Journey To The East

Admin battles in Baku – 30th Oct

Posted on November 15, 2014 by journeytotheeast2014

This is a blow by blow account of our six days in Baku and how we eventually managed, by hook and by crook, to get to Central Asia. We arrived in Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan, on Thursday 23 October knowing we had quite a few bits of admin to sort out whilst in the city. As we are not able to travel through Iran we must instead cross the Caspian Sea by boat to Central Asia. Collecting our Turkmenistan visa, buying a satellite phone battery and buying ferry tickets were our main jobs – not too challenging you would have thought. Think again! As we raced around the city, impeded by obstacle after obstacle, we almost came to our combined wit’s end!

Baku is an unusual city situated on a peninsula pointing out into the Caspian Sea. An oil boomtown which came to life in 1846 with the discovery of ‘black gold’. The population of the small coastal town exploded at a rate faster than London, Paris or New York to 2 million today, the largest city in the Caucasus and largest on the Caspian. Baku hosted the Eurovision Song Contest in 2012 and will host the first European Games next year, two feats the locals are very proud of. To get to the capital we cycled through one hundred kilometres of empty desert, battling fierce winds along the way. Baku emerged on the horizon above the sandy hills, surrounded by the waters of the Caspian.

Baku is under constant construction, and we were told that if you return after only a couple of years away you will already have trouble recognising some places. This certainly seemed to be the case. Building sites abounded and the new Flame Towers, the new image of Baku, are just being completed. Surrounded by new buildings, at the heart of the city, lies the old town. This was to be our base for the week, very kindly put up in a hotel arranged by Ollie, Nick’s friend from uni. Narrow, cobbled lanes snake between beautiful, although heavily restored, buildings, leading to mosques, palaces and the Maiden’s Tower, the traditional, iconic picture of Baku. No one is sure what the tower was used for or how it gained its name (hypotheses are plentiful), but a digital storybook in the tower tells of some of the stories: all of which feature a maiden throwing herself from the top of the tower for the sake of love, in one she runs herself through with a sword… (no fairy tale endings here!) As the sun set we looked out eastward from the top of the tower (a guard on patrol to stop anyone following the maiden’s suit), towards Turkmenistan. But it wasn’t going to be that easy!

Baku old and new

We were taken out to dinner on our first night, Thursday, by Huseyn and Fahri, Ollie’s friends from Baku. They gave us a picturesque night time driving tour of the city, explaining all of the landmarks as we went. A great introduction to this new city.

Baku by night

Flame Towers

An early night meant we were ready and armed to take on the Turkmenistan embassy first thing Friday morning. Having applied in Istanbul all there was to do was to pick up the visa. We had no note, no proof we’d even applied but the rough Turkmen official was so forceful in his Istanbul office that we didn’t need anything that we didn’t argue. We took the bus to the embassy. Online it says the embassy has moved. We were careful not to go to the old address! We arrived at the new address – no embassy… The Ukrainian embassy pointed us in the direction of the Iranian embassy, they didn’t know where the Turkmens were. A friendly security guard told us they’d moved. A long way away… Taxi! It was already now past nine o’clock. We knew that getting the visa in a day meant arriving early then going to the bank to pay and then coming back for the visa all before they closed. The embassy only opens 9-12 Monday and Friday! We rushed off in our taxi and made it to the door to find it closed. We weren’t alone so we waited. At 9.40am they opened up. We were third in. “We’ve come to pick up the transit visa.” “Confirmation email?” We didn’t have one we explained, Istanbul uses the old system and said it’s okay. “No email, no visa!” We tried to explain, tried to reason. Could they not just search using our passport numbers? No. Could they call Istanbul? No – “it’s not my job” he retorted. We needed the email which Istanbul wouldn’t provide. Or at least the number on the email that didn’t exist. We went to a cafe to call Istanbul. We don’t speak Turkish or Turkmen and they barely speak English, but we found they couldn’t give us any email or number but that yes, our visa was ready for pick up and there was no problem. No problem? Really? We asked an Azeri friend to call them in Turkish and ask for help. He did his best but couldn’t get any further than we had. He called the embassy in Baku and met with the same issues. The words he used to describe the lack of communication between the embassies and the people he spoke to cannot be repeated here, but as you can imagine all of us were very frustrated! The embassy in Baku now closed we had nothing to do but try over the weekend to get that number and try again Monday. Next task! Irritation level amber.

with Askar

Task two – as you know we will be traversing the Pamir Mountains in winter. -40°C temperatures are not uncommon. People have told us that only fools and crazy people attempt it. As such, on the second highest highway in the world, with snow and ice and no phone signal we decided a satellite phone was the least we needed as a backup. Unfortunately our first phone broke before reaching Istanbul. The second has been sent to Dushanbe, Tajikistan for us to collect on arrival. Unfortunately the battery could not be sent with it due to shipping regulations with batteries. As Baku is the last place that sells this model of phone we need to buy the battery here. We headed to the phone dealer. The building, when we eventually found it, was under construction, buckets of stones swinging from uneven scaffolding. With our luck the shop would have been closed down last week. But no, it was open, had the battery and was cheaper than expected! Great success!

Where was that ferry terminal?

Task three – the ferry. If you read about the Caspian Sea ferry online, in blogs, you will probably never want to step foot on board one of the boats. The ships are actually cargo boats that happen to take the odd worker, tourist or Mongol Rally driver. The boats are known to be in a bad enough state of repair that they would not be granted access to most ports worldwide. One recently sank, and therefore they now take fewer passengers in case it happens again! We were told to prepare for the worst, to take several days worth of food and water and to wrap up warm. As they carry cargo they have no timetable. They come and go when full and so you can only know on the day if there will be a ferry or not. Pretty useless if you are on a tight schedule! We arrived at the ferry terminal, which looked more like a building site. We were sent in several different directions by different people and eventually made it to an office. The ferry terminal was no longer here they said. It’s moved. Great… They didn’t know where to, but said we could take a bus along the coast and we might get there. All this was conveyed in Russian, which Nick’s GCSE had not fully prepared him for. We took the bus, even more frustrated than in the morning. A helpful man said he thought he might know where to go and showed us to the right place. We eventually found the ticket office. “Are there any boats today?” There was one to Turkmenbashi, Turkmenistan. “Do you have Turkmenistan visa?” “Not yet. When is the next boat?” They didn’t know, “Tomorrow? Maybe yes, maybe no, fifty fifty.” At least we knew where the ticket office was. We returned to the hotel thinking through all of the possibilities in order to get the visa for Turkmenistan.

We rang the British embassy in Baku. They couldn’t help – because of the language barrier!? I rang the Turkmenistan embassy in London hoping they would speak good English, understand what we needed and might know something about the new and old systems. Miraculously they did! They searched for us on the database, found our confirmation code and said that’s all we would need. Success! “That’s all?” I doublechecked. “If they just asked for the code then this is the right code, that will be enough…if they are telling the truth and not lying.” Erm…okay. Is lying to tourists a common problem in the visa section of the embassy? At least we had beaten the system and gotten our codes. Nick burst into the room. “We’ve got a problem, a big problem… We need to go to the immigration police tomorrow.” As if we didn’t have enough to do already! Great!

