen area. We thought we would figure something out, but instead, we got propelled the wrong way. The idea was always to go east, but up to now, we've been telling people that our world trip is more of a zig zag. We've been going more west than east. There is a general feeling of aimlessness. Something tells me that this is contributing to the travel fatigue. Even here, it is lingering. Just the other day, for no apparent reason, I felt that I couldn't go on. That living this way is stressful and pointless. Barely able to do 20 km, we pitch the tent and head straight to bed. We have a two hour nap, wake up, make dinner and head right back to the tent. We end up sleeping another 12 hours. In the morning, our tent perched on top of a cliff, we look out at the open ocean, more than a thousand metres below. Off in the distance is the perky nipple you wouldn't see in Morocco; Tenerife's highest peak. Stretching 3718 metres straight out of the ocean. Then, the conclusion comes to me. Time to get back on track.

Michèle comments: Our original plan was to start in the UK and then just keep cycling east across Europe, through Turkey, and beyond. We first got off track when we decided to start our trip in Iceland. For that, I blame the outrageous prices of flights from Canada to the UK at the time. The cheapest flights that we could find had a stopover in Reykjavik Iceland. Then Benoit said, Why just stop over in Iceland? Why not cycle in Iceland to start? And it was as if a bright light came on in both our imaginations. Unfortunately for me, Iceland is part of the Schengen agreement. Each day in that magical country was ticking away at my allowed 90 days of every six months. Our time cycling in England, Scotland and Morocco (all non Schengen) was more than enough to "reset" the visa clock. Now that we are in the Canary Islands, which are part of Spain, which is part of Schengen, my 90 days of this next set of six months has been ticking away.

So, it's four days of camping in the clouds. The majority of the time was spent enjoying the view from our spot that looks out onto a ridge stretching out to the sea. I followed the ridge all the way to the end. At one point it's sheer cliffs on either side and all you can see the ocean one kilometre down. The view is mind blowing and unobstructed.

Michèle comments: I knew very little about the Canary Islands before arriving. Mostly I had heard about crowded resorts and naked tourists. But like most places, the tourist trade can mask the truth of a place. On the island of Gran Canaria, for example, the tourist mecca is in the south. So we have stayed in the north. I have also heard that cyclists use the Canary Islands as a training ground: when it is winter in Europe, they come to ride up and down the mountain roads. As you might have guessed, those cyclists are not riding heavy bicycles with steel frames and loaded down with panniers. On our approach to Tejeda, a village way up in the mountains, we even saw some cyclists getting off a bus with their bicycles so they only have to ride DOWN the big hills! I like seeing cyclists on the road, and I wave to them with a cheery "¡Hola!" as if they are friends. Some smile and wave back. But the ones wearing logo-covered spandex often just look annoyed.

These four days of camping seem to have realigned the planets. We now feel focused. The idea is to go back to Las Palmas and find a cheap apartment where we will stay for a month, rest and get organized.

Final pedal push in Morocco

2011-01-16T03:49:00.000-08:00

In the last post, we were back on our own and it was time to leave Smara. Not hearing great things about the road to Laâyoune, the decision is made to take the bus. Good thing we did, because soon after our arrival, Michèle was sick again. Throwing up several times during the night. This would have been a nightmare if we were camping in the desert.

Michèle comments: I don't know why I got sick again, so violently and so suddenly. We were trying to control what went into our stomachs: carefully selecting food and preparing it ourselves, but I guess there is only so much one can do. I didn't want to fall victim to germ phobia, suspecting every handshake I made and glass that I touched. I guess it will remain a mystery.

You know, it's so fun to complain. So, one last culture shock then I'll shut up ... for now. When we get to Smara, the hotel reception tries to hit us with a double economy. Quoting us ridiculous prices. We knew the real price, because the army guys at the relay station told us how much the hotel costs. My patience for this sort of behaviour ran out in Marrakech. We eventually get the right price. A stressful exercise after cycling 102 kilometres. As we start to bring up our stuff, the guy asks us for our passports. I give him a long hard stare and say:
- Not now.
When we get to our room, we are informed that there is no shower anywhere in the building. That's alright, Moroccans go to hammams. There's one around the corner the guy tells us. That's great. Then I ask him if there is one for women so that my wife can get cleaned up after cycling three days in the desert. He gives me a confused look, smiles and shakes his head. No he says. Out of respect for Michèle, I don't go to the hammam. We end up having a cold sponge bath in our room using our wash basin. The 20 minute hot shower will have to wait.

Michèle comments: During those last one hundred kilometres to Smara, I started to look forward to staying in a hotel and having a real shower. Then I remember stopping myself and thinking, Don't count on anything, keep your expectations low and you won't be disappointed. But it didn't work, I was still disappointed.

The next week is sort of strange and uneventful. But before that sets in, we still have to go through three passport checks before getting to Laâyoune. Because of us, the bus has to wait 15 to 20 minutes every time. On our way into Laâyoune, one can see traces of recent civil unrest. Car carcasses burnt to a crisp, stores gutted by fire, windows smashed. Lots of UN vehicles. Most of them shiny new SUVs, parked in front of Laâyoune's nicest hotel. Some of Fela's best lyrics run through my head.

Michèle comments: I especially remember seeing the front of an office building, the kind that is all silvery-blue mirrored window panes, with every one of the windows broken. We had been watching the news about the civil unrest way back when we were recovering from illness in Tafraout. I think it all happened on a Monday, but was reported so much on the news that it seemed like it was happening every day.

Well, it's carved in stone. We are going to the Canary Islands. After getting our ferry tickets, we head out of town towards our final passport check. About 30 km later, we get to Foum El Oued where we will spend a week relaxing and waiting for the ferry. There's only one per week. On the way, I finally get to see fields of dunes. Probably not the best the Sahara has to offer but fields of dunes nonetheless.

Foum El Oued looks like a ghost town. There isn't a single tourist here. Like there was a loud bang and all of them left in one go. The town looks run down and abandoned. There's one café shop that has WiFi however. This is where we went every morning to surf the net. The rest of the time was spent moping and checking out other abandoned stuff.

Michèle comments: Foum El Oued was an eerily quiet place, yet I kind of liked it. There was a long beach with huge crashing waves. No-one at the beach except a few fishermen. We spent so much time at the WiFi café that the brothers running it knew us by name. The younger brother was trying to help us to learn some Spanish before hitting the Canary Islands. Our pronunciation was all off, though. Benoit tried to ask for huevos (eggs) and was handed a lighter. When I tried, the guy pointed questioningly at some plastic cups.

Slowly running out of Dirhams and not wanting to take out more Moroccan money, we decide to camp for our last night. Foum El Oued has a campground. It is deserted. We are the only ones there.

At the campground, we befriend a cat. In Morocco, cats and dogs are semiwild but are treated well. Only tourists get rocks thrown at them. The cat is loving the petting session and becomes very friendly with us. So friendly that he won't go away. When it's time to get into the tent, not finding a way in, the cat jumps on top of it. Tearing a hole in it. I end up chasing it around the campground, throwing my boot at it.

Michèle comments: That cute little purring kitty turned into a demon with claws. Our delicately-meshed tent didn't have a chance. We still have a piece of tape over a hole in the mesh, not knowing how best to repair it.

Well, it's time to leave. The ferry ride to Las Palmas would take about 10 hours. After jumping through the hoops and getting our exit stamp, we board the ferry. But just before, a Moroccan official takes one last look at our passport. "Welcome" he says, even though we are leaving. We are the first ones on the ferry. The boat is quite small. Small enough to make it very bumpy if the seas are rough. We get settled in. Around ten o'clock, when the boat is supposed to leave, I fall asleep to wake up two hours later to see that the boat hasn't moved. People are still piling in. Around the ship, there are the usual notices of thing you are not allowed to do. One of them shows a drawing of some one sleeping on the floor. There is a big diagonal red line through the drawing. This doesn't seem to bother anyone. By the time the ferry leaves, the place turns into a large bivouac. People are camping anywhere they please. You literally have to step over people to move around the boat.

We head up to the restaurant for some dinner. The ferry company is Spanish. So, it's only logical that the restaurant takes Euros, not Dirhams. Unfortunately for us, we have no Euros. But we do have a credit card that doesn't work. They never seem to when you need them the most. Great, no dinner. But the guy in charge of the restaurant, the one who told me my credit card doesn't work, comes over to our table to tell us not to worry about it. He gives us a huge plate of food with two beers. Thank you Armas restaurant guy, we would have starved without your help.

We get a few hours of sleep. The air conditioning is cranked so high that we freeze our asses off all night. In the morning, it's a wakeup call to prayer programmed on someone's cell phone. Confused by the orientation of the boat, most of the faithfuls are pointing the wrong way when bowing towards Mecca. But outside, where it's warm, I sit on a bench to get my first glimpse at Las Palmas ... and first world comfort.

Michèle comments: My stomach has just barely recovered from the pukefest and shitting through the eye of a needle of the past few days. I am looking like I am ready for some first world comfort.

For all our Morocco pictures, click here.

Smara, Sand and Solitude

2011-01-05T06:56:00.000-08:00

In the last post, we were at Tan Tan Plage. Relaxing while we wait for the wind to be in our favour. If you look at statistics, the wind in this region is predominantly from the north. Which, going south, would be great for us. But it never seemed to switch direction. When it died down, we decided it's time to go.

The next morning, bright and early, we pile our stuff on top of a Range Rover. Our aim is to get back to the intersection to the road to Smara. Michèle comments: Philippe had convinced the rest of us to hire a Range Rover taxi for the twenty kilometres back to the turnoff. His argument was that we had already cycled that section of road on our way to Tan Tan Plage (El Ouatia), and knew it to be busy with traffic and uninteresting views. He also said that we needed to experience the modern day equivalent of the camel. We were hesitant, but in the end he convinced us. The first twenty minutes is spent taking dirt roads to avoid the police check point at the entrance of the town. I'm guessing that our driver is not allowed to take tourists or he just doesn't want to give the police their cut. In Morocco, palm greasing seems to be as common as in Quebec.

At the cross roads, a mild confusion changes the direction of the ride back towards Tan Tan. The reason is El Mosem. This is where camel wranglers from all over the country, and neighbouring ones as well, converge for four days of camel races. Unfortunately, it doesn't start for several days. However, there are still camels to check out, as well as our own police escort. But whatever we do or wherever we go, we are always "Welcome".

Michèle comments: We were invited for tea in one of the tents. Soon after we sat down amongst the carpets, cushions and huge framed photo of the king, a police guy drove up on an ATV, parked it in front of the tent and joined us for tea. He kept the engine on his ATV running the whole time. "Batterie faible" (weak battery), was his excuse.

The festival has brought a shit load of kids out for a thrill. As we pass several of them, we receive a shower of rocks. This is the last straw. I set down my bike and explode in a sprint. Something I haven't done in years. For the last six months, my legs have been conditioned to push hard in slow moving circles. The result is total collapse. My legs completely give out and I end up falling forward onto the ground, getting all scratched up in the process. Doubly pissed off after looking like an idiot, I get up and try again. This time it's a little better. I start giving chase down a lane. One kid is carrying a younger one and running in a panic. I'm guessing they didn't expect a foreigner to start running after them. When I catch up to him, the kid is in tears with fear in his eyes. Lucky for him, I can't find it in my heart to deliver the boot in the ass I had been dreaming of. Being irate and thinking illogically, I realize that I can't even remember which ones threw the rocks in the first place. I head back to the bikes to bandage up my scratches.

Too late to start the ride to Smara, we spend one more night in Tan Tan. The hotel is dirty. I try not to touch anything except the clean sheets on my bed.

In the early morning, I can hear someone praying outside our room. The man sounds like he's having an orgasm every time he utters a prayer. A few minutes later, it's all drowned out by the sound of world music. This is how Philippe wakes us up. Today, we manage to leave early. Finally, we are ready to hit the road to Smara.

Heading south, we push against the mild head wind. It's quiet and there is no traffic. Yesterday's rock throwing incident, and my reaction to it, has left me mildly disturbed. I am glad to be in the desert where there is no one. After a few hours, we stop to check out a herd of camels.

Two guys show up and it's "Salaam Alaikum" all around. They don't speak French, English or Spanish. They get their point across that they would like one of our water bottles. You would figure that someone who's lived their whole life in the desert would at least have water with them. We give the guy a bottle and he points to one of the camels. Like a cretin tourist, I volunteer to ride it. Camels are huge and this one is not too happy to be led by its nose via a large piercing.

After a five minute ride, the camel kneels so I can step off. As I do so, it decides to stand back up. Being half way off I have no choice but to bail. The result is a hard fall right on my ass. Being a Brooks user, more ass pain is not what I need. More on that later.

