Congratulations Silk Route 2010 Riders!

There's nothing quite like being sprayed with champagne to celebrate a grand finale. Okay, maybe this wasn't real champagne, but it was bubbly, cold, and came in a green bottle with that fun gold foil sleeve over the cork. Besides, after cycling and camping for nearly 4000 kilometres, a shower is always welcome.

Twelve riders made it to Samarkand this afternoon, crossing the finish line as a group one last time after nearly seven weeks together. Elation was in the air as the happy bunch clustered together for photos in champagne soaked jerseys thanks to Eric and Rustam, who have really good aim. With a temperature hovering around the mid 30s, it was practically jacket weather for this crew on their final 129km ride; they've cycled through punishing +50 degree heat in recent days!

Five riders succeeded in maintaining the illusive EFI status, making their way across every inch of the route. But make no mistake, this was a tough group of determined people who rode as much as their bodies and bikes would allow under what were often intense conditions.

Now in country five of five, we've all got our favourites. Memories from Turkey, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan will stay locked in our hearts, beckoning us to return. As the chef, I was fortunate to visit thriving markets with a local interpreter at my side, catching all too brief glimpses of extraordinary cultures unlike anything I've ever known compared to my life back in Canada. I will remember the fast friendships in Turkey and raw beauty of the Georgian countryside, the refreshing fizzy camel milk under the face-melting sun of Turkmentistan, and the puppets! Oh the wonderful puppets of Uzbekistan! But most of all, I will remember, without exception, the kindness and hospitality of the people I've met. I have been humbled and touched by them all.

Congratulations 2010 Silk Route riders, you made it!

Hot.

The road from Mary, Turkmenistan to Bukhara, Uzbekistan has been a tough one.  The Kara Kum desert is really hot  and with the long days (sunrise 5 am sunset 9:00 pm) the heat is unrelenting.  Forty-eight degrees in the shade in one camp.  Over 55 degrees in the sun.  And in a desert camp there is no escape from the sun.  Even driving, the air blowing in thru the windows feels like the equivalent of shoving your head in an electric dryer.  Breakfast is a 5:00 am, riders are on the road by 5:30 and by 9 am your water bottles are hot enough to make tea with the water in them.  Traditionally the local people cook their bread on the sand and you could boil water by leaving it on the dashboard of your car.

Riders are drinking up to 15 liters of water in a day.  The faster riders are lucky.  They get to camp by 11 am or so and can sit in relative shade under our canopy and some of our camps have been near the Kara Kum canal where you can cool off, at least for bit. Some of the slower riders don’t reach camp until one or two in the afternoon when the heat is at its worst.

Every one has toughed out the heat admirably.  There have been frustrating moments, exacerbated by the heat, but in general everyone has kept their composure.  It’s a unique experience, cycling through these kinds of conditions.  An experience not many cyclists in the world will ever have.  Like many sections of our tours, it redefines what you consider difficult, or hot, or long.

The border crossing into Uzbekistan was uneventful. The process took a bit of time but went smoothly.  No matter how many borders I cross it’s always a little off putting to see young soldiers with machine guns staring at you and telling you what to do.  In the 3 hours I spent getting the TdA vehicle across though I had some pleasant moments with them.  Commiserating about the heat, marveling over the
quality of our bicycles, and (fortunately) laughing about the vodka they found in our van.

Environmental conditions aside the ride from Mary to the border was fun.  The Turkmen people are friendly and welcoming and very, very proud of their country.  We camped at a couple police checkpoints along the way and the police were always accommodating, although usually a bit confused about why we were doing what we were doing. Touring the ancient ruins of Merv, just outside the newer city of Mary was a treat.  The sense of history in Turkmenistan , as in Turkey, Georgia and Azerbaijan is palpable.

From here there are only two days left to the finish line in Samarkand. For most of the riders the end is coming too quickly.  It’s amazing how fast 6 weeks goes by.

