El camino que lleva a Yusufeli es uno de los mas lindos que hemos visto. Es apenas una senda estrecha en donde con suerte cabe uno auto y una persona al mismo tiempo. El sol brilla muy fuerte y su luz se refleja en todas partes. El río corre siempre a nuestro lado y algunos de sus brazos pequeños se nos atraviesan de vez en cuando. Hay que estar atentos porque las curvas son cerradas y de improviso se aparece por el otro lado un camión.

Este valle ha sido habitado desde tiempos inmemoriales, y uno lo nota en las casas de piedra y madera que vemos al pasar. Y en las fortalezas y castillos en ruinas que se encumbran en las colinas más altas. Hace un calor muy fuerte y el camino es casi siempre de tierra. Pasamos por entre medio de las casas y saludamos  a la gente mientras algunos trabajan y otros se sientan a las sombra o tomar el té. Como aman el té los turcos. Los colores de los pañuelos con los que se cubren las mujeres han cambiado y son más vivos. Y se los atan de otra forma. Mujeres y hombres muy ancianos caminan lentamente en medio de la ruta. Van apoyados en sus bastones y recogiendo ramas para hacer fuego. Van conversando con alguien y no se dan cuanta que alguien viene. 

Muy pronto llegaremos a la frontera de Georgia. Todo lo que viene allá es un completo misterio. Los ciclistas han empezado a mejorar mucho su resistencia. Al calor y a las empinadas subidas. Turquía es tierra escarpada y hay que ser fuerte  para echarse a rodar por sus caminos. Pero nos vamos acostumbrando. Por las mañanas nos despierta muy temprano el almuecín que, desde algún minarete cercano, llama a los fieles a orar.  Aunque tal vez sólo baste la salida del sol que a las cinco de la mañana ya tiene a todo el mundo en pie. Una vez en la ruta, la gente es generalmente muy amable y nos invita a su casas a tomar té y conocer a sus familias, y otras veces se detienen en medio del camino para darles un aventón a los ciclistas. Más de alguno llegó en camión al campamento o fue invitado a pasear por las calles de Safranbulo.
 
A la hora de la cena todo el mundo está impaciente por saber que va a cocinar Allison. Todas las tardes es algo delicioso y diferente. Y es doblemente agradable cuando estamos en un lugar lejano donde no siempre existen todas las comodidades. Esa es un poco la gracia de esta experiencia, la combinación del viaje el contacto con culturas diferente.

Haldún es nuestro hombre en Turquía y hace que las cosas sean mucho más fáciles. Y que no nos perdamos nada de los bueno, especialmente si es comida local. Y se come bien en Turquía si es que uno sabe cómo se piden las cosas. Pero el asunto no es nada fácil aunque podamos decir unas cuantas palabras en turco.

Atrás quedará el Raki y ahora viene el vodka, y las inmensas estepas de Eurasia. Mirando hacia el Este, en medio de las colinas, vemos la cumbre nevada de alguna montaña anónima. Es imposible no pensar en lo que hay más allá. Los Himalayas están ahí, sólo un poco más lejos, al otro lado del camino.



Ricardo Stuardo T.

Things are starting to settle in a bit on the 2010 Silk Route.  The hectic start is a week behind us, we’ve all had a bit of rest and the riders have adjusted to the routine of the tour.   Running a tour with only 10 riders is quite different that running one with 70.  Attendance, for example, is a breeze.  At a glance you tell who is in camp and who is not.  We’ve gotten to know the riders, and their habits, much quicker so it’s easier to predict when they will arrive in camp.  Rider meetings are much less formal and can even be done over dinner.  We are a bit tight on space with only one van and a smaller support vehicle that we use for lunch.  Without lockers for the riders the staff have to pack the bags each and every day which, believe it or not, becomes a bit of a drag after a few days.   

A huge difference is the amount of food prepared.  Not only do we have 1/7^th the mouths to feed but the pace of the Silk Route is much more relaxed than the Africa tour and the riders eat much less than their African counterparts.  At first it just didn’t seem right setting up lunch with only two loaves of bread, one jar of peanut butter and jam and half a Kg of sandwich meat.  But there is always food leftover.  The morning coffee is a big improvement. With only 14 mouths to feed we’ve been using a French press to make the morning brew, a huge improvement over the ‘dirty sock’ method used on the Africa tour.