Summoned

Saturday (feeling like we’re in an episode of 24 where so much happens in such a short space of time!) We arrive at immigration after thirty minutes on the bus – the time it takes from every place we need to go to the next. We go in to find out what is wrong, to be told they have closed and the officials have gone home. It’s midday!?! “They left fifteen minutes ago, come back Monday.” We try to get an explanation out of them. We are passed around the immigration offices from one junior official to the next, none knowing our situation or why we have come, they want to know what we sent by email. “What email? You emailed our hotel.” General confusion adds to the frustration and sense of incompetence. Finally we find out that because the hotel in Balakan on our first night didn’t register us we have been in the country illegally and as such will need to pay a fine of about €300. We explained we can’t and won’t pay. “Come back Monday to pay or be deported.” Stress levels are going through the roof! Stress level red! What happens when you’re deported? Is it put in your passport? Can we be deported by ferry? Will Turkmenistan let us in if we’ve been deported? We go shopping for supplies for the ferry and in the evening head to ‘The Shakespeare’ pub for a bit of stress release!

As admin goes, Sunday is not a very productive day in any country. So to take a break from the stresses and strains of bureaucracy we decided to get our clothes washed. The hotel offered to clean them for us but we were careful to check the price first. “Little monies”, the receptionist promised. One, five, ten Manat (approx = €) Fifty? One hundred? I joked. She laughed. Of course not that expensive. We wanted an exact number. The maid came and counted every article of clothing. 56 Manat. What?!? We could buy new clothes for that amount! Stress levels remained the same if not slightly increased. We headed to the Aliyev Museum for a private tour, arranged by Askar, Nick’s friend from school, to take our minds off our situation. That evening we ate steak and watched football over beer at Askar’s sports lounge, a perfect evening!

Feeling positive we headed to the Turkmenistan embassy bright and early Monday morning, confirmation codes in hand, hoping the official hadn’t been lying! Nine o’clock, still closed. They opened at half past last time and again we weren’t alone. Half nine came and went. Quarter to ten, “closed” said the Azeri men who had gone and come back. What? No! Impossible! We knocked frantically. Went round to the embassy security. Yes, closed. Holiday. $#!@! They only open twice a week for three hours at a time and they took one of those days off! We couldn’t wait any longer in Baku. One option remained. This year Kazakhstan implemented a trial visa policy that gives British nationals fifteen days visa free in the country. We checked the map, it would add lots of kilometres, add a lot more desert and we already knew the ferries were more sporadic than those going to Turkmenistan. We were going to Kazakhstan – maybe.

We headed for the ferry ticket office. Another thirty minute bus journey. Half way into the journey a police car pulled alongside the bus. Sirens blared and lights flashed. Everybody off! Unbelievable. We don’t have time for this! Locals complained violently, shouting at the police as they took the bus driver aside. We walked to the next stop. Every bus that passed was empty but for the driver and a police officer stood next to him. What the hell had all the city’s bus drivers done? An underground criminal bus driver gang? Whatever it was it delayed us over an hour. We grew ever more irate and exasperated. Hungry, tired and generally pissed off we eventually got a non-mafia bus. It didn’t matter anyway, the ferry office was closed. We went to the immigration offices – closed, but only for lunch.

Everybody off!

After lunch we returned to debate our future in Azerbaijan. We refused to pay the fine, explained it wasn’t our fault, that the hotel not us should be punished. We accepted deportation. They felt sorry for us and our situation so said they would make it a two year ban rather than five. But we’d have to come back tomorrow to collect the letter of deportation. To the bike shop!

After two split sidewalls in our tyres we needed a spare Marathon tyre for the mountains. These are extremely difficult to come by outside Europe, but there, hanging on a rack in the back of the shop was a singular Marathon tyre – success! This was probably the only Marathon tyre for sale in a thousand kilometre radius. We took our bikes to another shop for a quick service before our departure to Central Asia, where good bike shops are hard to find. To celebrate we went to KFC for dinner. A bucket is called a basket, it costs more than the UK, has fewer pieces of chicken and comes with no sides or drink – perfect!

Back to the bike shop just before closing. We took a look over the bikes to find that Nick’s rear rim had split. Not in one place, or two, but three! Were we destined never to make it past Baku? It needed to be replaced. Spare parts could be brought in but we didn’t have time. The shop agreed to do it while we went to buy ferry tickets in the morning – if there was even a ferry that day, or even that week! Back to the hotel.

On the road again

Nick donates a shirt as thanks for rim repair

Nick donates a shirt as thanks for bike repair

Tuesday – straight to the immigration office. Nick drops the SD card adaptor and it teeters on the edge of a drain. It didn’t fall in… Maybe today was finally going to be our day! [see my video!] We collected our letters of deportation. Banned for three years, not two. Next, to the ferry ticket office. Closed! For lunch… The iron door of the office looked like a suitable place to bang my head against but I resisted the urge. We came back to find there was a ferry, that night, to Aktau Kazakhstan! We bought the tickets. Hurrah! We could finally continue our journey. Where is the ferry leaving from? “75km down the coast…” Why, oh why???

Deported

Worth a head banging?

We raced back to the hotel, picking up the bikes on the way. Made a phone call to Askar, who told us not to worry, we’d make it to the ferry on time! We had our one way ticket to Central Asia in our hands. We just needed to make sure we were on that ferry!

Laurence

The Caspian Sea – our onward journey!!

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Azerbaijan, Baku, Cycle to the East, cycle touring, Laurence Gribble, Nick Codrington, Prostate Cancer UK, Turkmenistan | Leave a comment

Crossing Azerbaijan – 23rd Oct

Posted on November 8, 2014 by journeytotheeast2014

Route across Azerbaijan (23rd Oct):

Red dot marks Baku.

We spent a good few days in Tbilisi resting up, sightseeing and getting prepared for winter – adding insulation to handlebars and brake levers to stop fingers freezing and buying more warm clothes to carry up to the Pamir Mountains. Our host Taylor was unbelievably kind – and didn’t bat an eyelid when we essentially colonized his working space with our bikes and bags – so a huge thank you to him. The cycle to the Azerbaijani border was then a quick 200km up and down another pass, peaking at 1500m. Autumn colours on the trees reminding us that winter was on the way, and warm clothes well worth the investment! My chain snapped within mere kilometres of the Azeri border, drawing a circle of interested Georgian old men. A quick repair job led to many claps on the back as well as being offered celebratory vodka shots. For me this epitomised the friendliness of the Georgians which we had seen throughout the country – and made the ride to the border feel a lot faster too!

Flat turns into bike workshop in Tbilisi

Leaving colourful Georgia

Autumn colours on Gombori Pass

The Georgians had erected a big blue sign with the words “Good Luck!” written across it just before the border, not the most comforting thing to see at a border crossing, I thought at the time. But we needn’t have worried: it turned out that the Azeri people were among the friendliest that we have come across so far on the expedition. They seemed to embody both the hospitality and tea culture of the Turkish while adding to it the homemade vodka shots of the Georgians – a potent combination!

The luck of the Georgians

Shots in a butcher’s in Azerbaijan

We knew very little about Azerbaijan before we entered the country, so in case you are like us, here are ten useful facts we now know about the country:

1. Azerbaijan split from the USSR in 1991, and its population is roughly that of Greater London (9 million).

2. Heydar Aliyev (President 1993-2003) is the national hero here. There are statues of him everywhere. His son Ilham is now in charge.

Aliyev

Sunset Aliyev

Building Aliyev

Aliyev waving

Aliyev. Heydar Aliyev.

3. The Azeri language is in the Turkic language group which means it’s very similar to Turkish. The elder generation can all understand Russian.

Like in Turkey, cay is a big deal

4. Oil. The coastal capital, Baku, was put on the map after oil was discovered in the 19th century. Before then it had a population of 5,000; after then the population grew at a faster rate than London, Paris or New York. During WWII, Baku supplied the whole of the USSR with oil.

5. It has been calculated that at the current drilling rate, Baku’s oil will last another 7,000 years. So no worries there. Makes for some interesting expats in the capital.