Paul McManus

Kow Ata Camp
The countries we travel though are great.  Many like Turkey and Georgia, have ancient histories and date back to the 4th and 5th centuries.  One of the pleasures of visiting the old parts of cities in places like Istanbul, Tblisi, and to some extent, Baku is the charm of the old buildings and narrow, often cobbled, streets.  I’m a big fan of city planning.  Smart streets.  Livable cities.  The old parts of these modern cities have many of these ‘liveable’ elements that today’s city planners are struggling to achieve.  Things like mixed use structures with apartments on the upper floors and retail stores at street level create neighborhoods that operate as independent communities.  You buy your groceries from your neighbor, his son helps you paint your house, you might see your doctor or your mechanic at the laundry or local pub.  Most things are within walking distance. The narrow streets make travel by vehicle more difficult than walking or public transport.

Of course the design is not perfect. These communities were built hundreds of years ago when population density was lower and public services were minimal.  So things like efficient waste disposal, parking, street cleaning, code enforcement etc… still need a lot of improvement.  Retrofitting old buildings to accommodate modern needs like electricity, HVAC and plumbing can prove difficult and often leads to some less than ideal compromises (it’s pretty hard to run pipes and electric wires through a 12 inch stone wall).  As economies grow there is a demand for larger stores and more people need to commute to work which can clog the streets with noisy, dirty traffic.  When you contrast the lifestyle of people in the old cites to their modern counterparts it makes you wonder whether we should focus our efforts on modernizing buildings or changing our own lifestyles to be less demanding.  Certainly both are needed.  

Ashgabat, in Turkmenistan, has no old city.  Not that I’ve seen. Not in the same way as other countries we’ve visited on the Silk Route. The city was rebuilt after the 1948 earthquake that killed over 100,000 and leveled the city but the most attractive feature of it’s reconstruction was apparently a giant topiary in the shape of an airplane.  Saparmurat Niyazov, the first President  of Turmenistan (also called Turkmenbashi – Father of Turkmen) created a grand plan to renovate Ashgabat when the country gained independence in 1991.  The old structures were torn down, even the historic site of the original Ashabat settlement, Gorka, was plowed under.

The city now is beautiful, but has a strange feel to it.  Sort of sterile.  By city ordinance all buildings must be covered in Marble tile that are 80 cms x 50 cms and 3 cms thick.  10 and twelve story white marble building line the center of the city along a great pedestrian mall.  At one end of the mall is a 75 meter monument dedicated to Turkmenbashi.  At the top of the monument is a 12 meter statue of President Niyazov that is made of gold and rotates to always face the sun.  Behind the monument is a memorial to the 1948 earthquake that depicts a giant bull (with surprisingly large testicles) with the world skewered on its horns.  Atop the world is a golden child statue, riding out the shaking of the earth and representing the future of Turkmen.  Surrounding the mall are many other grand buildings and monuments and of course, a few more golden statues of Turkmenbashi.   The city center of the city is surprisingly void of people and it is very clean. Smoking is banned in all public areas, ever since the president quit smoking a decade ago.

Our ride through Turkmenistan started from the port in Turkmenbashi (named after the President).  We were a day behind schedule because the ferry was late arriving so we rode 80 kms in the desert heat before putting everyone on a bus to drive 290 kms closer to Ashgabat so we could ride the last two days into the city.  On the way we stopped at a salt lake for cool dip. Initially we had problems with the police, who were very concerned for our safety and were not happy with our diversion from the route, but eventually we were allowed to swim and interact with the locals who had also shown up for a dip.  The next day we were very lucky.  The blazing summer sun was subdued by cloud cover and the wind was in our favor.  Most riders covered the 140 kms to camp 4 to 5 hours.  We camped at Kow Ata, an underground thermal lake and place of legend and myth for Turkmen.  Located at the bottom of a cave 175 meters down a steep stone staircase the green, sulfuric, thermal lake is said to have all kinds of healing properties.  Climbing back out of the cave and towards the light you feel like you are ascending back from the river Styx.  We’ve found the people of Turkmenistan to be very friendly and curious.  80’s music seems very popular here.  The restaurant where I had dinner last night played a loop of Bruce Springsteen videos on a big flat screen and the cab driver who took me to the large bazaar outside the city played hits from Rod Stewart, Huey Lewis and Depeche Mode.  The Tolkuchka bazzar was really interesting.  Held on Thursdays, Saturdays and Sunday it is a very different from the city itself.  You walk by camels and sheep being lead into trucks by their new owner as you weave your way thru the vegetable market and back into to the carpet area.  Nearby are men selling Turmen hats and cloaks and women selling old jewelry and wedding costumes.  It’s a lively place that really gives you a sense of the countries history.  Tomorrow we head out of the city towards Mary and eventually to the Turkmenbat and the border with Uzbekistan.  Only 8 riding days left on tour.