Later that day we get to the one and only town of this ride, Abteh. There is nothing there except another passport control. These officers must be bored out of their skulls. But, because of the contraband gasoline being brought in from Western Sahara, the greasy palm is all worth it. Western Sahara benefits from tax exemptions on gasoline. Probably to entice Moroccans to move down there. Anyway, it doesn't concern us. After the greetings and the smiles we are on our way. Several kilometres down the road, we stop for the night for the best wild camping we've ever done. The spot is about 100 metres from the road, but it looks like no one has even been there. There isn't a speck of garbage. We are out there on our own. There are no billboards displaying what we can and can't do. No camping permit, reservations or fees. No over-motivated university student, out on a summer job, telling us we can't camp here. Just the stars, the open desert and a nasty viper bite if you're not careful. How cool is that. Words can't describe.

In the middle of the night, as I crawl out of the tent to go piss, I look up. A humungous shooting star, so thick that you can almost hear it, travels half way across the sky. It was like witnessing god arch-welding the heavens. I stop for a few seconds and make a wish. May we get back on track and travel across the planet like we planned.

In the morning, it's more world music at 6 am. It's breakfast and go. After cycling several hours, we arrive at a series of six gas stations. All of them within six kilometres. This is where the bootleg gas is coming from. And yes, there is another passport check. But before we hit that, we stop at the first station because there is a restaurant. We eat and then it's time for a nap. Because of all the garbage, there is a staggering amount of flies. This makes it hard to sleep out in the open.

Thomas is not his cheery self. Stomach problems. We decide that it's best to spend the night at the gas station. There are rooms at the back for the employees. One of them is vacant. Thomas, Michèle and I shack up in the empty room while Philippe stays with one of the employees.

In the morning it's more world music. But this time there is an extra treat. Philippe hands us each a bottle of hot water for an improvised shower. Still pitch dark, we hurry to get it done. We don't want to confuse the staff by letting them see us naked.

Michèle comments: That shower under the stars was one of my favourite moments of the ride to Smara. I called it "one point five litres of heaven". Another favourite moment was watching the sunrise from our desert wild camping spot while sipping a cup of coffee. The guys had left to scramble up the rocks for a better view. I was alone. Me, the desert, the sun, and coffee. Fabulous.

After coffee we pedal 2 kilometres to the next passport control. When we pull up to the small shelter, there's no one there to greet us. A few minutes later, an officer stumbles out, adjusting his cap and uniform. His face tells a tale of deep slumber, which we interrupted. Now the poor guy has to copy information from four passports. That's OK, looks like there is a lot of time to sleep around here.

20 kilometres farther, there's another gas station. This time there's really nothing there except one dog and a guy smoking. You can't even get gas. We don't stay very long and when we head out, I leave behind some of the contraband cigarettes we obtained in Guelmim. We were told by a merchant that we would need cigarettes to trade for food when we got to the Sahara. Normally, this would set off warning bells in my head, but this guy was very educated and spoke 5 or 6 languages. We talked with him for quite a while and he managed to get through our warning system. Conclusion, we bought a carton of cigarettes for twice what it is worth. On top of it, nobody even wants these damn cigarettes because they're crap! The final result is that Philippe started smoking again and I now crave a drink so that I can social smoke. Hence the saloon experience in Guelmim (see previous post).

It's back to the open desert. The road is really great because there is no traffic.

Around lunch time, we get to a relay station where we are greeted by army guys with nothing to do. They invite us to chill out and set up a lounge area for us. As we prepare our lunch, they tell us all they do is sleep and drink tea. At some point, one of them shows us an unexploded tank shell. Philippe looks nervous. Unfortunately, no pictures allowed. This tank shell is a reminder that we are in a politically unstable area. The guy reassures us that it's not active. A little uneasy, I ask him if the area is mined. Apparently, Western Sahara has a large number of unexploded mines. Don't want to step on one of those while I run to the desert with urgent bowel problems. Again, he reassures me that there is none in this area.

Michèle comments: This experience stands out for me as one encounter in Morocco when we didn't feel like someone wanted something from us. The military guys were generous without a condition attached. They even gave us gifts for the road: onions, carrots, cans of sardines, and a steel drinking mug.

After trying to nap with the flies again, it's back to the road. We pass through some amazing desert scenery which many people would call boring. Flat sand fields as far as the eye can see. The emptiness is euphoric. Off in the distance, the horizon blends with mirages, giving a sensation that there is a sheer drop off. The horizon no longer looks straight. You get the illusion that it is coming and going just like a wave in the ocean. With a tail wind, we fly down the endless straight away. The dashed lines on the road looking like a giant ticker tape.

At the end of the day, 102 kilometres later, it's another routine passport control. Half an hour after that, we arrive in Smara having done some of the best cycling I've even experienced. From the solitude and emptiness, we fall back into our freak show persona. Being a non touristic town, we get the usual annoyances which I've complained enough about.

Smara is where the fellowship broke. Philippe announces that he will be taking the bus to rejoin his family in Senegal. Thomas will be staying one more day. Then, he will cycle back to Guelmim and head west. This was really a treat for us. The first time we've cycled with other people during this trip. There was a real feeling of team work. Now, we are back on our own. Both functioning as one unit, we already feel the solitude. Michèle comments: The fellowship broke and with it some of our spirit. We'll miss you, Philippe and Thomas!

To be continued...

The Fellowship of the Sahara

2010-12-26T09:14:00.000-08:00

In the last post, we were heading towards Guelmim with two other cyclists. On the approach I realize that people were not kidding when they told us of an important military presence in Western Sahara. Just before Guelmim there is an airport where jet fighters take off every five minutes. For a second, I thought we were back in the UK. But being in a politically sensitive area, I've decided to refrain from taking videos.

In Guelmim we find a hotel. The guy gives us a nice price, so we decide to take it. The rooms are big with a large bathroom. It's clean ... so I thought. More on that later. After unloading all our stuff, another guy calls me over. Apparently we were given the wrong price. The new price is more expensive. Strange, I thought he was going to tell me that it's cheaper. Philippe is furious. Speaking a little Arabic, he lays into the guy, bringing god into the picture. He tells them "shame on your honour" and that they stood before god when they told us the original price. But the guy, probably not very religious, remains diplomatic. The new price stands. Well, we had a good time giving them shit, so we end up taking the rooms. An hour later, I reach over for the complementary towel as I exit the shower. I unfold the towel and let out a scream. It appears that someone decided to use it to wipe their ass. The towel is nicely laden with a wide, brown crayon mark several inches long. Michèle is nice enough to take it down to the manager. She returns with a clean one and washes her hands. Michèle comments: Other than finding that completely gross, I also found it confusing. Who would wipe their ass with a towel? And then fold it so neatly that the cleaning staff wouldn't think of replacing it? It doesn't make any sense. Philippe thought it must have been a foreigner because Moroccans "ne se torchent pas".

The best part about this hotel is that it has a bar. I head down with Philippe for a cold one. The music is good, but if it had been coming from a record player, the needle would have scratched across the vinyl. All heads turn towards us. The place is more like a saloon than a bar. People are not there to socialize. They're all sitting alone with their beer and cigarettes. Yes, you can still smoke in public places in Morocco. There is not a single woman in sight. The whole place is a sausage party. I feel like standing on a stool and yelling "Please leave the drinking to the infidels". But screw this, I need a drink. After all, beer always tastes better in sketchy places. We find out that everyone in there is a truck driver. Probably hauling fish across Western Sahara. We sit down and one of them leans over to talk to us. He's mumbling words in Russian. The guy is wasted and he reeks. Philippe is so nervous that he downs his beer in 30 seconds. By that time I realize that the place is a bust. I finish my beer and we leave. Michèle comments: I didn't even bother checking out that bar in the hotel in Guelmim. The bar near the beach bungalows where we stayed in Sidi Ifni had been enough for me. Thomas, Benoit and I had gone in that bar just to buy a bottle of wine to go with our tajine dinner. Watery-eyed lingering stares followed us as we walked in. The kind of stare that makes you wonder if you forgot to put clothes on.

At 5:45 in the morning, we get ready for our longest ride yet. A 130 km desert traverse all the way to Tan Tan. The road is fairly flat with a tail wind by midday. Lots of huge trucks. Despite being drunk or severely hung over, most drivers were giving us plenty of room. The traffic can also be entertaining. You see a lot of pickup trucks carrying camels. One guy stopped in front of us to run out into the desert to perform his prayers. Like good tourists, we all stop to take pictures.

Many people call this leg of the ride monotonous. I guess it is. But to see the open desert and knowing that you are in the Sahara is quite a rush. You really feel that you are out there and on your own.

The last few kilometres were difficult but we made it to Tan Tan. From far away, the town looks like a zit on a smooth ass. At the gate of the city, two giant sculptures of camels greet the arriving traveller.

Michèle comments: I did find the road from Guelmim to Tan Tan monotonous. It's along a major road with not much to see. My notes of the day were: "police checkpoint, another police checkpoint, view of dunes!, yet another police checkpoint, Tan Tan". The dunes were way in the distance. A teaser of what was to come.

A hundred metres later, it's passport control time. At the check point, one officer is in civil clothing. The other has the stereotypical look of a corrupt official. Impeccable uniform, cap at eye level, 70's style Ray Bans and sporting a thick moustache.

The police officer finally finishes scribbling the info on a piece of paper. By this point we are knackered. Tired to the point of feeling high. I am finding it hard to make decisions but we end up finding a hotel. The bed in our room only has a few mouse droppings. Great! We'll take it.
Tan Tan is a lively place. This is the first time we see Morocco's Spanish influence. Some of the women are uncovered and look pretty good. There are also many Chinese people who were definitely not on vacation. We never found out what they were doing there. Probably something to do with the fishing industry.

Michèle comments: Perhaps a small Korean community in Tan Tan too? The photo above shows the Snack Seoul in the background. We also heard of a Korean restaurant near El Ouatia, a.k.a. Tan Tan Plage. One of the few places around with a liquor license.

We were told that one of the hotels serves beer. After wandering aimlessly for an hour, we find the hotel. It does serve beer but it's only for the military. That doesn't stop us from asking if we can go in. After all, we are only tourists. We get the confirmation, it's only for the military. In Guelmim, the binge drinking was for the truck drivers. Here, it's for people who carry guns. Not too reassuring. While all this is happening, Philippe and I are being held back by a woman who talks too much. Giving you a detailed description of this person would take too much disk space. After telling her that I'm from Canada, she tells me that her husband has been there seven times and that he loves it. Apparently, her husband never used to drink, but after going to Canada he became an alcoholic. He can't say no to beer she says. Neither can we, I guess. She takes us on a wild goose chase for a restaurant. Telling us about a million things that start with bla bla. She is hitting on Thomas and telling Michèle that she's going to steal me away from her. It's all very funny but I am dead tired. Time for bed.

Several days later, we pedal out of town, hoping to take a quiet road to a town called Smara. After 3 or 4 km we realize that the head wind is too strong and that a sand storm might be on the way. The decision is made to turn around in the direction of Tan Tan Plage. Michèle comments: The road to Smara, also written Es Semara depending on the sign, was going to be our chance to get off the main road with all its traffic. It would be a longer route to take to Laâyoune, but we didn't care.

There, in Tan Tan Plage, we spend a few days waiting for the wind to be in our favour. Relaxing at the beach.

One evening, Philippe and I take a ride to the port. The first thing is another passport control. The place is dirty and smells like something fishy is being processed. No surprise there. Attached to the docks are hundreds of rusty commercial fishing boats. So uninviting, the place looks like a map from an apocalyptic video game. We were hoping to buy some fresh fish but there isn't any in sight. The catch goes directly from boat to truck. 10 minutes later, it's hauling its ass down the road hoping to catch last call in Guelmim.

To be continued...

The Atlantic and our appetites

2010-12-19T03:26:00.000-08:00

In the last post we were wild camping in the desert. We get up with the wind in our face. I take it like a man. So does Michèle. The sun is shining and it's cold. I'm wearing fleece, jacket and pants. We later found out that we are at 1100 metres of altitude and that there's a big downhill coming all the way to a town called Tighmi.

Michèle comments: An idea is bouncing around in our heads to go next to the Canary Islands (they belong to Spain). That morning, Benoit turned to me with a very serious look on his face. His tone matched his expression. "If we go to the Canaries, as it looks like we will, I think we should sit down one night...," he began. I started to cringe at what he could be about to say. It could not be good, I thought. Then he finished, "... and get really really drunk." Yes, the lack of availability of alcohol in Morocco has been, um, well, not fun. Sometimes a beer at the end of a long day's ride is just what a tired cyclist needs.