6. Perhaps unsurprisingly then, Azerbaijan has a big corruption problem – though this is mostly hidden from tourists as Azeris are embarrassed about it. Most obvious signs are regular checkpoints and patrolling police cars which arbitrarily stop motorists. Our bus in Baku was once stopped and emptied for no apparent reason, the driver detained.

Busted for no apparent reason…

7. Leather is a thing here. Men favour the jacket-beret combo; women opt for the jacket and sometimes the risqué leather jeans option. Combined with elaborate hair gel, walking down the street can feel like a scene out of Grease.

Leather in a tea shop

8. Azeris hate Armenians. As in, really hate them. A string of genocides and land grabbing by Armenia in 1991 has all contributed to this enmity. But as one Azeri said, “We don’t know why THEY hate us.”

9. Azeris hold particularly conservative views about homosexuality. Gay rights isn’t a concept here.

10. The worst possible thing to be in Azerbaijan is a gay Armenian.

Just before the border on our last evening in Georgia, we had camped in a cattle herder’s field (a recurring theme for our blogs…). He warned us about the presence of wolves and jackals at this time of year in the valleys below the Caucasus and strongly suggested we pitch our tent near his guard dog. We duly did, which was lucky, because after nightfall the valley was full of the howls of these animals. The jackals are tiny dogs which make an eerie “whoop-whoop” sound, and only bother farmers because a small pack can take down a calf.

These animals added excitement to the evening as two jackals managed to break into our host’s cattle enclosure, prompting him and his mate to rush out to the fence brandishing big burning sticks and howl at them into the night. Entertaining stuff sat next to a campfire, perhaps less so if you’re in the enclosure. So although they both assured us that a man “could easily punch through a jackal’s ribcage” (a good life skill), we decided that from now until Baku, on the Caspian Sea coast, we would attempt the no-tent challenge.

This does not involve sleeping under the stars but safely inside someone’s home, which would also make the evenings much warmer for us. Perhaps an odd thing to think of attempting back home, but in Georgia we had been welcomed in on so many occasions that we definitely fancied our chances in Azerbaijan. Our Russian was improving daily and once people got beyond our beards they found us friendly enough too! For our week-long 500km ride to Baku we overnighted with a whole range of friendly locals on their spare beds, sofas and floors. Fedya, the ex-Soviet mechanic outside the town of Qax (pronounced ‘Kak’) who drove me into town for food supplies in a 30-year old Russian car with doors that couldn’t close; Yusif the town vet and his son, dead keen on wrestling (Azerbaijan’s national sport); Huseyn, the man who gifted us an entire cottage to ourselves for the evening having met us for only five minutes; and Anar, the proud owner of the only proper cafe in the Gobustan desert, who let us sleep in a private dining room after drinking with the locals. The list goes on. Needless to add, we completed the no-tent challenge.

Fedya

Yusif

Crashed out after many toasts with our hosts

Cutting a route directly east through Azerbaijan, we experienced an impressive variation in scenery. We started along the foothills of the Caucasus Mountains, just a few dozen kilometres from the Russian border. Passing through historic Silk Road towns, one of which (Sheki) had converted an old caravanserai into a fancy hotel, we then cycled through dense forests, which blocked out the sun and made mornings very cold. Finally, the last 100km as we approached Baku was across the Gobustan desert, where there was nothing but road for miles on end – a taste of the much larger deserts to come in Uzbekistan.

Caucasus mountain scenery near Georgia

Sheki- surrounded by mountains

Tea in a Sheki caravanserai

The caravanserai, rest stop along the Silk Route

The desolate landscape of the Gobustan Desert nr Baku

Azerbaijan was not without its difficulties however, as Lobby’s next blog will point out. Between forest and desert sections we passed through a slow 20km stretch we called Nutter Valley. This was a pocket of poor countryside on the climb up from a riverbed, and the atmosphere was very strange indeed, bordering on threatening. As we inched our way up the hill at essentially a walking pace we were approached by a horseman. We were quite happy chatting away until he demanded my front panier as a “gift”. I initially tried to laugh him off but he persevered, and we ended up having to stop to confront him – at which point the presence of police patrols was much appreciated! Then as we summited the climb we were pounced upon by some nut-selling kids (hence the name we gave the valley) who we surmised were probably on drugs. One popped up later on and tried to grab my spare wheel too! These incidents are incredibly rare but remind us that we remain a source of attention wherever we go. Far more good guys than bad so far, but pockets like Nutter Valley are worth looking out for!

Pomegranates before our descent into Nutter Valley

October is very much wedding season here, which apparently contrasts with November, an inauspicious month for wedlock. In practice this meant coming across two or three wedding car processions per day, as bride and groom with entourage were whisked off to a wedding banquet somewhere in the countryside. All the cars were decorated with red or white ribbons, flashing amber hazard lights and merrily honking their horns – sometimes preceded by a camera crew training its lenses towards the cavalcade from the back of an open jeep. Considering Azeri hospitality it was only a matter of time until we were invited to a wedding feast, which happened on our second day in the country. We schmoozed and drank with the musicians before the guests arrived, and stayed on until both bride and groom were established on their personal high table. Simultaneous pyrotechnics and confetti as they entered nearly set the bride’s dress on fire, so we were glad to be sitting near the door! Interestingly, men and women still wore very dark coloured clothes (our yellow raincoats clashed conspicuously) and they sat apart on same-sex tables. Very limited opportunity for a would-be Wedding Crashers moment then.

Meeting the musicians

Indoor pyros

Berets segregated at the wedding

The last stretch towards Baku and the Caspian Sea was particularly barren as we crossed the short Gobustan desert. Both our bikes decided to misbehave at this point, creating one final hurdle before the capital. Strong winds managed to topple my stationary bike as we stopped for a rare cay in a run-down cafe. Unfortunately all 50kg of bike and luggage fell domino-effect onto Lobby’s, twisting his metal kickstand out of its socket, bending his mudguard and jamming his brakes. Not my finest hour! However in an unprecedented bout of resourcefulness we managed to fix mudguard, brakes and even reattach kickstand (try miming the word for “pliers” to the only garage within 50km) in under an hour. Combined with the reattachment of my snapped chain which had so wowed the locals in Georgia, together our bike repair skills have come a long way since London!

Barren riding across the desert

Damage repair

Azeri kid at the cay-repair stop

Suddenly we spotted water: desert turned into frantic construction, sand was swapped for dusty smog, and towering glass high-rises reflected the glinting sun in front of the sea. We had arrived in Baku.

Nick

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Azerbaijan, Cycle to the East, cycle touring, Laurence Gribble, Nick Codrington, Prostate Cancer UK | 3 Comments

This winter …

Posted on November 1, 2014 by journeytotheeast2014

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Cycle to the East, cycle touring, Laurence Gribble, Nick Codrington, Prostate Cancer UK | Leave a comment

Castles and cowherders, Georgia – 11th Oct

Posted on October 31, 2014 by journeytotheeast2014

Location as of 11th Oct:

Red dot marks the spot: Tbilisi, capital of Georgia

As we descended from our first ‘proper’ peak of the expedition, we joined up with the valley route towards Tbilisi, Georgia’s capital. I thought these were some of the best couple of days’ riding of the trip so far, zooming down newly tarmacked roads with mountains on either side and gifted with blue skies and sun. We were following a variation on the old Silk Route which connects the Black Sea to the Caspian Sea 900km away, along the Cyrus river which runs straight through Tbilisi. As we twisted and turned with the river, sharing the road with the occasional trucker, old castles began appearing to the left and right. It was only then that I realised we were following pretty much exactly the same route that hundreds of years of caravans had followed to trade with the East – a route which we would be following until China. Only the road surface had changed since those days: the position of the ruined fortresses overlooking this road was proof enough that the route had remained the same. Roughly speaking we were nearly always in view of a turret somewhere in the hills, all the way until the opening up of the valley. They were impressive enough as ruins and must have been very daunting to those travelling along the Silk Route back then. Now Turkish truckers retracing those steps towards Baku barely gave them a second glance, and judging by the amount of honking and waving seemed much more excited to see us on the road than to see the stone piles around it!