My heart sank a bit when I heard the ‘Ferry Overlord’ (I have no idea what his real title is) said there would be no ferry again today.  “100 percent no ferry?,.. no chance at all?” I pleaded.  “No ferry, maybe” was his cryptic reply.  Aydin, our local support and the bane of my existence at times flashed me an all to familiar look that at the same time expressed his disappointment but also managed to say ‘ this is not my fault’.  Aydin had actually been very helpful in Baku.  He knew the city well and was well connected.  I knew he was trying his best to organize the ferry crossing for us but it’s just not a process that lends itself to organization. 

First of all, no one seems to know exactly what building to go to get whichever set of papers you need to get your clients, or your van or the bikes on the ferry.  We walked around the compound a few times, asking in one office only to be sent to another office and eventually sent back to the original office.  Secondly, no one knows when the ferry will arrive in dock.  Our ferry was currently sitting a few miles off shore waiting for the train to arrive.  The ferries mostly carry train cars and trucks loaded with goods, or oil or coal or whatever…  If the train doesn’t arrive on time there is no point in the ferry docking because berthing fees are quite high and it’s free to float in the middle of the Caspian.  Thirdly, no one has any idea which ferry will arrive.  There are anywhere from 3 to 7 ferries between Turkmenbashy and Baku depending on who you ask.  For some reason that I could not seem to understand no one knows which one will arrive in port at any give time, until of course it actually arrives.  The prices for passengers and cargo are different for each ferry so you can’t buy a ticket until they know which one will dock.  The workers at the dock have a way of making you feel like you should somehow understand all this and act really bored when you ask questions that might possibly clarify how you are going to get across the Caspian Sea on one of their boats.  

The dock area has a sort of typical industrial look to it.  Pretty basic cement buildings and your smattering of portable buildings.  Strangely though there is a bar/restaurant right in the middle.  When we visited the docks at midnight to buy our tickets at midnight the place was alive with music and dancing.  Old, obviously wealthy men, sat in tight circles having private discussions.  The whole place had a gangster feel to it, like this was the group of people who actually ran the docks.  I wasn’t really in the party mood though.  Not having slept because at any moment the ferry overlord could call and tell me to come get my tickets now or risk missing the only ferry to arrive in 2 days.  We got the tickets from a nice lady in a well lit office who was polite and efficient.  Then we were sent down an alley and around the back of the compound to get the ticket for the Mercedes Van.  For a second I thought we had been sent down the wrong way ( I also had a strong feeling I was about to get mugged) but sure enough a few hundred yards down the alley was a dim light coming from an open door.  Inside were two men smoking cigarettes, drinking vodka and watching TV.  Everyone at the docks has their own TV in their office.  The ferry overlord always had his set to a music channel.  These guys were watching some kind of Turkish soap opera.  Aydin spoke to them and laughed with them and finally they wrote a ticket, I paid and they promised to call when the ferry was unloaded and ready to take passengers. 

At 5 am on the 19th we got the call to head to the docks.  At 7 am we cleared customs and climbed on to the ship where a large Russian women took our passports and tickets and gave us rooms.  ‘NYET NYET, I KEEP!”  She screamed at me when I politely asked if we could have our passports back.  I wasn’t going to argue.  The Ferry departed at 9 am on the 19th.  I SMS’d out local support in Turkmenistan the name of the ferry and the departure time so they hopefully would be able to meet us on the other side without too much hassle. 

The ferry itself was quite pleasant.  In contrast to the ferry from Aswan that we take on the Africa tour this ferry had almost no people on it.  The rooms were spacious and almost clean.  The restaurant served decent food ( although I’m not totally convinced that rabbit was actually rabbit, but the crew ate it as well so….) I spent most of my time up on deck in the sole lounge chair the boat had to offer, placed the shade of a bulkhead.  It was quiet, there was a cool breeze and I slept for a good 8 hrs. 