On the way to Tighmi we stumble upon a sad sight. A wild cat, freshly killed, lies by the side of the road. We later did some research and we think it is a small spotted genet.

In Tighmi, we find the one and only hotel. It's cheap but not in price. When we get there, the place is closed. But we are told the guy will be back soon. Soon, like four hours later. Waiting with us is another guy who claims to be staying there too. When I ask the price he answers
- Pas cher mon ami (Cheap my friend).
Hmmmm ... the fix is on for the double economy. The guy finally shows up. According to him, we are his friend and we are welcome ... to pay 150 dirhams for a room that should be 60. The room is actually fairly big. It contains two stained mattresses each about 3 cm thick. No sheets, no blankets. Just one skanky pillow each. We didn't end up using them. The shared toilet doubles up as a shower. When I ask if there is hot water, the guy points to a hot plate next to the shitter. I guess you use it to heat the water. If you can avoid the one and only hotel in Tighmi, do it! Michèle comments: Another example of when we should have taken a photo but we didn't. Benoit's description of the Tighmi hotel room is too generous. It looked like a prison cell. No, prison cells might be a step up. Dark, bare, grey walls. One small window high up on the wall. I asked the hotel guy for some sheets. He handed me two folded items. One was a sheet that did not smell clean. The other turned out to be a man's shirt. We paid too much for the room. It was just one of those days when we didn't have any fight left in us. I think the hotel guy knew that.

The next morning we finally feel at a 100%. Next stop is the Atlantic coast. The ride from Tighmi is predominantly downhill and we eat up the kilometres fairly rapidly. Equally rapidly, traffic behaviour deteriorates. We no longer feel safe. Morocco overtakes the UK for lack of road safety. Some cars are passing us at 130 km/h and coming within inches. But worst of all are cars coming into our lane to overtake slower vehicles. Not giving a shit, they accelerate towards us, honking loudly for us to get out of the way. We do just that and I get my full repertoire of insulting hand gestures. How can people be so careless. We stop at a shady spot a few metres from the road. A taxi stops just behind us. The driver waves, I don't wave back. The shady spot is a little lower than the road itself. We head straight for it. So does one of the passengers of the taxi. He walks at a hurried pace and it's not to come and talk to us. Without thinking twice, he drops his drawers and squats in front of us. I let you imagine the rest. We look the other way and tell each other that it's going to make a good blog post. Michèle comments: I cranked my head the other way as soon as I saw the guy scootch up his Berber robe. I did not want to see what was coming next.

We reach the Atlantic coast. More precisely, Aglou Plage. Nice place. In a month it will be filled with French snowbirds in camper vans. Lots of housing projects on the go. Villas being built up and sold to rich Europeans. But I don't care about all that. I don't even care about the camel rides on the beach. I just want to see the open ocean and the unobstructed horizon. The multiple row of waves slowly making their way towards the shore.

We end up staying at a campground and the next day we pedal only 2 km to spend Michèle's birthday money at an expensive guest house. Very relaxing and close to the beach, I have my first swim in the Atlantic ocean in 30 years. The water is warm, the waves are big and I come close to drowning due to the strong undertow.

Michèle comments: I had been clenching my fist around my birthday money for over a month waiting for a great way to spend it. Here it was, at the oceanside, and with copious meals included. Our arrival at the coast coincided with the rediscovery of our appetites. It could have been the sea air. It could have been that our food choices suddenly expanded to include more that just tajine au poulet and omelette.

The next day we head out. On the road, we've started developing a strategy for dealing with the traffic. Riding close together, the person at the rear keeps an eye on the flanking traffic while the person in front keeps and eye on the cars passing slower vehicles. Seems to work well. The worst cars are the shit box Mercedes taxis (also known as Grand Taxi). These cars are usually packed with 7 people and sometimes a goat on the roof. Watch out, these drivers will not stop or slow down. Best to bail on the soft shoulder when you see them coming.

Michèle comments: After Aglou Plage, we hit the village of Mirleft. Not much to it. But the first place we stumble upon turns out to be a gem. It's an auberge and café and restaurant. The chef is originally from Belgium. The price of a double room is 180 dirhams: it is clean, with a huge bed and a wash basin. Breakfast with real coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice is included. Free WiFi too. The food is so good that we stay four nights and stuff our faces. Compare and contrast to the 150 dirham prison cell room in Tighmi.

We pedal to the next town, Sidi Ifni. There, we bump into Thomas, one of the cyclists we met on our way to Ait-Baha. He is with a new friend, Claudia. We all have dinner together and decide to stay in town for a few days. It is refreshing to hang out with some new people. The activities are kept simple. In the evening we make dinner and have a few drinks. During the day, it's off to the beach for some swimming. Looking up at the beach from the water, you can see several locals, sitting there, staring at Michèle and Claudia in their swim suits. Michèle comments: The wind has been very strong and from the south, normally it's from the north. It froths the sea to a frenzy. Going for a swim is a real workout. We exit the water with our torsos bruised from the punching waves. Over those few days, the seas get so rough that the fishermen don't go out and fish is off the menu.

After several days, Claudia is off on her own and Thomas, Michèle and I head off to Guelmim, the gateway to the Sahara. Michèle comments: Thomas - if you are reading this, please send us a photo of the four of us (you, Claudia, Benoit, me) on the beach near the port of Sidi Ifni. When it was raining. And Benoit had your yellow bag on his head.

Michèle comments: Yes, that is the photo with the yellow bag. Thanks, Thomas!

On our way out of town we meet up with an other cyclist, Philippe. He is cycling down to Senegal where he will meet up with his family. After our first passport control, we pedal out town for some of the best cycling we've done yet.

To be continued...

Wellville attained, it's back to the road

2010-12-15T06:28:00.000-08:00

To all of you who sigh with envy, we would like to give you a reality check. This type of lifestyle is not a sustained euphoria that brings you constant joy. Whether it's the weather or the culture shock, we have been hit with dizzying highs and devastating lows. On top of it, we haven't done much travelling yet and only in countries where we can communicate easily. After only 203 days of travelling, there have been times where all I wanted was to be back at my desk, doing some coding and sipping my coffee. Michèle comments: The lows have been devastating. I have never felt my emotions so raw. Every decision, even a simple one like should we stop for a coffee, seems impossibly difficult. The disadvantage we face in a prolonged trip like this one is trying to prepare for the next step (country, language, visas, money, ...) while we are still adjusting to our current surroundings. We kind of knew that it would be difficult, but we hadn't anticipated it being THIS difficult. If you only knew how many times the thought of giving up has crossed our minds. Benoit is right: compared to a lot of cyclists and where they have travelled and what they have done, we haven't done much. We feel like world traveller weenies.

In the last post we had started Operation Get Better which is now in full swing. Tafraoute has lots to offer. A good place for getting well if you're sick. There is a nice bakery where, every morning, we get fresh pastries. This is the perfect time to catch up on writing, internet, and a potential exit plan for Morocco. More on that later. Michèle comments: In the little kitchen on our rooftop apartment, we can prepare our own food. At first, we kept it simple to plain rice, bread and salads. Then, we got more adventurous, even making our own tajine. Our stomachs will adjust. We have a new mantra, inspired by my sister when she travelled in Brazil: "Get used to it, 'cause I'm not going home."

I have to take a minute to criticize. The Moroccan flag is red with a greenish pentagram in the centre. However, having a look around, one would think it comes in various colours and is made of plastic. You can see it floating in the wind at almost every tree you pass. It's disgusting. Morocco has a problem with waste disposal and a bad habit of using plastic bags when shopping. We've even had merchants refuse to put our stuff in our reusable bag. It is really disappointing to get to an oasis, which from far away, looks like something from a fairy tale, but up close, looks like a garbage dump with murky water, old tires and all sorts of other junk the free world has to offer.
Michèle comments: We should have taken more photos of the garbage. The beige and reds of the desert landscape speckled with colour - plastic bags, yogurt cups, diapers, coke bottles. The dead dog in the dumpster. The beach covered with more plastic than pebbles.

Hicham, the guy renting us the apartment, is a really cool guy. He invites us over for dinner during Aïd el-Kebir(Fête de Mouton). During this holiday, a goat or sheep is slaughtered. At Hicham's place, the goat carcass is hanging in the kitchen. We go and sit in the living room and the first thing Hicham does is turn the TV on to a Mexican soap opera dubbed in Arabic. His mother brings in brochettes, tea and sweets. I ask what the brochettes are and Hicham tells me they're liver. I start to worry because I tend to dry heave in the face of offal, but much to my surprise, the brochettes are delicious. Besides, we've been protein deprived since we got here and, as the Flander kids would say: "Iron helps us play." Michèle comments: How did we not know about this holiday? Hicham told us that it is the second most important holiday after Ramadan. That morning, November 17, we went out for our morning walk to the bakery. The town, usually buzzing and bustling with activity, was dead. All the shop doors were locked. No-one in the streets. Maybe we should have gotten the hint recently from seeing so many sheep tied to car roof-racks and listening to their plaintive cries.

Back at our place, the evening ends with some tripe. More protein! It takes us a long time to digest all that meat but I'm convinced it played a big part into our recovery.

Our apartment opens up onto a shared terrasse. Occasionally, vacationers from apartments below come up to hang out. Some of them are rich Moroccans coming up for the weekend. They'll tell you all about their country, where to go and tell you that you are "welcome". Some are tourists who have nothing to say.

Feeling a little bit better, we hit some of the touristy spots around Tafraoute. This includes, of course, the painted rocks. Some European artist decided to hire some locals to paint a bunch of rocks out in the desert. He signed his name, drank some cheap wine and never came back.

We found the site totally uninteresting and we much prefer the original colour of the rocks.
Michèle comments: I thought I was feeling better, but after our short bike ride to check out those rocks, I realized that I was coming down with a cold. Adding insult to injury.

After 8 days of rest, it's time to go. Michèle still has a bit of a cold but we feel pretty good. Today's ride involves a big climb. I could have done without it. Fairly steep with a forgettable view, we are finding the climb difficult.

On the downhill we realized that the climb was well worth the effort. The road winds down into a gorge straight out of a Road Runner cartoon.

We eventually end up at the oasis of Ait Mansour. A real oasis. Surprisingly, it's fairly clean. The scenery is something out of a dream. Lush, date-laden palm trees and other vegetation create a dense forest in the middle of a desert back drop. The contrast hits us like a sunny day in Scotland.

The next day we veer off and say goodbye to the oasis and head back into the dry, arid landscapes. You occasionally see a lone palm tree indicating that water is not far. It's hilly, and despite our illness being over, our strength is not all there. It only takes 20 km to feel exhausted. We push on.

The road is not very touristy. Passing through a town, we get herds of kids asking for pens and money. They're being quite annoying and aggressive. One of them grabs something from one of Michèle's panniers. A bag of peanuts. The kid drops it on the ground and they all run away. Michèle is furious. Me? I'm just about ready to give them a boot in the ass. More on that later.
Michèle comments: Where does this behaviour come from? It is always from the young boys, around age 10 years, I would say, and it is always the same in even the smallest most remote village. Is it part of the curriculum of french class? Repeat after me: "Donnez-moi un stylo, monsieur." "Donnez-moi un dirham, madame." If that is the case, then these kids should all get an A+. I read somewhere that it is a game to them. Thomas, the Swiss German cyclist, told us that there was a similar "game" in his country to ask soldiers for chocolate.

Pissed off, annoyed and in a bad mood, we have to haul our sorry asses up a huge hill. Too steep and too tired, we have to push our bikes all the way up.

On the other side, we pitch the tent for our first night wild camping. We find a spot away from the road. When finally in bed, my ears tune into every sound, trying to identify every single one, and stressing when I can't. That, coupled with high winds shaking the tent, makes me glad to see the sunrise even though I barely slept. So much for wild camping and my adventurous spirit. I wonder if Club Med organizes cycling trips around the world. Michèle comments: Yes, certainly, the cycling itself is the easiest part of this trip. If the route was planned for you, and where you would sleep each night, and your food ready for you, and a guaranteed hot shower ... well, there would be nothing to it. Sore legs maybe, or a sunburn, but oh how insignificant a worry.

To be continued...

The long road to wellville

2010-12-05T14:10:00.000-08:00

In the last post I was sick in an empty rundown apartment in the middle of nowhere. Now it's the morning. I feel a bit better but not enough to cycle. At least the fever is gone. The next town is 20 km away. Not too far except that there's a big hill and I have dead weights for legs. We head out and on the way we meet two cyclists. One from Switzerland and one from Germany. Nice guys. They give us some help by giving me some tisane and a powerbar. They also ask if they can carry anything up the hill for me. We later meet back up with them at the one and only hotel in Ait Baha. The hotel is a bit expensive but we have no choice.