The River Cyrus on its way to Tbilisi

Lobby with castle

Blue skies along the valley!

Just another fortress overlooking the Silk Route

The road did open out however and we suddenly lost the truckers. In fact we lost pretty much everyone, entering a wide corridor between the mountains which was mainly home to herds of cattle grazing. There were no cars nor people for kilometres on end. The few towns we passed looked like sets for a Wild West film, complete with rocking chairs, donkeys, tumbleweed and rickety rusted petrol tanks being hauled by train to the capital. The locals we saw were either stunned into silence at seeing two laden bikes cross their turf, or hugely overenthusiastic – which made me think that visitors might be quite few and far between here! One woman basically catapulted herself into the road with apple basket in one hand and sickle in the other. Luckily Lobby was quick enough to swerve dramatically out of the way, avoiding squashing both her and her apples, and leaving me behind him to confront our kamikaze Snow White. Thankfully she brandished the apples and not the sickle, and handing them over with a toothless grin (I’m not making this up), she waved us off.

The valley opening out with cracking views of the Caucasus mountains

United Nations Development Project village in partnership with EU

Not a lot going on here

Really not a lot.

The inconvenience of a wide open space between mountains is that it channels wind incredibly effectively. Perfect if they are motoring you along from behind (I’m told this happens), less so when they are beating you in the face. On this occasion we were in for some face beating, perhaps a taste of some fiercer winds we will undoubtedly come across in the wintry Pamir Mountains. I never really appreciated the power of the wind until we had to cycle directly into it, and I can now confirm that it is very, very powerful. Even for these relatively light gusts, it halved our speed and sometimes thirded it. Our plod was now a strenuous crawl at 7kmh (on a tarmacked road downhill, that is incredibly slow), and made the prospect of reaching Tbilisi before nightfall impossible. But instead of worrying we decided to take it slowly, and to stop at any opportunity to get out of the buffeting wind corridor.

The opportunity presented itself in the form of a cowherder on the side of the road. He had a herd of about 100 cattle and was chilling out by a big tree while his ten year old son was on horseback looking after the cows. Lobby deals with the wind much better than I do, inching away ahead of me with his whole body seeming to shrink and disappear behind the handlebars – so he was actually quite a distance ahead of me when this bloke got up excitedly and motioned that I should sit down under his tree too and drink with him. He made the universal drinking sign (a thumbs up stuck down an open gullet) which we had learned could only mean good news in Georgia. One minute into what might at a stretch be called conversation it became clear that we had no shared language whatsoever: all I had gathered was that he was called Giorgi. I shouted ahead to the speck on the horizon that was Lobby, and mimed a helpless British shrug. Not to worry, Giorgi mimed back. Stay here. Then he leapt onto his horse, urged it out into the middle of the empty road and galloped off into the distance to fetch Lobby. Wow, I thought, this man must really be keen for a drink! Lobby told me later that the sound of thundering hooves closing in on him and the man’s agitated shouts to turn around were not particularly comforting – it seemed Giorgi did not use the universal drinking sign with Lobby but a more excited hand flapping variation, suggesting I’d come off my bike in some horrible way! But soon enough, with the team back together, we sat underneath the windy tree and drank.

Giorgi’s herd of cattle at the foot of the mountains

Drinking under a tree in Georgia

One characteristic of the Georgians is their huge fondness for toasts and speeches, which are taken extremely seriously and seem to last for an unreasonable amount of time. We were actually warned about this by the Turkish on the border, since you can easily find yourself downing your shot of homemade methanol awkwardly early – the pause you think is at the end of the speech is only the end of paragraph one! Our cowherder must have realised that we didn’t understand a word but still he battled on, while for our part we toasted “friendship”, “happiness” and even “sunshine” rather meekly with the help of a dictionary. Several toasts on we felt we needed to match Giorgi’s style so Lobby stood up and produced a rousing few words about the strength of the Anglo-Georgian relationship (in English), which was met with enthusiastic nods by our host who hadn’t understood a word either. Instead he unwrapped a bundle of food, and the empty litre bottle of plum wine was chucked into the stream.

But one bottle would not do, Giorgi gestured, instructing his son to fetch another one from back home. Where was home, we asked. He pointed behind the hill, and between us we deciphered that it was about two kilometres away. Would we like to stay, he asked, as his son disappeared behind the hill in a galloping streak. We figured that at this point it would be rude not to! So Giorgi made a few phone calls home to instruct his wife to cook up a feast, then more drinking under the tree, and at dusk we headed over the hill. You can check out some of the videos I took here.

Giorgi’s son on horseback

Sending his son to fetch us more plum wine

I had assumed that as a bloke who sits under a tree most days with a bottle of plum wine, Giorgi’s alcohol tolerance would be through the roof. But here I can say that the two are definitely not linked. By the time it came to herding the cows back home, he could barely walk let alone herd! All giggly and red in the face, he mounted his horse and performed long loops around his herd, while his son threw rocks around the stragglers to channel them homewards. The kid seemed much more effective than his dad at this point!

Getting the herd home

Giorgi lived in a small village just below the Caucasus mountains, and had invited all his mates round for a dinner which consisted of more booze than solids. The fact that we were there was both a huge source of pride for him but also of interest for his neighbours, who each came round and had a good look. Luckily some of the older men could speak Russian so we strung a few sentences together and conversation flowed as easily as the plum wine, which was now coming out of recycled two litre Coke bottles. Even as the room started spinning, I still noticed that only men were at the table, and that Giorgi’s wife was called only to produce more food or take plates (and bottles) away.

More Google Translate conversation

An evening with this much booze drunk so quickly was bound to spiral out of control, and indeed it took a sharp nosedive shortly after 8pm as our host passed out on the table. The final photo below was taken just before! This was actually a huge relief for both Lobby and me, as we had been diplomatically matching Giorgi all evening and well on the way to being tucked up in bed ourselves. It was Lobby who ended up dealing the final blow, toasting the whole table which spelt the end for poor Giorgi; he was carried out by his wife and a mate, the room where we were going to sleep vacated just as Lobby decided that the table might be a comfy pillow too. Unsurprising perhaps as he had been sat next to Giorgi and had borne the brunt of the plum wine and lengthy speeches!

The final photo – Giorgi is next to Lobby!

Giorgi’s wife was clearly used to her husband’s parties and had prepared a big jug of water beside each of our beds. So the next morning we were back on our saddles again without too much trouble! The incredible thing about this episode was not only that our host was up and about the next day, but that a breakfast party was promptly organised for 8. His friends came over once again, and a new Coke bottle of plum wine was finished by 8.30 in the morning! Unbelievable. We had to decline on this occasion, to the scoffs of these hardened mountain men. I couldn’t really bear the sight of it! Thankfully the wind had subsided and it was then straightforward riding into the Georgian capital, Tbilisi.