The route so far has offered some spectacular riding.  There have been days on tour that I have felt more remote and ‘in the middle of no where’ than I ever did in Sudan or Ethiopia.  The small size of the group and staff make the tour feel much more intimate.  Everyone has their own personal story to tell at the end of each day and they are usually pretty unique and interesting. 

We are nearing the end of our journey thru Turkey.  In a few days we will cross the border in to Georgia where I am told it is much more remote, the terrain gets rougher, the food choices less varied and the vodka much cheaper.  Our last rest day in Yusufeli is a good way to enjoy Turkey one last time.  We’re camped next to a raging river that apparently host some of the worlds best white water rafting, though the season doesn’t start for another month.  Last night we ate fresh trout from the river and washed it down with some Raki.  Nadia and I laughed about her ride into town.  “It was a tough one”, she said “I cursed your name many, many times! I was so angry that we had to climb all those hills on those narrow roads”.  “I know exactly how you feel” I said.  “I’ve also been on organized rides where it was so tough I yelled and swore under my breath at the guy who had organized it”.  “ But in the end, those days are some of my fondest memories of riding. Days where I pushed myself to the very limit.” 

I was glad Nadia was laughing about the day now, several riders has commented that her mood was not too good during the day.  She’s been pushing herself very hard for 12 days now.  She is determined to ride the whole route every day, despite the fact that she joined the tour in less than ideal shape.  She’s mentally very tough, and soon her body will adapt and she’ll get stronger.  It’s a transformation that is common on TdA tours and you can’t help but have a sense of admiration for clients who go through it. 

Mehmet the tinsmith speaks to Haldun the translator.

Visiting a Turkish bath in Turkey is just the sort of thing a gal like me finds enticing. I'd already sampled Turkish delight and used a Turkish toilet, so it seemed like a natural progression.

The entrance to the women's Hamam (Turkish word for Turkish bath) snaked its way to the base of a low concrete staircase in the centre of Safranbolu, Turkey, home for our first rest day of the Silk Route. Two heavily scarfed women sat cross-legged on a bench picking sunflower seed shells out of their teeth and flicking them into a sizable pile beside their pretzled legs. Business was slow. They stirred when I approached and one nonchalantly got up and led me inside.

The rhythmic sound of slow, constant drips echoed through the ancient marble chamber and the smell of mildew crept from a cathedral ceiling, making my nostrils feel mouldy. The scarfed woman led me to a clean little private change room, instructing me in rapid-fire Turkish to remove my clothes as she thrust a large piece of folded fabric into my hands (at least, that's what I gathered from her tone and expressive hand gestures, though for all I know she could have been lamenting the price of beef). I obliged, and met her outside where I was ushered into a steamy fortress of white marble. More than a dozen evenly spaced brass taps lined the walls above marble basins.

The place could easily have accommodated 30 Turkish bathers; but I was the sole patron that day. She twisted the taps and adjusted the temperature until it was just right, then poured a few demonstrative basins of water over my body before handing me the pail and exiting the steam room without a word. “Do I get naked?” I asked myself. I decided to keep my fabric on and stretch out over the thick circular slab of marble in the centre of the cavernous room. It seemed like the thing to do, and I remember Ricardo (Assistant Tour Director) telling me how great his Turkish bath-marble slab stretch out had been. He was right. Though after about 20 minutes I was starting to get hot and mildly claustrophobic. “What if she never comes back?” I thought to myself. “Will I have to survive off Turkish bath water and mildew scrapings?” Just then, a robust topless Turkish woman breezed into the chamber and entered a smaller adjoining room. Muscling a long padded table into the centre of her workspace, she slapped its vinyl top, instructing me to remove the fabric. It was then I realized this was not another Turkish bather, but the same scarfed woman, minus all the scarves.

Her efficient, no-nonsense manner gave her the quality of an “I've seen it all” mother hen, and I wasn't weirded out by (yet another) highly unusual Tour d'Afrique nude situation. What happened next can best be described as being exfoliated by a belt sander and then beaten by a sack of potatoes. She scrubbed off my skin memories like sanding the paint off an old Chevy. I didn't think it were possible for skin to squeak. It is. Seriously. Next came the “massage,” though her style was more akin to a chef tenderizing a steak with a mallet. It was surprisingly effective. I left the Turkish bath feeling sparklingly clean and relaxed.