The town is non touristic. Or, put another way, we are the only tourists there. At the hotel reception, there are wee cubby holes with all the room keys. The one for our room is the only key missing. Outside, it's all men. Michèle is having a hard time with the condition of women here. So, it doesn't help that, at an internet place, packed with kids playing Grand Theft Auto, there is one kid running around with his avatar, beating up women. We try to make the best of it while I try to get better.
Michèle comments: In Ait Baha, feelings of homesickness were hitting me hard. Benoit was browsing through some pages on mental well-being in the Healthy Travel (Lonely Planet). This was right after I ran out of the internet place, not being able to take it anymore. "Here, read this," he said, showing me the section entitled Culture Shock and Travel Fatigue. It read, "Travel fatigue is bound to affect you after you've been on the road for many months. It's a combination of culture shock, homesickness and generally feeling fed up with the hassles and inconveniences of being on the road."
Yep, that about sums it up. Under the description of the stages and symptoms of culture shock, I was right there in stage two: "hostility as the novelty starts to wear off and the differences start to irritate: you feel critical of your host country, stereotyping local people; you may feel weepy, defensive, homesick, lonely and isolated, and perhaps you are worried about your physical health." The worldbiking.info site also hit the nail on the head in its description of touring fatigue:
You’re exhausted. You’ve been climbing hills, fighting headwinds and bravely forging on through pounding rain, scorching sun and blinding sandstorms. Maybe it’s only been a week, perhaps you’ve been on the road for months. But you’ve had it. Sliding on to the saddle to face another day on the ‘road to adventure’ sounds about as enticing as spending your next holiday crammed into a windowless cubicle hunched over a computer screen. You’ve come down with a case of Touring Fatigue. It happens to the most adventurous of us. We find ourselves fed up with gazing out over pretty Andean vistas. Pedaling into a jaw-droppingly beautiful sunset in the Sahara leaves us cold.

Three days later we pedal out of town, thinking I'm feeling better. It takes about 20 minutes of cycling to figure out that I'm not. I'll push on anyways. The ride takes us through some incredible scenery right out of a spaghetti western. The road sits at the top of the mountains rather than in the valley below. So, you get a constant nice view of the surroundings.

We pass several herds of goats. They are able to climb small trees to get to the sweet fruits above. Not sure what's in these fruits but goats are definitely intolerant to it. I counted one fart every 3 seconds. First I thought it was Michèle but it turns out she thought it was me.

We've been steadily climbing all day and we finally get some down hill. We coast all the way down to Ida Ougnidif where there's supposed to be a hotel. There is. It's perched on top of a hill, in an old village, and it's really expensive. Basically, the village is the hotel. No one lives there except hotel guests and staff.

Someone tells us there is a guest house not far down the road. We've done 60 km, I'm sick and I need to park my ass. No pun intended. We end up finding the guest house. It offers sleeping arrangements in a tea lounge. The place is quite groovy with mandarin trees where you can pick the fruit right off the branch.

When it's time for bed it is brought to our attention that there will be another person sleeping in the tea room. He snores, we didn't sleep.

The next day is much of the same. I feel that my energy levels are at 30%. It's only about 40 km to Tafraoute but there are three mountain passes. We'll have to take our time and do a lot of pushing up those hills. The landscape is getting more arid and you can really feel the open desert approaching.

The last hill conquered, we can finally enjoy the view and have some fun with the downhill. At the bottom of the hill, we get to Tafraoute. A town popular for its mountain biking and other various tourist attractions. Lots of Joe Cool backpackers on the Lonely Planet trail, French snowbirds in their caravans and us.

The first thing you feel in a new town is disorientation. You've heard of the cheap places to stay, but don't know where they are. Young men are calling you "my friend" when they should be calling you "my money". I'm sick and tired, both physically and mentally. So, we pick the first hotel we find. A basic room with a shared bathroom and very pricey for what it is. I head straight for bed. The mattress feels like it's been through 20 years of hard fucking. It is so uncomfortable that I ask the guy for a different room. It's not much better. Michèle comments: There was the lumpy mattress. Plus there was a screaming baby in the next room. It felt like a cruel joke. We were both so tired and Benoit feeling ill. We just wanted to rest. The baby screamed and screamed as if it were abandoned, but the parents were right there. Later that evening, the screams stopped. We ventured out into the town to find some dinner. We walked into a restaurant that the hotel manager recommended. The screams hit our ears again. We looked over to see the baby, red-faced from all the wailing, in its mother's lap. We walked out. No sympathy for anyone but ourselves.

The next morning we decide to set in motion Operation Get Better. The idea is to rent a place for as long as it takes to feel 100% again. So, it's hospital time for some serious meds. The place looks like a scene from Jacobs Ladder. Old, dirty and creepy. There are old wooden benches for you to wait. The wait is about one tenth of what you would wait in Montreal. About 45 minutes. We go in to see the doctor. That are no forms to fill out. No information entered in a database. Not even a bill. The consultation is free. Anyway, the doctor is very nice and she gives us a list of meds to get. You don't need a prescription in Morocco. Michèle comments: The hospital waiting room was an event in itself. We sat on the wooden benches, sharing them with a small mob of Berber women. They, swathed in plain black except for the gold sparkly trim and the Berber letter z emblem on the side. On their feet, colourful ornate slippers, some with tufts of feathers. In the streets, they hold their veils across their faces. In that hospital waiting room, the veils were dropped, the women smiling at us and laughing as if we were sharing a joke. One of them in particular was stunningly beautiful, and with gorgeous perfect teeth. I don't know why that was such a surprise. Some Berber men arrived, who started arguing with the doctors passing through the hallway. To our ears it sounded like an argument, loud voices and arms waving, but for all we know, they could have just been exchanging friendly hellos.

After the hospital, we get a stroke of luck and find exactly what we are looking for. It's a small rooftop apartment with a terrasse, a wee kitchen and satellite TV. All the ingredients are there for Operation Get Better.

To be continued...

Dizzying high to devastating low: From the High Atlas to the squat toilet

2010-11-24T11:02:00.000-08:00

We get an early start to attack the Tizi n Test. The climb is very long but not very steep. So, we call upon granny and start eating away at the kilometres. The road winds past mountain villages with little traffic. It's turning out to be a really nice relaxing ride. Michèle is concentrating on the road and overcoming her vertigo. Frankly, I'm little pissed off at Lonely Planet for their exaggerated description of this mountain pass. It is by no means treacherous.

A ways up the hill we bump into Walter, Virginie and Elio.

Michèle comments: My vertigo is better described as "vertigo after effort". I don't feel any ill effects if I were to drive up the dizzying heights in a car, for example. But the effort of hiking up a mountain or cycling up a mountain pass, that can bring it on. This day, however, I was determined not to let it get the better of me. It helped having Walter, Virginie and Elio as company as we pedalled our way to the summit along the 30-kilometre winding climb.

At the top we spend the night camping in an unfinished building that belongs to an existing restaurant and guest house. The restaurant charges three times the price for a tajine that we've been paying.
- Seulement 100 dirams (about 10 euros) mon ami.
Walter argues with the guy, saying that a tajine does not cost 100 dirams. But the guy keeps telling us that he makes it better than everyone else. I guess we'll never know if that's true.

After a shitty nights sleep (I don't know, maybe it's the altitude) it's a 30 km downhill to the valley below. The other side is much more impressive and a bit more dangerous since you are going much faster.

It's very easy to get hypnotized by the view and to veer off the road. OK, so maybe it is a little treacherous on this side, especially if you are holding your camera in one hand.

Michèle comments: About that movie clip of the descent, I am sooooooo very glad that I was ahead of Benoit on the road and completely unaware of what he was doing. The descent was freaking me out enough, with its hairpin turns on a road of crumbling pavement and huge potholes and very rarely with a barrier. Yes, the way down did feel treacherous. If I had known that Benoit was filming his descent with only one hand free to brake, I would have lost it!

The road flattens out and takes us into the valley. At the bottom of the hill we branch onto a main road that will take us to Taroudant. Walter, Virginie and Elio have gone ahead. They have to be at the Mauritanian border by mid November. We won't be seeing them again and we wish them the best of luck in their travels.

It's hot and dusty. We roll into several non-touristic towns where we feel completely out of our elements. Every single person we pass gives us a unemotional stare. A wave is all it takes to draw a hello. These towns are bustling with activities with their souks and lack of traffic regulations. The heavy sun, dust, and burning oil from poorly adjusted engines makes it hard to breathe. Some of these towns are quite dismal. Half-finished buildings with rebar sticking out of them. Dusty open fields, littered with garbage, doubling up as a soccer field. Some of these people will spend their whole lives here. We are just passing through.

We buy some fruit for next to nothing and head out of town. At a shady spot it's time for a break. A young women with a child slowly drifts over. I wait for the usual request ... money. But instead she starts crying. Holding her baby and kissing him on the forehead. Feeling awkward we pack up and leave. She never ended up asking for anything. We never ended up offering. At that moment life felt so cruel. Not sure if it was a well-acted ploy, but some of these towns have all the ingredients for a dismal existence. How lucky we are to be vagamonde.

The dismal towns are left behind and we arrive in Taroudant. A compact city surrounded by a medina. It is bustling with activity. There are dense souks and shops. Streets that would normally be pedestrian have all types of vehicles whizzing by you. There's more money here and people are not as aggressive. You pay Moroccan prices like everyone else and there is no need to bargain. We end up staying in a cheap hotel for two days and run some much needed errands. Michèle comments: In Taroudant, the people on the street weren't all men for a change. The hotel where we stayed was run by women. There were women in the cafés, women on bicycles, some with their heads covered, some with their hair blowing in the wind. It didn't matter what they were wearing. I was just happy to see them.

It's time to head towards the town of Aït-Baha where we know there's a hotel. As we pedal out of town, I can sense something is in the mail. I'm not feeling well and I start to regret leaving our hotel room in Taroudant. The map shows several secondary roads to Aït-Baha. We end up going on several wild goose chases trying to find them. Towns get poorer again. At a cross roads this guy comes up to us with the usual questions that lead to the usual request ... money. Since we are eating a snack we offer him some. He says all he wants is money. We all want that I felt like telling him. Besides, this guy is well dressed and he has a cell phone. Time to go. Another small goose chase and we're on the right track. At this point I'm feeling like shit. Gastro imminent. We won't make Aït-Baha tonight.

At a road side convenience store, we ask if there's a place to stay for the night. The guy opens a door besides the shop. It's an empty rundown apartment. He says we can camp there for a small fee. It's cleanish and there's a toilet. I'm going to need it. We set up, order a tea and nibble on some fruit. About an hour later we get a visit from a sketchy looking official. He barges into the apartment, has a quick look around and asks for our papers. We go sit outside where he writes down the information. His writing is so bad that I wonder if he's literate. At one point I even tell him that he's missing some information. When he's done he looks up at me and says with an annoyed looking smirk:
- Y'a pas d'problème mon ami (No problem my friend).
There better not be because I'm going to be busy on the toilet all night. The guy finally leaves and the man who rented us the apartment says:
- T'inquiète pas, c'est mon oncle (Don't worry, that's my uncle).
With that done, it's time for the intense chills and chattering teeth. Of course, a third world sickness would not be complete without lining up to the squat toilet about ten times during the night. This is fucking great!

To be continued...

Morocco shock and our ride to the High Atlas

2010-11-18T04:42:00.000-08:00

Our journey to Morocco started with a taxi ride to the Edinburgh airport. On arrival I hand over my visa card to the driver.
- No can do he says.
- We were told we could pay with credit card I replied.
We have no cash of course. That would make things too easy. So, I run to the bank machine and take out another chunk of money, run back, and pay the driver.

The flight went without a glitch. I really like Ryanair! At Marrakech airport we wait one hour and a half to clear customs. It's packed with people because three flights came in at the same time. The queues are disorganized and there is a minimal amount of customs officers working. When it's our turn, the officer is in such a bad mood that he doesn't even look at us or our passports. He aggressively bangs a few stamps on some random page and motions to get on our way. Fine by me. After we get our luggage it's time to hit a bank machine. When we find one it's not out of order, but it might as well be because it's not spitting out money like it should. Thank god I took out money in Edinburgh. By the time we come out of the airport it's dark and riding is not a good idea. Besides we don't know where we're going.

