Superpedalet@s

DIA 352-357 - The End of the Road... (El final del camino)

2008-10-24T07:42:00.000-07:00

Perpignan-Besalu-Ripoll-Solsona-Balaguer-Villanueva de Sigena-Zaragoza!! Dt = 14562 Km

The End of the Road...

Angel can't stop smiling. We have crossed the border into Spain. 'Look how clear it is here', he says, pointing at the road signs. Freeway signs are blue while the main road signs are white. The number pertaining to the freeways and highways are clearly marked. 'Now THIS is civilisation'. He talks to as many people as possible whenever we stop. Because he can. I also bask in the ability to communicate with the locals.

The excitement does not wear off as we hit the Pyrenees in earnest. Angel is at home with the sights, the sounds, the smells. It is new for me though. Beautiful and as exotic as Italy or France. As usual, it is hard in the mountains. We are psyched to get to Zaragoza and push the kilometres, so it is a strenuous six days. We spend four of those days in Catalonia before passing over into Aragon. One of the most wonderful aspects of Spain is its diversity. All of the signs were in Catalan - an apparent mix of Spanish and French. Considering the history of the region as located on the Spanish-French border, the language does not really come as a surprise. When we do cross into Aragon, it is clear that Catalonia is the richer - and more political - province. The sign for Aragon was humble and graffiti-ed by Catalan 'independentistas´. On the other side of the road, the sign for Catalonia was new, pristine, and decorated with the flag of the region.

In Aragon the landscape remains exotic for me, but Angel gets more and more excited. The Pyrenees drop behind us, and soon we enter the Monegros - a semi-arid landscape with wide open spaces which at times remind me of northern Iran and eastern Turkey. The Monegros outside Zaragoza are particularly known as a battleground in the Spanish civil war (1936-1939). The nationalists (Franco´s team) and republicans (communists, socialists, anarchists, etc) fought it out in the Monegros for over three years, the Republicans trying unsuccessfully to wrest Zaragoza from nationalist clutches. The trenches are still evident but the war was also fought neighbour against neighbour in the nearby villages - if partisans fled, their families were often killed instead. For a more complete story, read Aitor's very interesting comment in the Italian section of this blog...if you can read Spanish! The most famous Republican in the English-speaking world is George Orwell. His book 'Homage to Catalonia' is all about fighting in the trenches near Zaragoza.

About 40kms away from Zaragoza a car comes towards us honking madly. It is Angel's mother, sister, grandma and Chamán the dog. Excited, the adrenalin pumping, we cycle the short distance to the village of Leciñena, meet the family in a restaurant, and have the Spanish standard (and nearly always delicious) three course meal before completing our journey into Zaragoza.

We ride into the centre of town - the Basilica of Pilar dominates a gigantic plaza - crossing the river Ebro. On the bridge we are greeted by Salva and Alba, two of Angel's friends. Others are waiting on the far side, family and friends. We take photos of the Arrival and then go for a beer.

I am so tired that I can't keep my eyes open, and have to blink constantly. We are both incredibly happy. It hasn't really hit me yet that I have ridden over 8000kms between Kathmandu and Zaragoza (Angel's grand total, all the way from Indonesia, stands at 14 562kms!). I wonder if the distance will ever feel real. So many memories, so many places, they don't all fit in the head at once. An amazing experience. I remember feeling on the point of giving up all the way back in India, but in the end, I found a rhythm, and our nomadic lifestyle became normal. Having said that, I will be happy to live a sedentary lifestyle for a while. Clean clothes, showers, beds, just being inside...life can be just so wonderfully comfortable!

But who knows how long it will be before we once again yearn for the open road, the freedom of travelling by bicycle. For anyone who is considering a bike trip of epic proportions, do it!! Although it can test your endurance on many an occasion, the rewards are truly enormous.

El final del camino

Hace frío, mucho frío. No es el frío húmedo de los Pirineos de hace dos días. Es el frío seco y afilado de los Monegros quien se cuela a través de nuestras múltiples capas. Nos acabamos de levantar. Las estrellas, al igual que las farolas de Villanueva de Sigena, todavía no se han apagado. Es un poco más temprano que de costumbre. Es el último día, son los últimos kilómetros, las últimas pedaleadas, las últimas curvas de la carretera, las últimas fotos... El Sol, eterno y fiel compañero, no tardara en salir para pedalear junto a nosotros la jornada final. Seran casi cien kilómetros.

El paisaje ha cambiado drásticamente. El verdor brillante de las praderas pirinaicas salpicadas por el ocre de las hayas otoñales ha desaparecido. Su lugar lo ocupa el pardusco campo monegrino salpicado por sabinas verde mate. En los Pirineos tuve el primer sentimiento de estar ya en casa. Las formas y colores de las montañas me eran familiares, y las hayas, los avellanos, los robles y los pinos rojos impregnaban el aire con esa mezcla de aromas tan característica de ese lugar tan querido. Ahora, aquí en medio de los Monegros, el sentimiento de estar en casa es absoluto. Los campos de trigo segados, las sabinas torcidas, y allá, al fondo del escenario, impasibles al tiempo, las Tres Sorores. Todo parece estar en su sitio, no hay sorpresas no hay dudas, me conozco el camino a casa.