Dazed and exfoliated, I floated through the streets looking for a taxi to take me back to the pension where we were staying. I located a cluster and hopped into a cab belonging to a Abdulekaddir, a man tiny as a sprite and eager to practice his English. We drove to a corner store to get some change for the fare and I bought him a sour cherry juice (my favourite Turkish beverage), and then we drove some more. He turned the meter off and drove me through the cobblestone streets, pointing out landmarks and scenery, asking questions and telling me about life in Turkey. Eventually we made it to his home where I had a cup of chai (tea in Turkey) with his mother and met his dog, a scrappy little pooch with an unpronounceable name.

A few days ago we stayed in a town called Sebinkarahisar. On the drive in I saw a bustling market and I took a walk there later that afternoon. I bought a bag of strawberries from a giant cart made with bicycle wheels, and caught the eye of an old man sitting outside a nearby shop. He was leaning back in his chair with his feet up on a table wearing a serene, welcoming smile. I said hello in Turkish and he invited me to join him. His name was Mehmet and he must have been 80. Mehmet made things out of tin and wore a smart-looking navy vest, brown cordoroy pants and a fine looking silver moustache. He only spoke Turkish but I understood that he wanted me to join him for tea. I smiled and shook my head vigorously. A few minutes later a man arrived with two delicate hourglass-shaped tea cups on tiny red and white saucers. Mehmet took a sugar cube between his age-worn teeth and brought the cup to his lips in small sips. We sat in companionable silence amongst the tin and old hammers and nails, unable to understand each others words. Mehmet scanned the streets for young people, calling one over every few minutes in the hopes of finding a translator. Then it dawned on me that a Turkish interpreter was just a phone call away. I called Haldun, our Turkish support staff member, and explained the situation, asking him to thank Mehmet for the tea and explain the story of the bicycle tour and that I was from Canada. Mehmet was surprised and delighted when I handed him the phone, though he seemed unsure of the best way to use it, keeping one hand on his ear and the other cupped over his mouth while he spoke. This was probably one of the sweetest things I've ever seen.

While the two Turkish men had a good long chat, another man approached me with a handful of peanuts and plump dried raisins as big as cherries, cupped my hands together and shared a generous sample before continuing down the street. When their phone call was over Haldun explained that Mehmet wanted us to come to his home to eat a fish supper and see his garden.

This is how things happen in Turkey. Conversation, hospitality and a genuine interest in other human beings is a pervasive attribute of the people I've met. Going to the market is not just going to the market. It's meeting the man that produced the olives you just bought (and gave you a scoop or two of his favourites as a gift) or the old woman who picked that lettuce this morning (then threw half a dozen cucumbers and a bushel of parsley in as a present). A visit to a hazelnut farm is not just an agricultural show and tell, it's an invitation to marry a Turkish farmer's grandson (their land boasts high yields, and I do come with a cow...). Turkey has charmed me into a giggling fit with a cheese maker while eating mouldy blue shreds of village-made dairy delight in his tiny shop, its walls lined with scarlet jam and ashy golden honeycombs from floor to ceiling (then watching as he tears wads of his cheesy concoctions into a bag, wraps them in newspaper and sends me on my way, refusing to take my money).

Take my advice and give yourself extra time to accept the tea the butcher offers you at the grocery store, and enjoy it's warm glow as he grinds you fresh minced beef while you browse chicken livers.

We cross the border into Georgia in just a few days. I'm going to miss Turkey. Though all of the spices I bought in Istanbul have Turkish names, which is a nice reminder of my time here. As I type from an old wooden table in the restaurant at the Green Piece Camping Pension in Yusufeli, a young girl periodically stops to watch the strange language appear on my screen. She drapes her arm around me and rests her head on my shoulder as though we've known each other for years. She brings me cup after cup of chai, delighting in saying my name and exchanging pleasantries in English (she was thrilled when I understood her attempt to discuss the weather). Earlier she showed me her cardboard box full of ducklings, nestled in newspaper in the laundry room. Sometimes the simplest things are the most charming.

Today we left the busy D100 highway and headed once again in to the Black Sea mountains. The riding became more difficult with our return to the hills but roads were quieter and the views from the top made all the effort worthwhile.  The Terrain is changing.  The forests and lush greenery have given way to a more barren landscape with dune-like hills covered in low scrub and bushes.  It’s also getting hot!  Our water consumption has jumped by more that 50% and ice cream seems to be the favorite item to purchase at local shops.  Turkish ice cream (Marasa) is delicious.  Made using the sap of a tree it tastes similar to regular ice cream but it has a chewy consitency that is quite pleasant.   Only 4 riding days left in Turkey now.  Looking forward to some whitewater rafting on the rest day in Yusefeli and then we’ll be in Georgia before we know it!  