Our host gave us vague directions that we're supposed to give to a taxi driver. With a price negotiated, we give to the driver the vague directions to where we're supposed to be staying. The taxi ride takes us to a non touristic suburb. The area is dark and run down. We have no clue where we're going or if the guy will meet us. I have to admit I was a little worried. Turns out the guy is there like he said he would: Sigh of relief. We pile out of the taxi with all our stuff and right away I feel a bit of a tension towards the amount of stuff we have. More on that later. There's an American couple staying with him. All of them help us carry stuff in. Huge contrast to the Butters apartment in Edinburgh. Our host's place is very small and our stuff takes up a lot of space. Anyways, we are tired and it's not long before we head to bed.

In the morning, we head down to one of the local restaurants for breakfast. Our host and the American couple head of somewhere else for breakfast and he tells us that we would not like the food they're going to go eat. Strange, but whatever. Sitting down with the locals we wait for our food. Being in a non touristic area we get strange looks from the patrons. It won't be the last time. It doesn't take long before a street vendor singles us out. He throws socks, underwear, and a bunch of other junk on our table. At one point he even waves a bra in front of Michèle. I try to be a good sport. I grab one of the underwears and do a little dance. The whole restaurant laughs. I laugh too but it will only take a few days for this sort of behaviour to piss me off.

That done, it's time to put our bikes together and go for a ride to get a feel for the Moroccan traffic. We are surprised to feel much safer than in the UK. Even though they drive fast and aggressively, Moroccans are very aware of other types of vehicles on the road. We head back to our host's place, happy about the ride and that the bikes are in good condition. But the conservative nature of this country shows it's face. Not thinking twice about storing the bikes in his place, he gets upset as we bring them in.
- It's not allowed he tells us.
We have to take them downstairs and lock them in the garage. There is a guardian there who looks over the bikes and other vehicles. Night and day. I reluctantly lock them up and remove anything that isn't bolted down. Back upstairs, we try to dampen the situation. Our host explains that people in the building are quite conservative and that many of them don't like him. He tells us it's because he is unmarried and that he always has foreigners staying over. Some of them young pretty girls. He claims that many married men in the building are jealous of that. Well, we got a taste of the culture shock we were looking for.

Not feeling super welcome but still grateful for the hospitality, we head out the next day towards the town of Asni. The road is busy but we are glad to be back on our bikes. The sun is shining and it's hot! A shock to the system, we end up stopping in the shade every 3 kilometres. The Atlas mountains off in the distance are approaching slowly. As you pedal forward, the mountain range looks like a humungous tidal wave. With the palm trees in the foreground and the shining sun glistening off the snowy peaks in the background, I imagine myself Laurence of Arabia shouting "take no prisoners!". At one rest stop I look over to the bikes and notice that all the inner tube caps are missing. Somebody stole them the night before when they were locked up in the garage. No big deal really, but it puts Michèle in a bad mood. We were reluctant to lock them up in a garage but we were told that there wouldn't be any problems. Turns out there was. I'm just glad the bikes didn't get stolen.

We follow the road and slowly deepen our familiarity for this country. As a tourist you are categorized and labelled around here. One nuisance are kids between the age of 5 and 10. They find it fun to run beside you yelling "stylo monsieur stylo". I don't know which idiot started giving these kids pens but I'd like to have a few words with him. Pedalling a little harder is all it takes to out run them and a few hours later we get to Asni. There, a guy leads us through a chaotic souk to the town hostel. The cheapest and crappiest yet. Michèle comments: That first day of real cycling in Morocco wasn't sitting too well with me. The overwhelming heat, the annoying kids (always the young boys and never when an adult is around), and discovering that our valve caps were missing, were all making my mood deteriorate. Some of the little fawkers even threw rocks at me (they missed) as I was pedalling a bit behind Benoit. I haven't encountered rock-throwing kids since, although one day some men at a cafe threw rocks at the kids to stop them from chasing us! It was hard to stay cool that day: I was guzzling and guzzling water, still feeling thirsty. That night in the clammy room at the hostel, I dreamt that I was taking care of someone's houseboat and with it their two goldfish in a bowl. Note the water themes. The bowl tipped over spilling the fish with it. I was trying desperately to get the fish back into the water. When I woke the next morning, I thought, aha, that is what I feel like here, a fish out of water.

Despite a good days ride we are a bit mentally drained from all the preparations and the strange situation encountered in Marrakech. At one point I tell Michèle that we need a vacation from our vacation. So, the next day we decide to stop at a nice guest house for a few days to get our bearings. My main worry at this point is the Tizi n Test. A 30 km climb to a pass at 2100 metres. Lonely Planet describes it as treacherous. We've never done a climb that big and I'm afraid that Michèle's vertigo will prevent her from doing it. But at the guest house, we talk to a few locals who ease our worries about the climb. Feeling better it's time to relax with our first tajine. Something we will be sick of eating after about a week.

Michèle comments: A couple of days into our trip and I am noticing how much Benoit and I stick out like sore thumbs. It is 30+ degrees in the sun and all the men are in long pants, long sleeved shirts, sweaters and jackets. We saw a guy walking by wearing a down jacket with a fur-lined hood. At least the hood was down. We felt awkward wearing shorts. Going out to eat in a food stall or café, we would be the only couple in a room full of men. It would make my day to see a Moroccan woman sitting at a café sipping a cup of tea and watching the world go by. One night at the guest house, I dreamt that I was going into a women's washroom, except that in this one the ceilings were so ridiculously low that I had to bend way down to fit in. Speaking of trying to fit in, I went to the Saturday souk in Asni wearing my fleece jacket and black leggings under my shorts. I was sweltering hot! "It is winter," sniffed Mohamed at my comment at long sleeves and pants in this heat. "In the summer we wear shorts."

Time to hit the road again. For the first time during this trip, we meet up with cyclists travelling long term. Walter and Virginie are cycling down to Dakkar with their two year old son Elio. Right away we have a million things to talk about. One of them is the Tizi n Test. They're going to be doing it on a tandem with a two year old. OK, we're not so worried anymore. Funny how some people's worries are completely overlooked by others. For example, at one point in time we were thinking of doing the same trip as Walter and Virginie. However, we did not want to spend the money on malaria pills and more vaccines. When I ask them if they have all the right meds for their trip they wave it off as pharmaceutical hype. They have no vaccines and no malaria pills.

A few more kilometres and we're in Ijoukak where we stayed at Gite D'étape Chez El Mahjoub across a little river. Mahjoub is a really nice guy and his place is nicely set up. He is an avid mountain biker and he eases our worries about the Tizi n Test so that it becomes negligible. My next worry is that Michèle is not feeling so good and not eating. This is unfortunately the start of something that will bother us for several weeks to come. More on that later.

The big day has arrived. The start of the climb is at our feet and the Tizi n Test is high above our heads.

To be continued...

The last wee bit of Scotland

2010-11-11T04:43:00.000-08:00

We come out of our hostel hibernation to find that the Isle of Skye is blue! I can't believe my eyes. There is not a cloud in the sky. It's hot and we are in shorts and T-shirts. Michele comments: this beautiful blue sky day just happened to land on my birthday. I couldn't have asked for a better gift. Especially on Skye, and in October, because in this place the running joke is that the weather doesn't change much from season to season except that the rain becomes horizontal in the fall and winter.

After a day's ride, we pitch our tent behind a house. It always feels a little weird at first when you're not sure if you're allowed. But being in Scotland, soon enough someone comes up to ask us if we need anything. She tells us there's been a bit of a disaster. Her husband drove his tractor down to the beach at low tide and left it there to go fishing. By the time he got back the tide had claimed it. The top of the tractor slowly vanishing from sight. She tells us that she'll be back in the morning with a wee kettle. In addition, she brought us yogurts and sausage sandwiches. Too nice, just too nice.

In the morning we pack up and head out. There's not a cloud in the sky and it's throwing our minds for a loop. But despite all that I still feel physically drained and I end up pushing my bike up every hill. With this nice weather, morale should be going up but it's not really. I do my best to stay the course. The ride takes us to Portree where we investigate two hostels. We pull up to the first one. It's closed for the day but the caretaker pops his head out of the window. This guy looks like he's had too much sex with 20-year-old women trying to find themselves. And he's an asshole too! Even worse than the Milton Keynes hostel caretaker. After being welcomed with open arms everywhere we camped in Scotland, this guy tells us to move our bikes because we're actually on private property.

We head to the second hostel. The weather is still stunning. Something that is extremly rare in Scotland. But in the hostel there are two annoyed looking dumpy chicks curled up on a couch watching some stupid romantic comedy. For some reason, going off on a rant about how pathetic they looked in contrast with the beautiful weather put me right back on track. Morale shoots way up and I am no longer tired. Giving the finger to the two hostels, we head out for some of the best cycling we've done so far.

At the bottom of a steep descent is a campsite that is closed for the season. Hence free. Later on, Martin shows up. Martin is someone we met at a hostel. The next day we all go hiking for a few hours. It's nice to be off the bikes and use some different muscles. During the hike, a distressed cow can be heard in the distance. The lamentations are such that we are not sure if we should go investigate. Doing so would mean trudging through boggy terrain for several hundred metres. Good thing we didn't. It turns out that the lamenting cries are actually coming from a rutting stag. I really don't want to be perceived as a challenge to the harem of a six point buck. Although getting chased by a deer with blue balls would make a great blog post.

But horny deer are not the only thing making noise in the area. The whole mountain range is a race course for the air force. Jet fighters wipe by us at no more than a 100 metres from the ground using the mountains as slalom poles. These guys better not screw up because it's game over in a split second.

That night we spent our fourth night wild camping. The grease is accumulating and smells are getting exotic. We need a shower soon.

The five glorious days of sunshine are over. It's back to the shit weather. My patience for rain has become negligible. I feel that I never want to see rain again. So, we decide to stay at a family run hostel. Not too eventful. At one point, everyone is in the kitchen preparing dinner. I'm talking to one of the owners about fishing. He says that he went today but didn't catch anything. Doesn't matter he tells me. He has fish in the fridge. As he opened the package, the worst rancid fish smell permeates the kitchen. I look up at Michele with a "what the fuck is that smell" look. I have to leave the room but the smell doesn't seem to bother the guy. The fish is thrown into a pan and the rest is history. I'm pretty sure he wasn't sick that night but I almost was just from the smell.

Back on the bikes we stumble upon a beach where free camping is O plenty. There's nothing there except a few abandoned caravans. We have a look around for a spot with no sheep shit. Slim pickings. Michele comments: I am so sick of seeing sheep shit, it isn't funny. Always a pile of those dark brown pebble-like turds that look like chocolate-covered almonds (but don't eat them). It was everywhere. But especially it seemed to be exactly where we wanted to set up our tent.

Two older fellows come up to us and point to another spot down the road. There are two caravans there, very close to each other, which they claim are abandoned as well. So, we pitch our tent between them. It's sheltered and there is no sheep shit. Soon after night falls, a car pulls up to our beloved spot. We are toasty warm in our sleeping bags. We hear foot steps outside the tent. It's not long before hellos start bouncing back and forth. We get out of the tent to explain that we were told that the caravans were abandoned and that we are really sorry to be bothering them. What we get is the classic Scottish response.
- No problem at all.

Turns out that they've been keeping their caravans there for the last twenty years. They know everyone in the village and they're a bit annoyed that we were told false information. We chat and joke around for a while and they even offer us the other caravan for the night. Already set up we declined but we should have accepted because the night was pretty cold. In the morning, while having coffee, the man who told us the fib walks by. We tell him that we must have misunderstood him and that we thought he had said that the caravans were abandoned. Right in front of Michael the guy replies:
- Yes, they're both abandoned.

The sun is shining. Yet another lucky day. That's what I'm calling them now. Not nice days but lucky days. Doesn't matter really because this is our last cycling day. The route takes us past Eilean Donan. The mother of all Scottish castles were Mel Gibson delivered his (multiple Scottish accents???) Irish accent in Braveheart. Michele comments: Eilean Donan castle had a special significance for me. Years ago, when I was miserable at my job, I placed a picture of that castle on the front cover of my research notes. You know, as inspiration for better days to come. So it felt pretty amazing to be right there in front of it and on a fantastically sunny day too. Several hours later we arrive at the Plockton hostel. Not to eventful except that we have to be in the hostel tool shed in order to get internet. Being several metres away from the hostel, we can piggy back on an unsecured network. We could do all this outside but I'll give you three guesses why we can't. The first two don't count.

The hostel lounge offers a nice view of the now snowy mountains. The days are short and cold. Since we have given up cycling we catch a train to Inverness where we spent one night in a bizarre hostel. This place had cameras everywhere except the dorm rooms and bathrooms. All feeds are displayed in a mozaic on a plasma screen which no one pays attention to. No light switches either. All lights are activated by motion sensors. Michele comments: The kitchen was filthy too. I went to dry my hands on a tea towel, and came away with my fingers covered in something greasy. Shudder. The next day the staff tells us that a high school will be staying there. We decide to bail to the next hostel. Alright, I'm really getting sick of writing about hostels. It's on to Edinburgh by train of course.