At 11:30 pm on the 19th we reached the gulf in Turkmenbashy.  I could see the lights of the city and still had hopes that maybe the tour would actually stay on schedule despite this crazy ferry.  Then I heard the anchor drop.  At 11 am on the 20th the anchor came back up and at 1 pm we docked.  At 5 pm on the 20th we had finally cleared customs and rode to the hotel.  Then the trip started to get surreal. 

We rode thru Turkmenbashy to a new area call Avazar.  Two years ago this place didn’t exist, it was nothing but desert.  Now there are dozens of kilometers of well lit streets snaking everywhere.  Some go nowhere, others are lined with 15 story hotels all lit with pastel flood lights like you’d see in Daytona beach.   There are discos and casinos and something called a Children’s Hotel, the Turkmeni version of summer camp.  Currently the Children’s Hotel was filled with 50 Hatians who had been rescued from the recent earthquakes there (really).  There is also a canal that takes water out of the Caspian only to return it back again 8 kms later.  You can take a boat trip on the canal for 3 manat ($1).  “To see the nice hotels and bridges” was the response I got when I asked why I would want to take a boat trip on the canal.  “ To see the bridges that were built so cars could drive over the canal?”  “Yes”. 

We are staying at the Kuwwat Hotel. It’s fabulous.  5 Star.  The showers are hot and powerful, the A/C is cold the beds are big and firm and the staff is really helpful.  We were supposed to stay the Hotel Hazar.  A 4 story soviet era hotel where the water is on for 2 hrs a day and the cockroaches help you clean up after dinner.  Our local support change the venue, at no cost to us, so that a TV crew could interview and film us riding our bikes in the new Avazar area.  Avazar is  kind of a pet project of the President to help bolster tourism on the Caspian.   The Caspian is beautiful here and the beaches are nice, the hotels that have been built are luxurious and ridiculously cheap for what they offer.  I guess the TV crew felt that if they filmed us riding near the Hazar and the President saw it he would be very upset that they had filmed tourists at a decrepit old building when he had just financed this beautiful new tourist area.  So we got a nice upgrade and they got a nice bit of propaganda.  Fair enough.  If the rest of Turkmenistan is as interesting as this I’m gonna love it.

Welcome to Azerbaijan, Good Luck.  That’s what the sign at the border said. I’m not kidding.  It made me chuckle as I passed under the sign on the way to immigration.  I had no idea how prescient that sign would turn out to be.  We’d been warned.  Our support staff in Azerbaijan would be difficult to communicate with and wouldn’t be good with details, I thought I was prepared.  I crossed the border first, to meet Aydin and Araz.  Immediately I could see that communication would be tough.  Aydin spoke very broken English and Araz none at all.  No big deal.  I’ve dealt with these situations before, just talk slowly, use hand signs, repeat yourself often.  I went over the route, three times.  I explained how our system of lunch and dinner and flagging works, how may riders we have, asked about where we were staying etc.. etc…  “NO PROBLEM, NO PROBLEM, I ARRANGE EVERYTHING was Aydin’s response (Aydin doesn’t speak as much as yell).  Well.  At the end of the day we had a 3 day transit paper for our vehicle (our trip thru Azerbaijan would take 5 days).  We missed a turn and took a route that was 20 kms longer than it should have been, and our hotel had been double booked.  Welcome to Azerbaijan, good luck. 

The good news is that Azerbaijan is a beautiful country, the riding was easy, the riders took everything in stride, and we all made it safely to the Karavanserai in Sheki (a beautiful and historic Silk Route hotel).  Over the next few days we would face similar frustrations but also have some really nice experiences.  I visited a village in the Caucus Mountains where for 4 generations they have made carpets, rugs and pillows by hand.  The men herd sheep and shear the wool.  The women dye the wool using plants and soil and weave it into intricate patterns. A small bath mat sized rug taking a month to make and larger ones up to 4 months.  We sat with them and had chai, homemade bread and cheese from sheep’s milk.  The view from the house was stunning and family was as welcoming as any I have met.  Experiences like that make all the frustration worthwhile, in fact the frustration make those experiences even better.  As I write this now I am in Baku.  The issue with the van has been sorted out, I’ve had a nap and shower and it seems that the upredictable ferry to Turkmentistan might actually leave on the 18^th as planned.