The rest day in Amasya has been nice.  In Safranbolu we caught up on all the pre-tour preparations we were unable to take care of in Istanbul so this rest day there was not much to do which gave us all a chance to relax and sight see a bit without feeling rushed or pushing ourselves too hard.  The ride into town was smooth and mostly downhill for a change.  

The city, once ruled by Alexander the Great,  is located in a valley surrounded by high rock walls and has a good size river that runs thru it.  There is a boardwalk that meanders along the river with vendors every few hundred meters selling Maras (Turkish Ice Cream), grilled corn, potato skins, slushies and other treats.  Above the old Ottoman houses on the West side of the river, high up in the rock cliff are the remains of a castle and tombs from the rule of Pontus.  Pontus ruled until around 47 BC when the Romans took the city, along with all of Anatolia.  After the Romans, the city was ruled by the Byzantines, the Seljuks, and the Mongols.  Amasya is also the birthplace of the world’s first geographer, Strabo.  I’m not much of a history buff, nor am I very sentimental, but wandering the city armed with the little bit of history I could glean from the local museum, tourist maps and guide books it feels pretty special to be here. 

Today Amasya is quite modern and seems to be a destination city for people from all over Turkey, a sort of romatic getaway.  Couples walk together on the boardwalk, climb up to see the tombs, relax in the hamam (separately of course) and dine in quiet restaurants that overlook the river.  The streets are lined with small shops selling everything from electronics to hardware and fresh fish and vegetables.  No Walmarts or Carrefours have robbed the city of its charm.  Let’s hope it stays that way. 

I only met him for a few minutes.  I was setting up my tent on a hillside just before the town of Ormanli.  He was obviously on his way home from school, wearing a navy blue school uniform with a tie hanging loosely around his neck.  He walked over to watch me set up my tent.  He spoke a little English and I spoke a (very) little Turkish.  He liked football and asked if we could play (we were camping in the middle of the soccer field after all).  I said I could, knowing full well that I would be leaving in an hour to scout a new route for the next day.  But I know how to say “OK” (Tamam) in Turkish and I don’t know how to say “ Sorry I’d love to play with you but I have to drive to our next campsite to check the route”.  I figured some of the riders or other staf would be around to play later on.  I finished setting up my tent and he waved goodbye, say again “play football?”  “Tamam” I replied and waved goodbye “ Gule Gule” – go with smiles.  

I returned to camp after scouting late that evening.  Ricardo was still awake and we prepared the next days rider meeting together.  As we finished he got up and said he had something for me.  Returning from the van he held up and old blue soccer jersey with the name of a Black Sea football club on it.  “A young boy brought this here this afternoon and said to give it to Paul” It was a touching gift from someone I had only me briefly.  Another example of the friendliness and hospitality of Turkey. 

Safronbolu Turkey, a Unesco World Heritage Site and the location of our first rest day on the Silk Route, is picturesque city.  The name Safronbolu in Turkish means “the place with much Saffron”.  Even the Turkish delight here is made from the stuff.  It’s a community of about 25,000 people.  New construction is not allowed here because of the UNESCO guidelines so a few kms down the road is Karabuk, a town of about 100,000.  Karabuk has the feel of a busy commercial center while nearby Safranbolu has a more hometown feel.   

The riders had a tough day getting here.  The morning was filled with one steep climb after the other.  But the climbs were wonderful from the point of view of a cyclist.  Narrow roads, with little traffic that twist up the mountainside offering spectacular views of the surrounding country side and villages.  Just before Lunch the climbing paid off with a 12 km descent in to Deverek, a Turkish Community renowned for making custom walking sticks.  After Lunch the road flattened a bit but then the riders had to navigate 13 tunnels the longest of which was 700 meters long.  Without lights the tunnels got quite dark in the middle and made for an otherworldly feeling as you rode through them, unable to tell exactly where you were going and having to use your other senses to navigate the bike.  After the tunnels the climbing started again, steep pavement eventually turned into steep cobbled streets as the riders made their way to the guest house (or pension) where we would spend the rest day.  The Pension was a build hundreds of years old and kept in it’s original condition, except for the addition of electricity and running water.  It even had its own Turkish bath, a nice treat at the end of a long day.  The pension owner, Himli, was extremely accommodating.  Upon arrival riders were treated to Turkish delight (made with saffron of course), hot tea and pastries filled with walnut paste.   