Where we slept

Just about vertical the next day

Loving all the support from back home – please do keep it coming! Here’s the link. Cheers! X

Nick

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Cycle to the East, cycle touring, Georgia, Laurence Gribble, Nick Codrington, Prostate Cancer UK | Leave a comment

Port to Peak, Georgia – 9th Oct

Posted on October 31, 2014 by journeytotheeast2014

Adjara, Georgia

Full of tea, chicken kebabs and baklava, and with our new route mapped out, we headed out of Turkey to Georgia, towards the Caucasus Mountains. From a devout Muslim country we entered a strongly Christian one. The new language and alphabet we were faced with were completely incomprehensible, but at least cheap and readily available booze was back on the menu!

The last building on the Turkish side before customs is a large mosque. Call to prayer blared out from the minaret speakers as we rolled past. Juxtaposed on the Georgian side is a large church. Each can see the other; in a kind of Wild West standoff they face one another. We eagerly cycled up the coast towards Batumi, the so-called Las Vegas of the Caucasus, to see what this new, fairly unknown to us, country had in store.

Bare legs and mosque

A Christian sunset

The first thing that became very obvious to us was that we were going to struggle with the language, especially reading it. This was the first script that we couldn’t even guess at how to pronounce. We were later told that the Georgian alphabet is one of only twelve alphabets in use (not sure about the accuracy of this – Google has no definitive answer) and it is one of the oldest dating back over two thousand years. The Georgians are an extremely proud nation, being particularly proud of their alphabet – there is even an Alphabet Tower in Batumi devoted to the written script!

What would you order?

The Alphabet Tower

We had heard a lot about Batumi from people in Turkey. Young Turks spoke of its wonders and delights, portraying it as a paradisiacal playground. On arrival we realised that it was just the readily available alcohol and the little bit of Georgian leg showing that so excited these young men. Batumi was less Las Vegas and more Blackpool. A horribly distasteful amalgamation of uncoordinated architectural styles – combining European, Oriental, Modern, Socialist-Realist and even mock Gaudi, complemented by huge new-build hotels complete with a ferris wheel stuck on the side of one, bright lights, wide boulevards and palm trees created the perfect set for the next Hangover film! Despite its gaudiness, flare and passion, Batumi was somewhat a ghost town caught in the depths of an off peak lull, making the whole scene even stranger. Alcohol, pork and neon lights were a welcome change and the town proved a much needed rest stop before we finally left the Black Sea.

Ferris wheel building?!?

Ideal cycling by Batumi seafront

As we devoured our way through a new cuisine of meat, meat pies, cheese, bread and the national dish khachapuri (lit. cheese bread) we felt in our element. “Don’t even think about ordering the Adjara version of the national food if you have high cholesterol or any real health concerns”, one blog had warned. A fairly raw egg, floating in a lake of cheese, filling a basin of bread came. Enough calories sat between us to take down a small elephant. I took out a large slab of cheese from the molten goo, bit into it – butter! The Georgian cuisine, heavy in carbs and calories is perfect for the long distance cyclist. Fresh bread can be found all over, baked in tandoori ovens, hung on hooks to sell and eaten hot. In Tbilisi we encountered Georgian dumplings with various fillings. I wanted the full experience so ordered one of each flavour, a dozen in total. The waitress, a bit taken aback, obliged and later presented me with a feast platter of the very large (I thought they were quite small!) dumplings to work my way through. Later on I read that the pinched dumpling dough that forms the top is not generally eaten, doing so is a mark of being poor and/or uneducated – whoops!

Death by calories

Ojakhuri – meat and potato (great for cycling!)

Rested up we forged inland towards Tbilisi. Between us and the Georgian capital lay Goderdzi Pass standing at a height of over 2000m. An online blog recalled one man’s journey up the mountain, having to turn back after 100km because of snow and inclement weather. There would be no snow on this occasion for us. That is reserved for the Pamirs.

We snaked our way up the mountain, stopping at a winery where Hillary Clinton had once lunched. “If it continues like this it won’t be too bad!” we joked. Wine is famous in Georgia and widely drunk. Professionally-made wine and homebrew wine, however, are only related by the word wine itself, the latter being a very loose definition of wine, as we found out when Nick stopped at the roadside to buy a litre. It was stored in a large glass vat, and siphoned into an old coke bottle using a length of hose. Reminiscent of petrol in colour and smell we packed it away for later. Camping on a football pitch that night was a throw back to Germany, although this time it was rather cold!

Wine and rest

Bike with a view

Fancy a drink?

Forging on, the tarmacked road ran out and became dirt track. We passed several United Nations Development Projects on the climb, new wells to provide drinking water, new residential buildings, as well as a hydroelectric power project. Road repair would have been more beneficial to us at that moment as we crawled up the crumbling, potholed wreck of a track. Averaging less than 7km/h was draining both physically and mentally. We began calculating whether the 30km to the peak would take four, five, six or more hours. Cars and vans managing 10km/h occasionally passed, remaining in view for some time after, marking out our path. We emerged above the tree line and became subject to strong winds, battering us as we climbed ever more slowly. Eventually we reached the summit, looking back upon a fraction of what we had climbed in all its beauty. A solitary ski lift, motionless in its green and brown surroundings reminded us of the impending snowfall. A singular figure appeared in the distance, approached us and asked if we needed a hotel. He pointed us in the right direction and then disappeared from sight.

UN funded water

The slow climb

The going gets tough!

Even the trucks struggle

Nearing the top

Cold on the top

Finally made it!

The view is worth the climb

This lonely hotel atop the pass shone brightly in the dusk, offering warmth and comfort. Deserted, but for an elderly couple, him watching television, her peeling garlic by the heater, it was sure to be our home for the night. We enquired to the man about staying the night. He gestured nonchalantly to the peak ski season rack rate. We pointed out that the hotel was empty, the prices therefore unreasonable. He didn’t budge, “lots of workers would come after work”, he snapped. After a long drawn out conversation in Russian, asking to sleep on the floor, in any old room, anywhere that was mildly warm, we had gotten nowhere. We ordered food and huddled by the fire hoping that we could reach an understanding after food. Two workers did come, they ate a little, smoked and left. We made use of the Wi-Fi and sat it out savouring the recently purchased bottle of ‘petrol’. We showed the man videos from our GoPro, attempting to warm him up, he smiled for the first time, melting a little of his icy demeanour. We asked again about staying. He sat pondering for an age, a grave look across his face, and eventually agreed begrudgingly to us sleeping on the floor in one room. We said we’d be up at eight and then off down the other side of the mountain.

At seven thirty he burst in through the door, announced something in Georgian, crossed the room, unplugged the electric heater we had found the night previous and left. The howling wind in the night left us glad we weren’t camping outdoors. Following this rude awakening we got ready slowly, hoping to delay our exit so that the day had time to warm up before we entered it. The previous night, on trips to the bathroom, we had seen the old man sat in the small space between the outer and inner entrance doors. Sat in full military-cum-hunting gear, huge torch in one hand, chainsaw by his side. Whatever foe he was waiting for was in for a surprise. The next morning, after our wake up, he had retaken his position by the door. By eight o’clock he was frantically beckoning us to leave. We couldn’t understand the rush but he got more irate and agitated. Making kicking gestures at Nick (not a wise move for a small man) he basically chased us out. Any warmth he’d shown the previous night had truly refrozen. By the time we left, earlier than agreed the previous night, he had already complained incessantly to his wife and was sulking in the corner, back turned. An anomaly in a country of such welcoming and hospitable people!

We braved the cold and made our way downhill towards Tbilisi via Gori, Stalin’s birthplace.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this blog and others please click here to donate to Prostate Cancer UK. Thank you!