In Edinburgh, we were taken in by John and Jane Butters who gave us much more than a place to stay. They took us to a concert one night and a play the next night to give us a view of the city that you would not get if you were a complete stranger. During the day we went shopping and got our stuff ready for the flight. In the evening they entertained us with their great dynamics. Like the time Jane was saying that in her career as a nurse she never once saw a doctor spell inoculation correctly. All the while John was trying to politely cut in by telling her to please stop because the conversation was terribly boring. We want to thank you for opening your door to us. We greatly enjoyed staying with you. Michele comments: I second that! Loved the jazz, loved the night at the theatre, loved the chance to chat with touring cyclists such as yourselves.

All our Scotland photos are here: Scotland 2010

To be continued...

B's eye view of our first week in Scotland

2010-10-18T09:48:00.000-07:00

Glasgow. We are finally in Scotland. The train pulls into Central Station in the early afternoon. Despite a significant effort, we can't find accommodation. So, around 4:30 we decide to take the well-marked number 7 bike path to Loch Lomond. Some 20 miles away. Several hours pass before the Glasgow suburbs are behind us. Hopefully there will be free camping at the end of the line. By the time we get there, the night is just putting on her panties. "Hostel 300 yards" it says on the side of the road. We decide to go take a look. When we get to the place I can't believe my eyes. It is a majestic monstrosity. A huge castle dating back to gods knows when (Well, I guess the tourist office would know).

The next morning in the lobby, a halfass intellectual twit spouts off about what he claims is Free Masonry symbolism in the castle decorations. He speaks loud enough so everyone can hear him. He looks around to see if anyone is interested. The receptionist pretends to care. The twit is one of those arrogant and overly-confident types. Probably very successful in life but with no other qualities. I love these types of people. It makes great conversation talking about them.

OK, let's go free camping! I feel like a teenager about to get laid. On the way out from Loch Lomond, we meet two local guys that point us the way to a good cycling route. Good thing we bumped into them because the route they suggest is stunning with very light traffic.

This leads us to a nice little spot in the forest where we put up the tent. The midges are bad so we end up eating quickly and dashing in the tent. When the night comes I get a few flashbacks to our first try at wild camping in Quebec. This is when we got a fairly large animal growling outside our tent in the middle of the night. A fairly terrifying experience. I won't go into the details but I end up sleeping like shit despite that there is no dangerous wildlife in Scotland. With the exception of drunks.

In the morning, the woman at an information centre tells us that we can avoid the main road by taking a logging road. It's steep but it offers some nice view points that would have made great camping spots. Too bad it's the morning.

At the top of the hill it's back to the main road where we get a few assholes passing us at 160 km/h. Thoughts of boiling people in sulfuric acid pass through my head... Time to stop for lunch. New strategy. I get my mirror nicely adjusted and pull over every time I see an upcoming vehicle. It's slow but I feel less murderous that way. When we finally get off the main road we pitch the tent, dash in and pass out.

The next morning it's more logging roads. There are too many midges to cook a proper breakfast so we leave with a few cookies in our bellies. It rained all night but now it’s clearing a little bit. There is a lot of logging activity here. You see patches of mossy rain forest next to completely decimated areas. Quite sad. It reminds me of images of clear cutting in British Columbia but on a smaller scale. But the redneck is present with his (never hers) John Deere tearing up his area. We won't be waving hello.

We keep riding and eventually get back onto a paved road. It’s really hilly. Short steep climbs coupled by steep descents. Having eaten barely anything all day we decide that it’s enough and pitch the tent at the first spot we find. But before we do, we stop at a tea shop and order an all day breakfast. Both huge plates are almost inhaled in the span of 5 minutes. We were so protein starved that we’re not even full afterwards.

In the morning we pack up in a deluge. The tent is water logged and weighs 3 times what it should. We set off not too motivated and without eating properly. How can you cook a proper breakfast with a cloud of midges around your head. The idea is to get to Oban. There, we want to catch a ferry to South Uist. On the ferry we meet Tom and Sarah. They're here for a week. The time on the ferry passes quickly as we talk about travelling and cycling. At arrival of the ferry, a young guy waiting to disembark tells me of a wee garden where we can camp. We set up in the pouring rain. The tent is so wet that we have to wipe up the inside before putting in our bedding. Everything smells like a moldy wet suit. However, we smell great. The ferry had showers! It rained all night but in the morning there are blue patches. While packing up we realized that there is a "No Camping" sign. Oh well, who cares.

Time for a rest again. We decide to take a load off for a few days at a youth hostel. It's more like a mountain refuge: rustic and dirty but the setting is nice.

We end up meeting some interesting people. Jokes fly around and everyone is friendly. A bit of an argument breaks out on the topic of fox hunting. A woman named Linda and an older fellow who looks like Patrick Stewart debate the issue. But the Patrick Stewart guy seems to be exaggerating. At one point he puts his hand three feet off the ground and says he seen foxes this big. Later, Linda tells us that foxes really don't get that big.

A few days later, we feel it's time to head out again. Bad choice. We get hit by a nasty rain storm. Head wind and heavy rain. So heavy that our rain gear fails. Water actually got in to the kayaking dry bag containing my sleeping bag. Michele's waterproof Arkell panniers leaked as well. The luck we had with the weather in Iceland and Denmark is asking for reimbursement. I am starting to feel the weight of the bad weather we've been having for the last month. The weight is not only psychological but physical as well. At the next hostel we both end up getting a nasty cold that lasts three days. Mildly comfortable, we do the best to nurse ourselves back to health.

The next leg takes place in North Harris. We get there on a Sunday: the lords day. God didn't play golf on that glorious day, he rested. Neither shall you. That's OK, we don't play golf. Instead we pitch our tent in the cow paddies next to an ancient standing stone. We fall asleep to the distant sound of the pounding waves. In the morning, the feeling is on the knackered end of the scale. An uncontrollable cough came over me which lasted a good portion of the night. The nasty cold is lingering. When we poked our heads outside it's blue sky all around. The night was cold so there are no midges. It's the perfect morning. Finally! I take a walk down the beach before breakfast. The beach is huge and magical. Something about water meeting the earth in such a violent way. Maybe they should come down here on Sundays and let the waves do the talking.

The sun quickly gives way to a nice rolling carpet of clouds. No surprise there. In Tarbert we experience two random acts of kindness whilst looking for camping. Paul, a contractor in charge of repainting the ferry dock, give us a ride to a friend's property where we should be able to find a spot. Unfortunately it's way too boggy and we can't find a place to put our tent. So, we decide to move on. We feel bad about walking away after someone has made the effort to help us. After a few miles we start to get desperate. There is a nice piece of grass inside a four-star establishment. Let's check it out. As we approach the house, the owner, Katie, comes out to meet us. Michele goes straight to the point and asks her if we can camp on her lawn. "No problem" she says. And in the morning she offers us tea and toast. Thank you.

We head to Stornaway with a decent tail wind. There, we decide to stay at a caravan park because we need the services. In the evening, in our comfy sleeping bags, we can hear a garage band playing next door. I can imagine a bunch of kids feeling the euphoria of originality playing the same cord progression that sixty years of teenagers have passed through. At one point it's time for Eye Of The Tiger. But it's cut short. They can't get the past the intro. What comes next are my ear plugs. When I pop them out several hours later I'm hoping that someone is pissing on our tent. No, it's more rain.

Another day is spent at the campsite. I just can't get motivated enough to head out in the rain again. Not today. We end up chilling out with some beers and good food. Next door lives a sheepdog trainer. He's out on the field training one of his dogs. The dog is 5 months old and just starting out. Very cute. The trainer tells me that they start them out on Swedish sheep because they are less aggressive. Apparently, the sheep around here can attack a young dog and end its career. 4000 pounds for a good sheep dog!

At the end of the day the sky is clearing and in the morning we have a beautiful day. Time to pedal out of town on a small road that offers wide open spaces. The traffic is light, the sun is shining and we have a side wind. What a treat! We ride side by side and talk about future plans and adventures to come. Our next stop is at Callanish. The place offers a nice set of standing stones where pagans spent their Sundays worshipping figments of their imaginations. Now tourists gather to take pictures and read information plaques.

Looking for a spot to camp we stumble upon a broch. One thing I imagined about Scotland was to camp by an ancient castle. We head up and inspect the place and find a spot sheltered from the wind. All we have to do is clear some sheep crap and set up. Unfortunately for us, the ghosts of the castle decided we were not welcome. They told us to pack up around 5:30 in the morning by knocking at our tent with 30 knot winds. So much for the sheltered spot but they were nice enough not to send rain.

It's time to head to the Isle of Skye. From Stornaway we head towards Tarbert. The wind is so strong that gusts are pushing us in to the traffic. It's too dangerous and we decide to take a bus instead. During the ferry crossing, the seas are so rough that you can get a few seconds of weightlessness as the boat comes crashing down into the next wave. I come very close to puking my guts out but end up falling asleep instead. Thank god.

When we arrive in Skye we have to cycle 12 miles to the hostel. The one in Uig is closed for the winter and it is impossible to camp in this wind. Besides, it's cold, wet and we are still under the weather from our cold two weeks ago. When we finally pedal out town it's already getting late. When we arrive at the hostel it is pitch dark and we are finished to do the 2 hour battle with the elements. My only fear during the ride was missing the turnoff to the hostel despite the rain pellets in our faces. It is taking a relentless effort to keep a positive attitude these days. On the way to the hostel I come very close to losing it. I'm proud to say that I kept it together. For somebody fresh off the airplane for their 2 week vacation this would have been a novelty followed by a good laugh. Personally I'm at the end of my rope. Maybe it is nature's initiation to this type of travelling but the last several months have been very difficult despite the kindness we have received.

Now at the hostel. I don't even want to put my nose outside. But we do anyways because we've decided to go see a doctor. I'm getting worried that our lingering colds are going to turn into something serious. Besides, we have to get information about vaccines if we want to head into Africa. We try to explain the situation to the receptionist. Bad move. We should have just asked to see a doctor. Confused, she tells us that the medical center is very busy and that we should google the information or go to the tourist office for our medical inquiries. What a moron. Anyways, we do get to see a doctor and I get prescribed antibiotics. The cost of the whole thing is only 3 pounds. We are extremely surprised.

To be continued...

So begin our travels in Scotland

2010-10-14T09:34:00.000-07:00

We were eager to get to Scotland, a place that both of us have wanted to visit for a long time. At the end of the Pennine Cycle Way, the bicycle path pops across the border to Scotland. Here is my happy grin at finally being in Scotland even for a brief time:

To hasten our true arrival in Scotland, we hopped a train from Berwick-upon-Tweed to Glasgow. As the train pulled into the Berwick station, we had exactly one minute to get our bikes loaded onto the "guard's van" of the train which is at its tail end. One of the staff at the platform was insisting that we remove all our panniers first before getting aboard. Thankfully, an older and wiser member of the staff saw the madness of that idea and gave us the okay to keep our panniers clipped on:

Glasgow was busy and bustling with activity as we arrived midweek in the afternoon. It has been a while since we had wandered among the crowds of a big city. But the isolation of the islands of the Outer Hebrides were calling us, so we were soon on our way towards Oban where we could catch a ferry to South Uist. A lovely bicycle path followed the River Clyde and along canals until we reached Loch Lomond, our first stop. At the hostel that looked like a castle, Benoit just couldn't resist adding his head to a statue:

On our way to Oban, we cycled along many a narrow single track road with passing places. Our first encounter with this type of road that we would see often in Scotland. It looks like the road is a big snake that has swallowed a rodent or two:

Even when the road had two lanes, there wasn't a lot of room to pass. It looks like this bus is sneaking up to attack me from behind (but really, the driver was just patiently waiting for the oncoming traffic to pass):

Most of the ride from Glasgow to Oban was a delight. The days were sunny with only a smattering of clouds, a welcome contrast to the pissing rain and dismal weather that seemed to be unending since we arrived in the UK. We managed to find quiet side roads, even a slippery moss-covered mountain pass alongside, but way above, the main road up the steep Rest And Be Thankful. Eventually the mountain pass route rejoined the busy highway and we were stuck sharing the road with impatient drivers. At least the views were worth it:

Finally we reached Oban and were soon on the 5-hour ferry ride to the Outer Hebrides. It was due to arrive at 22:20 in Lochboisdale on the island of South Uist. We hadn't even looked into where we might sleep that night. Our idea was to find a camping spot in the dark of night in a place we had never seen before and probably in the rain (the good weather couldn't last forever). Crazy idea, right? But not a unique one. We met Sarah and Tom, two cyclists also boarding the ferry with the same idea! It seems that we cross paths with kindred spirit travellers just when we need it the most.