 

After all the riders had arrived ( and I had tested out the Turkish bath to make sure is was safe) I took a trip into town in search of a barber to get rid of the two weeks of beard growth I had accumulated since leaving Cape Town.  It was around 9 pm and wasn’t too optimistic I would find a barber open but as I walked down the main street I found a small shop with its light still on, the barber was sitting outside having a smoke with some fellow shop owners.  It was late and I was expecting just a quick shave but I wound up having the best shave of my life.  As the barber spread hot lather on my face he explained that Turkish barber shops are not just for haircuts and shave but a place for men to meet and hang out and discuss the days events, news, politics etc…  He ordered some tea and after the shave (which was great) we drank and chatted a bit.  I thought I was done and got ready to pay when he stopped me, spun me around in the chair, leaned me back and washed my hair.  Next came the neck and upper back massage, followed by a bit of after shave and some perfumed powder.  I left the shop feeling so relaxed and refreshed it was amazing.  I walked home and quickly fell asleep. 

 

They next day was a flurry of activity.  At 8 am the staff and riders had breakfast with the Deputy Mayor of Safronbulo, complete with press and entourage.  The breakfast was informal and the Deputy Mayor welcomed us and took a few photos.  Henry attempted to convince him that the city should invest in a public bicycle program and that the Mayor should join us on tour next year.  I’m not sure of the likelihood of the second option considering that after the breakfast we were to go on a guided tour of the city but the guide insisted we could not walk because it was much too far, “at least 2 kilometer” she said.  That got a nice laugh from our group but we still took a cab to the first site on the tour.  The staff were busy all day; scouting a new route out of Safranbulo, shopping for food, working on bikes and organizing the vehicles.  It’s 7:39 pm now as I write this.   I’ve just finished bike shop at the pension and  I am sipping a Turkish Coffee at a café off the main street thru the city while I wait for Haldun to return with our van from getting some new shelves installed and getting it washed (it smells pretty bad right now).  He should be done about the same time Henry and Ricardo return from their scouting mission and the plan is to stay up late so we can repack the vehicle for an early start tomorrow.  But I still haven’t visited the cities Hamam, or Turkish Bath House and it’s tempting to go for a soak.  Perhaps the packing can wait til the morning…..

The Silk Route 2010 riders.

Istanbul was a flurry of activity.  Allison and I flew straight from Cape Town, a day after the Tour d’Afrique ended, to Istanbul to prepare for the Silk Route.  We arrived in the evening at the Harem Hotel and met Ricardo, our third staff member, and he informed us of our first problem of the tour.  Ricardo was driving our Mercedes van, the main support vehicle for the tour, from Slovakia to Turkey and when he reached the Turkish border they refused to let him pass.  Despite hours of negotiation (and many, many cups of tea with the border guards) he could not convince them to let him through with the vehicle.  They said he needed special permission from the Ministry of Transport.  So Ricardo locked up the vehicle at the border and hopped on a bus to Istanbul. 

Without our support vehicle we were at a standstill.  To complicate matters, then next day was a Turkish Holiday and government offices would be closed.  With only 3 days to prepare for the trip our schedule was already very tight and this complication was going to make things even tighter.  The next morning we met our local support guide, Haldun, at breakfast and informed him of our problem.  Haldun, an experienced guide and climber who has been all over the world on different expeditions, has a quiet but confident demeanor.  Upon hearing of this unexpected twist he looked at us and with a slight smirk said simply “Welcome to Turkey, have a nice trip!”  He didn’t understand why the vehicle would not be allowed in but quickly went to work trying to find out.  Sixteen hours later, after many phone calls and discussions and a return trip to the border we were tired and worried about the amount of work we had to do in such a short period of time but we had out support vehicle parked in the Hotel parking lot.  

The rest of the preparations for the tour, while exhausting, went smoothly and we left Istanbul Saturday morning fully prepared, stocked with food and excited about the adventure that lay ahead.  Ten cyclists (whom we had not yet had much chance to talk to) and four staff started the day at 7:00 am.  The weather was cool and it was raining as we rode out in convoy along the Bosporus heading towards Sile (pronounced Sheelay), on the coast of the Black sea.   