Laurence

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Batumi, charity, Cycle to the East, cycle touring, cycling, food, Georgia, Gori, Laurence Gribble, mountain, Nick Codrington, peak, port, prostate, Prostate Cancer UK, road, Tbilisi, touring, wine | Leave a comment

Tea-rrific Turkey – 5th Oct

Posted on October 25, 2014 by journeytotheeast2014

Tea (çay – pronounced chai) is abundant in Turkey. I’ve never seen a more popular drink in any country I’ve visited. Tea is more than a drink here, it’s a way of life, for some it is their life. Tea is served in small glass cups on glass saucers. It comes with a teaspoon and two sugars. The use of glass is so that people can check the colour of the tea. The glasses are small so that the tea is always drunk hot. When I say they drink a lot of tea I cannot overstate this fact. “My father drinks 2.5 litres a day,” one friend told us. 40-50 cups a day was a fairly common amount. That’s 18,000 cups a year, almost a million cups in a tea drinking lifetime. A quarter of a million pounds spent on tea! That’s a lot of tea… 50 cups is 100 sugar cubes a day! We think we drank about 5 cups a day on average. From 10 sugar cubes a day, being the healthy cyclists we are, we cut down to 1 per cup, unless it was very strong. After finding out that a single can of Coke has 17 sugar cubes in it we became decidedly less concerned about the sugar in our tea! We drank tea for breakfast, lunch and dinner, as well as in between meals. We drank it in shops, garage forecourts, construction sites, on farms, in the police station, fire station, everywhere. Tea is prepared on a special stove with a dual pot system – one for tea and one for hot water to dilute the strong, bitter tea. Whilst engaged in tea drinking, overlooking a beautiful sunset with local friends we found that the tea had run out. No problem I said, just pour the hot water into the teapot. This was met with a frantic waving of hands, a look of disgust and a loud “No!” as if it was either a ridiculously stupid idea or hugely offensive… They take tea seriously!

Special little stove just for tea!

Garage tea

Bakery tea

Tea with a crowd

At times of problems or issues (the tüp field, the police station) tea was always the priority. It was as if this small vessel of cherished nectar could resolve all the problems of the world. Why were more conflicts, wars and political issues not resolved with a cup of çay or two? “Çay” would often be the first word out of someone’s mouth, well before “hello”! The singular word encompassed everything “Hello, how are you? Come in. Sit down, take a rest.” They only needed one word. Tea went hand in hand with Turkish hospitality, they were synonymous. Whilst attempting to buy WD-40 in a hardware shop we were promptly given tea as we waited. Stopping to get directions in a petrol station we were again given tea. On one day we did feel we would never get our mileage done as everyone seemed to be inviting us over for tea. One man even chased us down the street because we wouldn’t stop! It became a running joke, but it continued and several times an hour we were pulled over with waves and shouts of “Çay! Çay!” We could never refuse!

Hardware store tea

Kofte Bus tea

Tea houses are fascinating places consisting of felt covered tables surrounded by a clientele of only men, who either engage in watching television together, playing Okey (a Turkish tile game), cards or backgammon. Women are so clearly not expected that there are only urinals in the bathroom. Having already learnt the basics of Okey we were challenged to prove our newly developed skills against real opposition when we stayed overnight at a tea house in the Turkish mountains. Two Brits against two Turks. Winning a game reduced your score by 2 points. Both teams started with 20. First to 0 wins. The game began lightheartedly. We didn’t believe we had a chance, they knew we didn’t. After winning four of the first six games and winning with double points in the first game the Turks were rattled. We were loving it! For fear of shaming their nation our two opponents were subbed out and replaced by some big dogs. This made it much tighter, but somehow we managed to push our way through to our first competitive win! A huge achievement and a big upset! Our second competitive match came only a few days later on the Black Sea coast. We were challenged to a game by some university students. We reasoned that they would be well practised, having lots of free time for tea and games. We sat down under the dim lights. The small table surrounded with other students spectating. I sat facing Nick, the pride of a nation was at stake once more. We told them we went to Cambridge. They seemed a little agitated. We joked that we were British Okey champions. They shuffled in their seats. The tiles were cast into the middle face down and rattled loudly as they were mixed up. The first hand was dealt. Nick and I played deliberately and methodically, the Turks were impatient and wanted a faster game. The first game went our way, as did the second. In the third game I won with double points in only half a dozen rounds. They both looked stunned. My phone rang, so I left them to sit there, jaws hanging. I came back to find Nick being bullied in the fourth game. Once again reunited we went on to win all but one game. We called it an evening and said it was time to go, even though we were having a great time! They conceded and mumbled between themselves about us being British champions. “That was a joke,” we told them, “this is the second time we’ve ever played!” Flabbergasted, the pair of them and all spectators, we hopped onto our bikes leaving them stood in a line, watching us disappear into the blackness.

Learning to play

Getting the hang of it

First competitive match

Victory GB!

As our Turkey adventure drew to a close we reminisced about our time in this fantastic country. “One last half kilo of baklava before we cross the border”, I said. Nick took no persuading. We found one last baklava shop in the final town. Counting out our coins we managed to scrape together enough for a box. We walked across the square looking for a place to sit and eat our sugary delight. We sat at a small table looking into the square. “Çay?” a man approached. “Sorry, no money.” “No problem”, he said. There we were, baklava, tea and the warmth, hospitality, kindness and generosity that epitomised our Turkish travels.

A farewell tea

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this blog and others please click here to donate to Prostate Cancer UK. Thank you! Laurence

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged bicycle, bike, Black Sea, blog, charity, Cycle to the East, cycle touring, cycling, games, Laurence Gribble, Nick Codrington, Okey, Prostate Cancer UK, Tea, Tea house, Turkey | Leave a comment

Hamam – soaking up the last of Turkey, 1st Oct

Posted on October 23, 2014 by journeytotheeast2014

Our location as of Oct 1st: Trabzon, Turkey

Proposed alternative route:

Caucasus regional map with our rough planned route in red. Caspian Sea crossing in blue from Baku.

With our new route up through Georgia and Azerbaijan pencilled into Google Maps, we realised that our ride through Turkey along the Black Sea was suddenly very close to its end. By heading north from Trabzon we are cutting out about 600km from our planned Turkish mileage (the would-be ride to the Iranian border). But these are not kilometres ‘saved’, as we will probably need to add on 800km in Uzbekistan as we enter from its very northern tip: we’ll traverse its largest desert, instead of crossing smoothly into Bukhara from Turkmenistan. The visa dates have been recalculated and still work – just. If that isn’t 100% clear to read then it is because it is still not 100% worked out!! We will keep you posted. But for the meantime, to give our visa-weary heads a rest we decided to go for a Turkish bath.

Working out an alternative route in Trabzon

You might wonder why we hadn’t tried one before Trabzon. The answer is quite simple: from what I’d heard, Turkish baths (called hamams) had to come with Turkish massages to be considered the full experience. Now I use the word ‘massage’ here in the loosest sense of the word, as I’d always thought the idea of a massage was for muscle relaxation. Not in Turkey apparently, where massages are more violent than soothing. Getting beaten down by a burly Turkish man on a stone table had not yet made it to the top of our apres-cycling shortlist. But here we were, on a rest day in Trabzon, with opportunities and excuses running out. We would take on the burly men.

The place was unassuming but centrally located – we were led to the door by a policeman we’d asked in the main square. The first thing to notice was that women had a separate entrance, which going by the sign at the front (men’s) entrance was around the side, left and left again in a little alley out of the way. This segregation was good news for us on this occasion. Public interaction with the opposite sex had been kept very straightforward since the start of eastern Europe, so the sight of women in any state of undress at this point might have been too much for both of us. Quietly thankful this time for Turkey’s conservatism, we left our copper and entered.