So began our visit to Scotland. We had made it to the Outer Hebrides. If you want a sense of wide open spaces, just walk along a beach on one of those islands:

The backbone of England (The Pennines)

2010-10-02T10:31:00.000-07:00

Penrith. We are north and away from the endless suburbs. It really feels like we are back on the trip. The weather is nice and the sunlight pokes through the leaves of the tree tunnels. The extremities of my mouth point to the heavens. We are following a popular cycling route. The country side is sectioned off by walls made of stacked rock that seem to stretch for miles. After cycling for several hours we get to a small campsite. This place has apple trees so we stock up on fresh apples right off the branch. We set up the tent and get our first encounter with the infamous midge. Something that will intensify. More on that later.

In the morning we head towards a long climb called Hartside. We've done worse ones but at the top I feel finished. This is the first time we get introduced to the military activities that go on in the area. Fighter jets wipe by so low to the ground that you can see the pilot. At first you'll be amazed but that quickly wears off. At one point it starts to piss rain. That's ok, we're equipped for that ... sort of. During this shower we pass through some amazing countryside. Feels like the Shire from Lord of the Rings and I keep thinking I going to run into Gandalf. Instead we run into a family-run campsite. They're Australians.
- Want a tinny, I'm asked.
- It tastes good but it'll make you sing really badly, he tells me.
So once again we have a few beers before setting up. One of the guys there is just visiting. He tells us he had to sell his farm because of the ongoing drought in Australia. He also tells us that he believes in climate change. So do we.

In the morning we pack up and go. One thing about the English countryside is that it's overrun by rabbits. It's very cute. You can see them high tailing when you surprise them at the side of the road. The problem is: there is a flattened one at every mile. A road kill smorgasbord. I can hear Michèle's sad cries several metres behind every time we pass one.

The ride is hilly and thoughts come in and out. I start to think about counting. In general when people cycle they count. The majority will count kilometres but we count travel reward points. Sounds a bit like an aeroplan commercial but it's not. I always ask myself what is the amount of travel experience obtained during a ride. That's the problem we've been having here in Europe. You don't get the feeling of being on another planet. No matter how nice a ride is, or is supposed to be, you will not get much of a culture shock. We got a bit of one in Iceland and a lot of it in Cuba. I'm still looking for it in this second part. Speaking of kilometres, we meet this guy who is doing the same route but on foot. He tells us that he's done 200 miles in 5 days. Christ! That's more then we've been doing on our bikes. The funny thing is that his legs have ceased up and he can barely walk. He's going to do the rest by bus. I guess he's not really going for travel reward points.

Today our ride was cut short when we made a wrong turn at Clennell. We headed into a forest thinking we were following the designated route. Instead we ended on a steep logging road about 3 miles into the forest. No big deal. If you are in the UK you are always on top of the food chain. We head back the way we came and end up having to stay at another nightmare caravan park. If anyone reading this ever goes through Clennell, the caravan park bathroom codes are: C0478Y for the gents and C4679Z for the ladies.

We spent two days at a youth hostel. A much needed rest. Also, a destination needs to be found for post UK. The hostel is empty and hence quite relaxing. It has internet so we are able to prepare our exit plan. The final verdict is Morocco. There is a flight with Ryanair from Edinburgh to Marrakesh. Direct. The plan right now is to head south and have a try at the long desert stretches of the far south. I guess I'll be eating my words from the previous two paragraphs.

As we pedal away from our two days rest, a few thoughts pass through my head. More specifically about procrastination. Seems to be a thing of the past. Nowadays if we get the chance to get something done we do it. It's almost become a privilege to do laundry. But for this ride it's cloudy with showers. Nothing new here but the wind is strong and, being at our side, the rain is poking my ear drum.

Well, we end our Pennine ride in Spittal. A town next to Berwick Upon Tweed. Once again it's another expensive caravan park. The bathroom codes are: C1123 for the gents and ladies.

To be continued ...

From Josie to the start of the Pennines

2010-09-22T12:37:00.000-07:00

We will do everything to avoid paying these ridiculous camping fees. Asking people is the key. That's how you hook up with hassle free camping. I think my people skills have improved from all this and there's plenty to come. On our side is the fact that people here are extremely nice and they're intrigued by our mode of travel. We pull up to Beverley and Celia, two women chatting by the side of the road, and ask them if there is a spot for us to put up our tent for the night. A conversation starts and we find out that Beverly is none other than Josie Dew's in-laws and that Josie will be here tomorrow if we want to meet her. Celia tells us that she is on the parish council and that we can camp on the public land that is at the back of her property. We set up on a nice piece of grass next to a swamp about five metres away. The mosquitoes are here to greet us. In the morning, we head over to Beverley's place. There, we meet her husband Richard who, much like John Hancock, is going out of his way to print maps and gather information for us. They even serve us coffee and cereal while we wait for Josie Dew. When she shows up it's lunch time and we are invited again. The food is amazing. I especially liked the coronation chicken with apricots. Very tasty. We chat away with Josie and exchange stories. Beverley's younger sister, who seems to be naughty by nature, calls Michèle a cradle robber for being 7 years older than me. Much to our surprise, Josie tells us that New Zealand has some of the nastiest drivers she's ever encountered. It is apparently very dangerous to cycle there as motorists don't seem to care about the safety of cyclists. Maybe we will skip New Zealand after all. At around 3 pm we have to say goodbye because we have to get to Oxford where we will be staying for several days with our friends Gil and Caroline. We want to say thanks Beverley and Richard for inviting us into your home.

We are off again just in time for a rain storm. So, it's off to Reading where we will take the train to Oxford. During the ride, I have to listen to this kid whine about how he's unable to get the high score on his video game. Instead of telling him to shut up, his mother rubs his back telling him that it's alright. In Oxford, Caroline is there to greet us. We head to the pub and catch up on life. Later on, Gil comes home. He is funnier then ever. Their dog Pepper has been known to cut the occasional farts. Gil tells us to think of it as a fine cheese.

The main reason that we're in England has finally come. The third and last rabies vaccine. 106 pounds later we walk to Oxford to meet Gil. He takes us to one of the many colleges. Huge properties that look like something out of a Harry Potter movie. They are immaculate. It must cost so much to up keep. Culturally, it's interesting that these things still exist. But it's extremely exclusive and expensive to be part of one. But today, school is not in session and there are lots of visitors. Everyone is taking the same shot. Areas are chained off and arrows point to the direction of the visit. You can only imagine the charm and authenticity of the place when classes are in session. But we are just observers. A very special type: The tourist.

The rabies vaccine has hit me harder than I thought. We decide to stay one more day and take a relaxing stroll to see J.R.R Tolkien. You can still nerd out even on a world cycling trip. His grave is well kept up with a few knick-knacks left behind by fans. Things like Elfish writing and the occasional ring. Thanks Gil and Caroline for letting us stay.

The next destination is upon us. Jann and Geoff are another set of Michèle's distant relatives. Do I need to mention that they were extremely nice to us? We stayed with them for two days. During which they took us to dinner to a really nice pub. The place has very low ceilings, a fire place and lots of stuffed animals. Very cozy. Soon it's time for dessert.
- You're going to order something naughty are you? says Jann.
Jann has been a vegetarian since she was 12 years old. When I ask her the reason she tells me that she was fed awful food during her childhood. Things like sausage and gristle and liver and veins. Not sure about that last one but it sounds disgusting. One of the days off we spend trying to decide where to go next. A frustrating exercise. After looking at train prices we decide to keep cycling north. Thank you Jann and Geoff for your hospitality.

The next day, after passing Chequers, the ride quickly becomes uninteresting. There is a lot of traffic and it feels like a never ending maze of suburbs. We ride all the way out to Milton Keynes. This is a new city and has nothing interesting about it. We follow the bike path all the way to the one and only youth hostel where we ask if there is room. The care taker, a young hipster type, tells us in a snot-nosed manner:
- No. Fraid not. Should have booked ahead.
We ask him if we can camp:
- No. Fraid not.

The first prick we've met in England I guess. But we can’t think about that because we're starting to worry about where we are going to spend the night. Can't wild camp that's for sure. A tension builds. Being more worried than I am, Michèle goes into a pub to ask if there is accommodation somewhere in town. I stay outside and sulk. At least it's not raining I say to myself. When Michèle comes back out of the pub she has a huge smile on her face. That's always good news. Turns out that the owner of the pub is willing to let us camp in the back! There, problem solved. We set up camp with a pint. It's noisy and free. I love it!

In the morning, it takes us forever to get out of Milton Keynes. It's busy highway or poorly marked bike paths. We finally get on the bike path number 6. It's very well indicated at first, but this path eventually leads us to a huge staircase. We have to lug our bikes up it and at the top, number 6 is nowhere to be found. That's it, we sticking to the road map. But before we do that, we have the privilege to stumble upon one of the numerous canals that England has to offer. We decide to follow it for a while. It’s beautiful and very unique. Much like the peniches in France, people travel along these canals in Narrow Boats. Some people even live on them year round. I try to take a peak inside some of the nicer ones. Very luxurious. One of them has a small living room with chesterfield chairs. I imagine myself sipping tea and smoking a pipe.

Late afternoon rolls around and it's time to start asking around for places to camp. We're not having much luck. Might be a B & B night. We pull up to one. B & Bs are more like hotels here and there's usually a pub attached to them. So, I go into the pub and ask if there is room. He tells me he's full up. Then I ask him if there is a spot to put up our tent for the night. He says yes and that we can camp in the back if we want to. Great, this asking thing is working pretty well.

In the morning we pack up quickly. We write a thank you note and head off. We stop a few miles down the road to have some breakfast next to an old church. I guess all churches are old around here. The priest (or vicar I guess) shows up and asks us if we want to visit the church. Great! I really have to use the bathroom. We walk around the church and he gives us a wee guided tour of the place. He bounces a few facts but I only retain one: George Washington's great great great grandfather is buried there. Well ... it's time to go. He gives us a few directions and we are off again. We pass by him as we head down the hill and wave goodbye. He waves back as he raises the English flag.

Using the train we fastforward to Derby. We have a WarmShowers contact there who did a world cycling trip. Guided by google maps, we are greeted by a hellish ride to Diane and Richard's place. Traffic everywhere. Turns out the there is a traffic free bike path going all the way to their place. When we finally get there we are received like king and queen. Diane and Richard are experienced cycle tourists and are well travelled. During dinner, the conversation has no silences as we share similar stories about leaving it all behind. Richard shares his anxiety that he encountered when quiting his well paying job at Rolls Royce. He says that in hind sight he would not hesitate a second to do it again. It feels very comforting to hear this. We needed a bit of a moral boost. It seems that there is always a good thing waiting when trudging through difficult times. "If you want the rainbow you have to put up with the rain". Dolly Parton said that. And she's not just another great pair of tits [David Brent, The Office]. We finish up Diane's amazing food and we're off to bed because they have to head to work early the next day.

In the morning, it's fastforward again but this time to Penrith. We want to skip over the last of the densely populated areas.

To be continued ...

First week in England

2010-09-08T02:04:00.000-07:00

We get to Dover after three train rides and one ferry ride. Loaded bikes always feel like a burden when they become luggage. We are tired, it's dark, unfamiliar and people drive on the left. I almost get clobbered when looking left to cross the road. We have no cash and no place to stay. I am surprisingly calm about this fact. Our first attempt at a B&B is unsuccessful. The place emanates a strange smell. So does the owner. He wants 50 pounds for a room. Yes pounds, not dollars. We ask him if there is room for our bikes and he points to a fence in front of his place and says.
- Chain'em up right there.
- No, I tell him.

We keep going. It's Saturday night and the town is filling up with partiers. I haven't seen that kind of decadence in a long time. We see this one guy puking. After finishing, he puts his fist in the air as if he's won something. His friends do the same. But things always get better. We find a bank machine and just down the road a nice place for 36 pounds. The owner is super nice and he accommodates us in every way. We are glad to finally be in bed.