My impressions of Turkey, so far, are that it is a fascinating country.  Istanbul seems to have seems to have a large and very educated middle class made up of successful entrepreneurs and business owners. There is a reliable mass transit system, some buses even have wireless internet in them.  The history of Istanbul is almost palpable as you walk through the city.  Down the street from a Vodaphone shop could be a 500 year old Ottoman mosque or Turkish Bath (hamam).  Mixed among 4 lane roads and busy intersections are narrow cobbled streets lined with old stone buildings, their sooty facades decorated with travertine and marble. Turkish drivers drive fast and with little regard for pedestrian traffic or cyclist.  Traffic jams are always expected and parking is nearly impossible (though I am told that if you get in tight with the Turkish mafia they’ll reserve you a spot).  Walking one night down the taxim, a pedestrian mall on the European side of the city I couldn’t help but imagine what a great city this could be for cyclists.  You could host a race similar to Paris – Roubaix on the steep, cobble streets and wind through the city’s ancient landmarks.  But I have yet to meet a Turkish cycling enthusiast.  Sailing seems to be a dominant pass time for those that can afford it.  And why not? with the Bosporus dividing the city and two great seas on either side.   

Cycling out of the city you are quickly into the countryside with cows and goats and stray dogs wandering the streets.  Interestingly the stray dogs in Turkey are spayed and neutered by the municipality.  Rather than capture, and eventually kill, the animals the government has decided to spay or neuter them to help mitigate the problem.  Riding along the Black Sea  the road winds up and down steep hills, through hazelnut groves and through small villages where every house has a vegetable garden and is surrounded by agriculture fields.   

Everywhere we stop we find nothing but hospitality.  Whether it’s a campsite owner emptying out his own refrigerator so we can put our produce into it or a stranger on the shop owner walking us around the neighborhood to help find the item he did not carry in his own store I’ve been continually impressed with their sincere efforts to help us. I’ve been told that Turkish people can have violent tempers and fights can break out over the smallest of issues.  But as foreigners we have experienced nothing but smiles and a helping hand whenever we have needed it. 

It’s only three days into the trip and already I am falling in love with Turkey.  I can’t wait to see what the next 10 days will bring.     

Due to the unexpected break out of hostilities and violence in Georgia, The Silk Route Bicycle Tour has been forced to stop short of the Georgia border and temporarily suspend the tour. Today was to be the day we were to cross into Georgia, but instead the riders are having a rest day in the Turkish town of Kars. The Riders are all safe and well and in good spirits. Tomorrow they will take a bus to Ankara, and then take a flight to Baku where the tour will re-commence on August 17. The group will then have a few days of cycling in Azerbaijan before getting on the ferry to Turkmenistan and back on schedule. We hope for a quick return to calm in Georgia – one of the most beautiful countries on our route.

These last two stages seemed to come in phases. The mornings were mostly overcast and cool, the afternoons intense and hot with the sun beating down, and the evenings chilly in the wind. Stage 10 brought us out of our gas-station hotel in Sebinkarahisar and down the mountain in the shadow of its impressive citadel perched way up on a rocky crag – citadels perched on rocky crags seem to be the theme in these parts. Everyone charged along at a good lick and with plenty of water troughs located along the way there was no need to repeat the mercy dash of yesterday (by three o’clock it had got so hot the boys had no option but to load up with Cokes and head back along the road to ‘water’ the troops). All the water from these taps is potable, even though the troughs are as often used for animals as humans. We have had our first campfire and Graham was quick to reel out his ghost stories (only slightly better than Fred’s jokes). The duck had been quiet for a couple of days but Dan managed to create his very own ‘ship/duck in a bottle’ conundrum. For two days it foiled everyone but this morning James ‘magiced’ it free from its prison – don’t worry James your secret’s safe with me. The roads have become windier and windier. Just a single lane now so no more trucks and in fact hardly any traffic. We are up high in the mountains and the scenery is incredible, as epitomized by Stage 11’s ‘camp’: a barren hilltop (near Pazaryolu) amidst a panorama of gorges, valleys and rolling peaks. Days to go: 98 Punctures: 18 Bee stings: 3 (all this countryside may mean no more trucks but a new foe has appeared in the form of buzzing black and yellow honey-producers – almost every farm seems to supplement its income with apiary)