A lounger in the lounging area

A Turkish bath happens in a series of rooms. The entrance turned into a large octagonal lounging area with stairs on either side leading up to a banistered balcony which ran along the eight walls of the room. Off this banistered walkway there were dimly lit private changing rooms, where we were encouraged to get undressed and return to the lounging area. Just a small towel provided to cover essentials. A door led from the lounging area to the first ‘wet’ area, where taps and basin lined the walls in alcoves, and old men seemed to be splashing about with very little purpose. I’d assumed that everyone would be stark naked (hence the need for a women’s area), but was to be disappointed. Although the sloshing of water over these tiny towels allowed for a good amount of flashing, it was generally accepted that privates were to be kept private and towels hastily replaced if they made a bid for freedom. So we sloshed and flashed in order to fit in, all the time thinking a swimming pool might have been a more effective way of cleaning ourselves. Then a skinny man with comically bushy eyebrows led us further into the complex to a sauna. We immediately became the topic of conversation as the only two foreigners baking in the room full of Turkish old men. More sloshing. And finally, just as we thought we’d got away with it, Eyebrows pointed to the stone table.

The octagonal entrance room

Feeling very Turkish in the changing room

This was like no massage I’d ever had. It started with more sloshing of course, in case we hadn’t sloshed enough in the wet room. Then we were scrubbed down with a sort of wet, scratchy oven glove, which was quite pleasant. Little black lumps started appearing all over my body (worrying), which turned out to be small balls of my outer layer of skin (very worrying).

Eyebrows looked scathingly at the bits of my skin he’d just peeled off, as if there was too much of it, or as if it was far dirtier than a usual Turkish man’s. This wasn’t any more reassuring. More vigorous sloshing and my skin balls were spread over the hamam floor. After that my fresh outer layer of skin was given a full soap down, which it enjoyed, followed by a pummelling, which it did not. It was as if Eyebrows’ aim had been to carefully expose the tender new skin and then inflict maximum punishment. A bit like being gently beaten up except that I couldn’t get up off the stone table to do anything about it. Once I winced audibly (as he hammered his fingertips into the side of my tired quad muscle), which produced a stifled chuckle from my Turkish sadist. Foreigner clearly can’t handle it, he must have been thinking. I shut up from then on not to give Eyebrows further satisfaction. After the beating, one last sloshing session and into the sauna for a quick round two. The Turkish men in there found it hilarious that my body was now glowing an embarrassed and sore pink! One last slosh, and back to the lounging area.

Finally it was time for the relaxing part of the experience, as we were handed different coloured towels to drape over ourselves. We lounged gloriously with a cay each in our fresh layer of skin, body oils and dirt shed and discarded on the wet area floor. I ran my finger across my forehead and it actually squeaked, an unprecedented feeling of cleanliness for this expedition! The muscles, however, had decided to pack up following their beating – in particular my quads, which after the last three months must be wondering what they have done to deserve this treatment. We practically crawled up the stairs on all fours to get changed again, which (as you can imagine) moved the quietly sneering regulars to open laughter as we left! So a big thumbs up to the sloshing and soaping, and of course the lounging – but perhaps less enthusiastic about the flagellation. As we left Trabzon for Georgia the next day, my quads reminded me that tea and baklava were probably safer cultural ‘experiences’.

Like the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood

We hope that you’re enjoying reading about our expedition! Thanks very much to all those who have already donated. For those who haven’t yet, please do follow this link and donate a couple of quid to Prostate Cancer UK – it makes a massive difference to us on the road, and an even greater one to men back home with this nasty type of cancer. Thanks so much! And get keen for the next instalment from Lobby!

Nick

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Cycle to the East, Laurence Gribble, Nick Codrington, Prostate Cancer UK, Trabzon, Turkey, Turkish bath | Leave a comment

Intruders in the dark – 25th Sept

Posted on October 17, 2014 by journeytotheeast2014

No photos in this one unfortunately, as the name suggests it wasn’t the first thing on our minds at the time!! Approximate location as below:

The beam of the tractor’s headlights shone powerfully against our tent. A question shouted in the dark. “Ingleterra!” I bellowed back from my sleeping bag, hoping that would solve the issue and the thing would go away. It didn’t. The same question, but this time barked out practically as an order. The beam did not waver. I gave the same answer. Realising this particular farmer wasn’t going to be shrugged off, I began putting on my fleece and shoes to go out and investigate, just as the voice repeated its question for third time. The mosque down the hill had just finished its sixth and final call to prayer for the day, indicating that the last light of day had fully faded from the sky. It was quite cold.

I unzipped the tent and was immediately dazzled by the machine’s headlights, which were trained at our camping spot with the two bicycles alongside it. Hands up to protect my face, I walked forwards slowly and repeated “Ingleterra!” for the third time. I still hadn’t a clue what the Turkish voice was asking but I figured this was the sensible answer to most questions at this point. The voice barked out something which sounded very much like “Halt!”, so I did, and shielding my eyes against the glare of the beam I squinted ahead at our intruder.

There’s nothing quite like having a rifle pointed at you to make you think on your feet. I found myself looking up at two men on either side of their blinding tractor, each with hunting rifles aimed at my chest. They didn’t seem hugely amused to be finding a foreigner in nothing but a dirty fleece and boxers in their field. Shit, I remember thinking. The thought of ending my days in a Turkish ditch in fleece and boxers was enough to get my tired brain cogs whirring again. I gulped and waited for it to come up with ideas, and sure enough it did, producing the word “Arcadash” which I promptly blurted out, hands in the air lit up by the tractor like a scene in some bad spy film. “Arcadash” is the Turkish word for “Add Friend” on Facebook, something we’ve been doing a lot of recently as we’ve met keen and friendly Turkish hosts. Thank you Facebook, I had time to think to myself. Who said you were a waste of time. Then I stood still again, hoping these particular two would catch my gist.

The leader lowered his weapon but the other bloke didn’t, so I decided to stay put, and waited. The problem with having your hands in the air is that you can’t mime very well, which had been a key part of our communication in Turkey thus far. I repeated the word for friend more confidently, then jumbled some Turkish together which included the word for bicycle, charity, student and ‘no problem’. I even tentatively threw in the joker – Manchester United – as it had had so much success recently. This string of words was enough for the second bloke to stop training his gun at me, and I danced a little victory dance in my head at the prospect of not getting shot this evening. Still, things could be going better. We muddled through some conversation (now much easier since my hands were free), at which point they worked out that there was a second person (odd as our two bikes had been lit up by the tractor throughout – maybe they thought I was a crazy single Englishman with two bikes?!). They demanded to see Lobby too.

I figured that if they’d wanted to shoot me they would have done so already, so there was no harm now in throwing Lobby into the mix. In my head everyone would shake hands, we might have to move the tent, but we would end up safely in bed and probably not in a ditch. I shouted for Lobby, and heard something grunt from the tent and then the sound of someone rolling over. Lobby and I usually talk a lot of rubbish when we’re both on the bikes, to the point when (if you can’t see each other’s face) it’s difficult to tell if the other person is joking or not. Clearly sometimes this isn’t a great idea on a bike (“Overtake! Woops, only kidding!!”), so we had discussed having a codeword to use to mean that you’re absolutely serious. A “Boy Who Cried Wolf” word if that makes more sense. I shouted the word out for the first time ever into the night. There was the sound of the tent unzipping, and soon Lobby appeared bleary-eyed.

We stood there for a second or two, each party equally bewildered at the other’s presence in this dark field. But with the help of a proper dictionary we started talking and it soon became clear that two Englishmen in boxers in the dark weren’t a threat. Lobby’s appearance had further decreased tensions and now guns were swapped for handshakes and both men lit up cigarettes. They seemed pretty relieved that we weren’t going to be any trouble! The little victory jig in my head was now a full marching fanfare as we were invited in for tea by the two men who had thought about shooting me minutes before. We declined this particular tea invitation however (it seemed a bit too much too soon) – shaking hands again, we went back to bed and the tractor pulled away towards the main road from where it had come.