The next day, after the tourist office, the shit weather starts. Fog and torrential downpour. We head out of Dover on a steep hill that takes us past Dover castle. The fog is so thick that we can barely see it. We go up to see how much it costs to visit the castle. 13.50 pounds. Skip it. We are happy to be back on our bikes despite the rain. It feels a bit like a novelty but it won't last. We keep yelling to each other.
- Keep left! as we are constantly drifting to the right.
England is littered with narrow country roads. It's very beautiful. Sometimes the trees cover the road completely making long tunnels that can stretch for several miles. These tunnels give protection from the sun and wind. But today the sun is nowhere to be found. The drivers here are not as aware as French drivers. People do give you a lot of room but they drive extremely fast. Even in small narrow roads. I feel less safe than in France. The bike paths are poorly marked and the map we bought has too small of a scale to show country roads. We have to double back several times to find our way to Canterbury. On the way, we help out a cyclist who has got a flat. He tells us that the country roads used to be well marked in the old days but that all the signs where removed during the second world war. This was to make it harder on the Germans in the event of an invasion. The signs were never put back.

We finally get to a campground. Or caravan park as they are called here. 17.50 per night. Highway robbery. It is a typical European family campground. People and kids are running around and tripping on our storm line and it's pissing me off. At one point, the owner gets annoyed when he sees us light our stove on the grass.
- You're going to burn my grass! He says.
Despite that, I have my hand underneath the stove to show him that it's not hot. We eat and go to bed but not for long. A storm starts up belching out 30 knot winds. We have to spend a good portion of the night holding the armature of the tent so that the tent poles don't snap.

The next morning we head to Hythe. We are unrested and not too inspired. In Hythe, we look for a washroom. England isn't big on public washrooms. But we do find one in which I walk in and right back out. There's no way I was sitting on that. The problem gets solved eventually. We stop in a little park. Michèle goes information hunting and I stay with the bikes. I look over and see an old man trying to light a cigarette. He's too old and weak and it's too windy. He can't do it. I go over and light it for him. He's from Dublin, he says. We chat a little and he asks me for some money so he can get a tea. I give him 90p. As walks off he bends down to pick up a coin.
- You can't stop the clock from ticking, he says and vanishes from sight.
We head to the next campground. 21 pounds ... no comment.

For today it's more extreme weather. It's a beautiful day but from my windsurfing days I would say that it was blowing about 45 knots. We are unable to move forward. Well, just enough to get us to the next nightmare campground. Life here is expensive and we are really questioning our decision to come. The campground is full. Thank god for that because just down the road we find a really good deal on a hotel room. This came about in a strange way. I go up to the manager and ask him if he has a room and how much it is.
- How much do you want to pay, he says.
Strange question I say to myself. Since we stayed in Dover for 36 pounds I tell him:
- 36 pounds.
- No, he says, how about 60 pounds?
Apparently the rooms are 130 pounds. I thank him for the great deal and tell him that it's still out of our budget.
- Meet me half way, he says.
- 30 then?
- You said 36, how about 45?
- 40?
- Done
After spilling my beans into the universe, it's straight to never never land. In the morning, I feel cheap when I ask if breakfast is included. It isn't I'm told.

We move on to Rye where we will be picked up by John Hancock, one of Michèle's distant relatives. He shows up with a huge minivan. Good thing because our bikes are huge. That night whilst having dinner the rain outside takes on biblical proportions. Unrelenting for hours and hours. If we would have got stuck in this rain we would have probably gone back to Montreal. John and Janet are some of the nicest people we have met so far. They do everything to help us out. Food, a bed, maps and drive us around so we can do some shopping. I think that they really understand what we are trying to do and want to participate in any way they can. We thank them for that. Several days later, we say goodbye and John takes one last picture of us disappearing in the mist. We got lost again several minutes later.

Armed with a new map showing country roads, we make our way to a contact we obtained from WarmsShowers.org. We're having nice weather now. Thank god. On the way, I see some of the biggest oak trees I've ever seen. Massive! Some branches extending at least 10 metres. Now a relaxing ride. We cycle up to these two old guys to ask directions. One of them is wearing a tweed jacket and waist coat and is smoking a pipe. We tell him that we're heading to Northchapel. He point in the general direction.
- You'll make Northchapel by days end, he says in an old school English accent.

Just past Northchapel we arrive at Parkhurst Cottage. This is the house of Helen and Jim. Our WarmShowers contact. Over dinner, Jim tells us some funny stories about accompanying his mother to an ashram in India. There, he ended up doing absolutely nothing whilst everyone else was meditating. It was fun hanging out with them and we wish we could have stayed longer.

To be continued ...

Exit from France (and Schengen)

2010-08-30T09:13:00.000-07:00

It was August 17. We had a little less than a week to exit the Schengen region before the 90-day allowable stay would be up. But we were advised not to head into certain countries in the eastwardly direction without being vaccinated against rabies and tick-borne encephalitis. That led to the decision to cycle in England and Scotland, both outside of Schengen. We could have the chance to meet up with friends and relatives and to get our vaccinations up-to-date at the same time. Before exiting Schengen, we wanted to spend a few days cycling in France. This is how we did it.

First, we cycled from Le Fau to the train station in Grenoble: 40 kilometres in total, and most of it downhill! Benoit's father, Patrick, took the photo below of us with Louise, as we were ready to start pedalling on that bright, clear morning:

We decided to cycle around the Bourgogne region of France for a few days. It seemed the perfect place to explore by bike, with its recently developed network of bicycle paths through vineyards and along canals. From Grenoble, we took a train to the town of Mâcon. That would be our starting point in Bourgogne. In Mâcon, we stayed the night at the house of another Patrick: this one we found through the couchsurfing network of hosts. He welcomed us with a spread of food and as much conversation as we could squeeze in before having to go to sleep. Benoit posed with Patrick in front of his gorgeous old mansion of a house (note the ripe tomatoes adding a splash of colour next to the steps):

The map below shows the route we took along La Voie Verte from Mâcon to Chagny. It would take us through a 1.6 kilometre bat tunnel, alongside the medieval castle at Berzé, past the monk-run community of Taizé (we got permission to stay the night!), and through the village of Buxy with its free wine tasting at the local cellars. Only a few sips of wines to taste, however: alcohol and the hot sun are not a good mix when cycling!

On the approach to Chagny, the bicycle path followed a canal. There we saw many river barges, that were like elongated house boats. In french, it is une péniche:

From Chagny, the bicycle path wound its way through rows of vines, the route climbing up somewhat steep hills into tiny villages and then back again through the vines. In the town of Beaulne, we stopped to visit the historic downtown and to peak at the multi-coloured rooftop of Les Hospices. Our bicycles propped against a wall, we sipped a cold drink to refresh us from the hot sun. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some people staring our way. Another look and I realized that it was Patrick, Nathalie and Louise: Benoit's family that we had just been staying with a few days before. What a delightful unexpected encounter. Of course, a family photo was in order:

Onward from Beaulne, we continued to pedal in the blazing sun through more vineyards, finally coming to the region of Gevrey-Chambertin, famous for its very fine wine. It was there that we met Keith and Sue, members of warmshowers, a network of hosts for cyclists, who gave us a place to stay for the night. They stuffed us with fine food and wine as we sat at their beautiful mosaic table (that they designed and crafted). In the photo, Keith is suited up in cycling gear, ready to accompany us by bicycle to the train station in Dijon:

We were worried about making it to the station in time. We had a series of train connections to get us to the port town of Calais by that evening: a TGV (train à grand vitesse) from Dijon to Paris, then another TGV from Paris to Hazebrouck, and finally, a local train from Hazebrouck to Calais. From Calais (France), we would catch the ferry across the English Channel to Dover (England). The train ride to Calais was uneventful, except for the section from Dijon to Paris. We had paid 10 euros extra for each bicycle to reserve a spot for them on the train. As you can see in the photo below, the bike hooks were taken by other bicycles (we suspect they hadn't paid for them!) and luggage was crammed in every available spot. We had no choice but to cram our bikes on top of the lot. Clearly, Benoit was not impressed.

So that you know this part of the story has a happy ending, the train from Paris wasn't overbooked and we had plenty of room to hang our bicycles for the ride. This is how it should be always:

Next up: England and Scotland

2010-08-11T03:35:00.000-07:00

Our 90 days in the Schengen region are soon at an end. Next week, we will start making our way out of France, a bit by bicycle and the rest by train and ferry. We were reorganizing our equipment, when curiosity got the better of Bidet the cat:

A walk through of our equipment

2010-08-10T23:42:00.000-07:00

Voir plus bas pour le français.

We know that many of you are following us closely. So, we want to share with you as much as possible. We thought it might be fun for you to get a bit of a walk through of our equipment should you get inspired to go on a long trip. Some things have been omitted to keep the videos at a reasonable length. Our clothes in particular are causing a bit of a problem. Going on such a long trip means that you have to carry clothes for different types of weather. Weather that you might not encounter for a long time. So, that means extra weight. I guess it is possible to buy things along the way but I've found that it's a real source of frustration trying to find equipment in foreign places. I guess we'll carry too much stuff once again. Not sure how much use our -10C sleep bags are going to be crossing deserts at 40 degrees C. But we might be happy to have them in Scotland in October. Get the idea? Please feel free to make suggestions.

(Michèle comments: We don't have much in the way of clothing with us. Enough for a change or two out of sweaty and stinky cycling clothes, and enough to layer against the cold. Concerned about how few clothes we have, a friend asked me, "Et si le Prince vous invite?". Um, well, for such an invition, we'd have nothing appropriate to wear.)

Benoît describing bicycle.

Michèle describing the part of the equipment that she carries.

Benoît describing the other part of the equipment.

Nous savons que pas mal d'entre vous suit notre blog régulièrement. Donc, nous voulons partager avec vous le plus possible. Il nous est venu à l'idée qu'il serait intéressant de vous montrer notre équipement. Certaines choses ont été exclues pour que les vidéos ne soient pas trop longs. Les vêtements, par exemples, nous causent un petit problème. Étant sur un voyage de cette magnitude, il est difficile réduire la quantité de vêtements. Nos sacs de couchage seront inutiles quand on traversera un dessert à 40 dégrés mais on sera bien content de les avoir en octobre en Écosse. Nous allons donc être encore une fois très chargés. Vous êtes le bienvenu de nous donner des suggestions.

Description de vélo.

Équipement de Michèle et Benoît.

Riding our bicycles in Haute Provence

2010-08-08T11:08:00.000-07:00

Benoît writes: We cycled from Veynes to Volonne. A total of 70 km (see graph below). Just a quick note on the traffic we encountered. I was surprised to see that drivers are more aware then I had imagined. It is no longer the insane driving that you got in the seventies and eighties. I guess Sarkozy is good for something. People behind the wheel are used to driving in small, narrow roads and are used to cyclists.

We took our bicycles on a TER train (www.ter-sncf.com) to the town of Veyne. TER train cars with a bicycle logo on the side can take two bicycles and there is no extra charge. As you can see in the photo below, the bikes hang on these nifty hooks:

Michèle writes: Here is an elevation map that I made of the route we cycled from Veynes to Volonne. If anyone is interested, Volonne is 10 kilometres south of Sisteron, which was on the 2010 Tour de France circuit. I found a route from Veynes using the Via Michelin site (www.viamichelin.com) and selecting "cycle" to find secondary roads appropriate for bicycling. I used the veloroutes.org website to make the elevation map (measurements in metres). You can also see the full route by going to the link veloroutes.org/r/56833

It was a fabulous ride through the french countryside. Here is one of the views:

To see more photos ... France 2010 Photos

Michèle's blog: Iceland (Parts 2 and 3)

2010-08-08T08:58:00.000-07:00

Here are the rest of the notes (in PDF format) that I kept in my little yellow bicycle log book as we bicycled through Iceland in May and June 2010.

IcelandBlogPart2.pdf (Part 2, 108 Kb, 4 pages)

IcelandBlogPart3.pdf (Part 3, 136 Kb, 6 pages)

Notre trajet au Danemark (Vidéo)

2010-07-30T08:30:00.000-07:00

Benoît décrit notre trajet en vélo au Danemark: le long des 750 kilomètres au totale, de Hanstholm du nord de l'île de Jutland, où notre ami David de Winnipeg Canada nous a rejoint pour deux semaines de vélo, jusqu'à Copenhague de la côte est de l'île de Seeland.

Our route through Denmark (Video)

2010-07-30T08:16:00.000-07:00

Michèle describes the route that we bicycled in Denmark: a total of 750 kilometres from Hanstholm in north Jutland, where our friend David from Winnipeg Canada met up with us for two weeks of cycling, to Copenhagen in the east of Zealand.

A short video montage of Iceland

2010-07-26T09:47:00.000-07:00

This is my first try using video editing software. I pieced together four clips of video that we shot while in Iceland. My apologies for the inconsistent sound level. In the first clip (Lava), I diminished the sound of the wind, so don't adjust your sound for that part. In the third clip (Wind), I left in the blasting sound of the wind even though it completely drowns out what Benoit was saying as he pointed the camera in the direction we were heading.