Aydin, our local guide, is obviously well connected in Baku.  As frustrating as it was to work with him on out route to the capital city once we arrived he helped to arrange visas, ferry tickets and to fix our problem with the van with efficiency and confidence.  He is an interesting character.  He studied tourism in school in the Soviet union (Azerbaijan was part of the Soviet union until 1991) and travelled all over the USSR as a tour guide.  He is affable, in a coarse way, generous at times and we had some fun moments together, in between yelling at each other.  Now that we are settled in Baku and will (hopefully) be on the ferry to Turkmenbashi the day after tomorrow I think the time spent with Aydin and Araz will be one of the better memories of the trip. 

“To our good memories and plans!”  That was the eighth or ninth toast of the night from our local guide Zaza.  We were at a local restaurant in Tblisi eating some of the most delicious food I’ve had in long time.  The meal consisted of six or seven courses starting with bread and salads then cheeses and moving on to dumplings, 3 kinds of Kebap, chicken, and finally homemade ice cream.  I was really hungry when we sat down so I began eating salad and bread voraciously when Zaza explained me I must go “slowly slowly” there was much more to come.  In addition to the many plates of food there were two kinds of local wine, local beer and of course, vodka on the table.  The Georgians have a tradition of toasting that is unparalleled in my experience.  Usually the oldest man at the table leads the toasts.  They progress in a particular order.  Starting with a toast to our ancestors, then our families, then our countries.  Then, after that warm feeling has thoroughly settle into your being the toast become more personal and more elaborate.  When it comes to enjoying food and drink the Georgians are true professionals.  

Our entry into Georgia was fairly easy.  The Georgian government is very pro-west (one of the reasons they fought a war with the Russians in 2008) so we didn’t even need visas.  Initially the roads from the border were very rough and it looked like it was going to be a long day.  But after only 15 or 20 kms the rough dirt turned o pavement and the rough, rocky, mountains of Turkey are transformed into the lush rolling green hills that characterize this part of Georgia.  The weather was warm, the breeze that was blowing was cool as we began to follow the Kura  river towards Tblisi.  

Georgia has been a wonderful surprise.  From the border we passed thru very rural areas where people live primarily as farmers and shepherds.  There is a large Armenian population in this part of the country and Russian is as common a language as Georgian.  Talking to one of our local support guides, Dato, who works as an archeologist at the national museum I learned so many fascinating things about the country.  Georgia was the setting of Jason and the Argonauts quest for the golden fleece, the oldest human remains found outside of Africa were discovered here (2.5 million BC), Christianity first came here in 400 AD, there are 27,000 rivers in Georgia…. The list was endless and made for great conversation on our drives to lunch every day.   Dato is obviously very proud of his county (as he should be) and continually in our conversations he would bring up the countries desire for peace and a stable democratic government.  The current president has apparently made great progress towards those ends by reforming the police, improving infrastructure and encouraging tourism.  But Georgia is a small country that shares a historical and cultural history with Iran, Russia, and Turkey and too often in its past the hunger for other nations to expand their boundaries have negatively impacted its progress and growth. 

Arriving in Tblisi we found a completely different Georgia.  Split into two parts, the old city and the new, Tblisi is pumping with energy.   Everywhere you look the city is being renovated.  From new pedestrian malls to cultural centers and the rehabilitation of 14^th century churches the city is improving at a rapid pace. It’s an attractive city (and not just because of Georgian women) and an easy city to walk around.  There are public art installations everywhere and dozens of cafes, art shops and stores lining the cobbled streets in the old city.  In the new city the vibe is very different.  From freedom square (so named in 2002 when Georgians held public demonstrations there to declare their independence) west the small locally owned shops gives way to Dolce and Gabana, Versace and large commercial banks.  There are quite a few beggars on the streets, an indication that while many in Georgia have found ways to make a decent living there are still many that have not. 

I’d love to have more time to explore Tblisi, the Caucus mountains in the northwest, the wine county in the east and the deserts in the south.  We spend only 5 days in country and certainly we only get a glimpse of what it has to offer.  But it’s a nice appetizer to be sure and someday I plan to come back and enjoy some more.

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!