This episode and the previous incident with exploding ‘tüps’ (which Lobby has written about, check out the previous post!) has prompted us to change how we go about camping in central Turkey. To be honest we hardly need to camp anymore as we are invited in and hosted so often – but on the occasions when we are forced to, we won’t be doing it unannounced anymore. It would be a shame to be mistaken for a wild boar and end up in a ditch at this early stage!

Nick

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Cycle to the East, cycle touring, Laurence Gribble, Nick Codrington, Prostate Cancer UK, tractor, Turkey | Leave a comment

What the tüp? – 23rd Sept

Posted on October 15, 2014 by journeytotheeast2014

The Black Sea Coast, inland, heading east

Due to a strong desire not to cycle after dark Nick usually calls a one hour light warning and we start looking for a place to eat and sleep. Having cycled into several European capital cities well after curfew and having been caught out by nightfall a couple of times, on this occasion we made a big effort to set up camp nice and early. We stopped in the small town of Hanönü for lunch. Less than half way through our regular order of chicken shish we were approached by a local man. Thinking nothing of it we exchanged greetings. As we started to eat again he pulled out a large camera and took photos of us. He then sat down opposite us, withdrew a notepad from his jacket pocket and started interviewing us in Turkish. We’d been in Turkey a few weeks, we knew how to order food and drink, a full blown interview was another thing! We assumed he wanted our story. Using the numbers we knew and the word for months we explained our trip and the countries we had passed through, where we were going, that it was for charity, Prostate Cancer UK, and so on. We did a little photo shoot in the road and he left. We’ll never see that article we thought! Well, here it is!

If you go to the link and put the article into google translate you can have a little laugh.

http://hanonu.com/?sayfa=5&hb=detay&detay=3395

Despite doing most of the explanation, much of which was with a pen and paper napkin, Nick is credited with all of the detail, something was lost in translation and it claims we will make a brochure for our chosen charity, and my contribution to the interview is shown as “Gribble is much like the Turkish food, especially love baklava”. Which is true… but doesn’t exactly paint me as a cultural tourist! More a gastrophile. I was so busy with the interview that I didn’t even get tea! (Possibly a crime in Turkey)

That night we pitched our tent out of sight of the road, sheltered from the mountain winds and near a corn field. Still light (something we are unaccustomed to when camping as we usually find a way of setting up camp as it is getting dark) we sat down to cook dinner from our provisions. The night before we had camped on a hill opposite a petrol station and in the morning were asked by the garage attendants whether we’d had any problems with dogs (they made snarling noises). We said no, there were no dogs. The conversation progressed, the snarling impersonations increased, we checked the dictionary – bear (not dog). No… We hadn’t encountered any bears. We were now a little worried about wild camping in the hills! A night on we were still attempting to camp in the wild. There probably wouldn’t be any bears… We hoped!

Bikes come to rest

Surveying the scene (the corn field)

Tent pitched

As the sun set slowly we cooked our dinner surrounded by beautiful scenery. As we added the eggs a strange noise came from the corn field which now had a few lights on around the perimeter. It sounded like some strange, terrible animals scurrying, flapping? We couldn’t tell. It stopped, we turned off our music and continued to cook. The noise suddenly started up once more and then again cut off abruptly. We realised that it was a recording, possibly to scare off bears? At least we would be safe! The light faded slowly. It grew dark. BANG! A shot ripped through the silence, ricocheting in the darkness. We turned to face the black field, slightly lowering ourselves to the ground in anticipation. BANG! Another shot cracked from somewhere else in the field. Hunters? Was the recording played to scare animals that the hunters would then shoot? All kinds of possibilities flashed through our minds. Another bang. Two men with shotguns were now very close and more worryingly were using said guns. We scuttled away from our cooking spot and ducked down behind our tent (a tent outer of course being bulletproof). As shots continued to ring out only tens of metres away we planned out what to do. They probably wouldn’t aim to shoot us. But what if they mistook us for an animal? A wayward shot? Hearts beat fast. We grabbed our bike lights and put the red backlight on our tent, flashing to show we were there. The shots continued, we decided to grab our food, retreat to the road and sit it out. We left a trail of lights to the road and sat and ate, and waited.

After what seemed like hours the guns still rang out. We decided to head to the village a couple of kilometres away in search of people who might know the hunters. Trudging along the hard shoulder in the pouring rain we spotted a lonely light. Like a scene from a horror film we approached the farm. A man stepped down from a tractor as others gathered grain into piles. We signed where we had come from, what we were doing and the issue with the guns. His face was in shadow, we could see no emotion, no hint of benevolence or malevolence. He stared back at our dishevelled apparel and only one word escaped from his lips. “Çay?” Relief spread across our faces. We were ushered inside and flooded with endless cups of tea. After several cups, conversation turned to the issue of the gunmen. “No guns” they said. “Yes, guns!” We insisted. “Bang! Bang!” We acted it out. They reiterated that they were not guns but in fact “tüps”. What is a tüp??? The dictionary said it was a “tube”. No “tube” makes the sound of a hunting rifle! They maintained that it was in fact a tüp. He went and got a so-called tüp. It was a large gas canister. We couldn’t grasp how that was meant to make such a noise. He mimed a long tube. He grunted, fingers pointed down by the sides of his mouth like tusks. A pig? They were hunting pigs? No, they were scaring them off with timed gas explosions! Well, we didn’t know about the pigs, but it had worked on us! The tea was finished off and we were told it was safe to return to our tent.

This is a tüp (given away free with Pepsi!)

Unconvinced we headed back to find no bullet holes in our tent. Only a single blinking red light, reminiscent of the port side of a boat or aeroplane wing. The shots continued unabated. The recorded noises recurrently came and went. With a clear head it became obvious that all of the noises were too evenly spaced to be gunshots, too frequent and unmoving. This was our fate for the night, we were safe, apparently, but the noises would continue through the night until 8am. As we attempted to sleep, thoughts of trench warfare played in our minds. How could soldiers sleep when such noises were real, fatal? Dreams of hunters, shooting, war loomed.

Laurence

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged boar, camping, corn field, Cycle to the East, cycle touring, danger, dark, guns, hunting, Laurence Gribble, Nick Codrington, noises, pigs, Prostate Cancer UK, scared, tüp, The Black Sea Coast, Turkey, Turkish food | Leave a comment

Route update – heading North

Posted on October 8, 2014 by journeytotheeast2014

After trying and failing to get Iranian visas at four separate consulates, we have been forced to detour north. Instead we now take on the mountains of Georgia and Azerbaijan. As we go uphill, please think of helping the cause at www.justgiving.com/journeytotheeast/. Large or small, it all helps. Thanks!

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged Cycle to the East, cycle touring, Georgia, Laurence Gribble, Nick Codrington, Prostate Cancer UK, Turkey | Leave a comment

Journey To The East

Admin battles in Baku – 30th Oct

Crossing Azerbaijan – 23rd Oct

This winter …

Castles and cowherders, Georgia – 11th Oct

Port to Peak, Georgia – 9th Oct

Tea-rrific Turkey – 5th Oct

Hamam – soaking up the last of Turkey, 1st Oct

Intruders in the dark – 25th Sept

What the tüp? – 23rd Sept

Route update – heading North

Kilometres pedalled @ 28 March 2015

Facebook Page

Final Destination!

Countries visited

Follow me on Twitter