A mitad de mañana el Sol empieza a calentar con cierta intensidad y dejamos caer algunas de nuestras capas. Pierdo la vista en el horizonte del seco desierto y mi mente se desconecta. Un grito de "Hallo Mister" lanzado por un indonesio desde un ribazo me devuelve a la realidad. Unos metros mas adelante un conductor tailandés nos cede el paso con una amplia sonrisa. Justo después un chino en bicicleta nos mira con curiosidad al cruzarse con nosotros. De repente parece como si la soledad del desierto estuviese cobrando vida por todas partes. Un grupo de turistas indios nos echan el alto, nos hacen el interrogatorio de rigor y nos someten a una sesión fotográfica. Nos conseguimos librar de ellos, pero poco después nos encontramos con un iraní, me da la mano y después se toca el corazón, segundos después tengo la alforja llena de manzanas. Se va acercando la hora del té así que cedemos a las insistentes invitaciones del gasolinero turco. Acabado el té proseguimos el camino. No es exactamente como yo lo recordaba y empiezo a sospechar que todo es fruto de mi imaginación cuando lo veo. Algunas dirán que estoy loco, que no es posible, pero yo lo vi y era real. Allí adelante en la carretera, a un escaso centenar de metros, había dos bicis con alforjas inconfundibles. Eran Diego y Rose pedaleando como siempre uno al lado del otro, jugando al juego de chocar alforjas y mirar pajaritos, dándose la mano por unos segundos. Si, eran ellos, no hay duda. Y todavía unos metros mas allá pude ver a William vestido de naranja que se escapaba hacia el infinito. Fueron tan solo unos segundos. Luego todos desaparecieron tras un badén.

Tras la comida en Leciñena todo pasó muy rápido. Nada tuvieron que ver las emociones en la aceleración de mi pulso cardiaco, fue la mezcla de vino y café. Perdiguera llego sin darnos cuenta, luego molinos y mas molinos, después Villamayor y yo que me meo otra vez y con esta van tres en menos de una hora. Cartel de Zaragoza, Santa Isabel, puente sobre el Gállego y al fondo de la avenida Cataluña ¡las torres del Pilar! Entramos en la Jota y mi burra que ya huele su viejo establo se arranca con un tacón-punta-tacón, y yo le acompaño con:

¿Por qué vienen tan contentos los labradores?
que cuando vienen del campo vienen cantando
Ya vienen del ver el fruto de sus sudores
porque las espigas de oro ya van granando

Las piernas pedalean por si solas, la boca se seca, el estomago en modo centrifugado, algo se mete en el ojo ¡y ahí están los grandes y verdes leones vigilando el Puente de Piedra! Entramos sin bacilar, un león nos guiña el ojo y una vez arriba tomamos el puente. Es nuestro, aunque sea solo por unos segundos, que pite el autobusero si quiere porque sí ¡HEMOS LLEGADO!

Abajo las tranquilas aguas del Ebro reflejan los últimos rayos del Sol que se esconde tras el Pilar. De repente aparece algo totalmente inesperado: ¡Salva y Alba! Han recibido un chivatazo y se unen a la toma del puente. Bajamos el puente y nos encontramos con Diego, Ainoa, la tía Lola, la sobrina y la madre que la parió. Sesión de fotos y ronda de cañas de rigor y a casa a descasar.

Mientras subimos cansados y satisfechos hacia La Paz nos vamos despertando de un sueño. Durante muchos meses y muchos kilómetros hemos cruzado culturas y ambientes completamente diferentes; hemos llevado una vida de nómada; hemos improvisado cada día; hemos vivido una experiencia tan intensa como alucinante, con muchísimos buenos momentos y alguno que otro malo. Ha merecido la pena. Es tarde, nos vamos a dormir. Es hora de despertar en el siguiente sueño.

DIA 348-351 - Getting Pampered in Perpignan

2008-10-18T02:07:00.001-07:00

Perpignan

We stay in Perpignan for four days. My parents are in Europe and are coming down to say hello, making sure that we don't slack off on the last leg across the Pyrenees.

It is not the first time for my mother - she made the pilgrimage to Rishikesh in India while we were staying there to get my thesis finished. She came laden with goodies from Australia...vegemite, lettuce, wine...and a laptop computer so that I could do my work overlooking the Ganges. One of my most beautiful memories of India is sitting on the terrace of the hotel working on that computer while the light faded, changing the colour of the water to a deeper grey, the sound of chanting starting up on the far bank, ever watchful for the monkeys which used the terrace as a major thoroughfare.

While I was working in Rishikesh, Angel and my mother went out God-hunting in temples full of devout Indian tourists, and sought out their inner hemisphere in the ashram which the Beatles made famous. My mother also found the time to do a course in reiki and, unlike other Western tourists who go to India to find a guru, she reversed the roles and became a guru to her young Indian reiki teacher instead!

But Perpignan could not be further from those Indian memories of cows and chaos. My parents treat us to luxury - we stay in a very comfortable modern hotel, and sleep for two nights on a bed in a temperature-controlled room. It is so wonderfully comfortable that we toss and turn all night accustomed as we are to sleeping in our tiny tent, not being able to move because our sleeping bags are zipped together for warmth, both pairs of feet in the boot of Angel's sleeping bag.

We also get treated to dinner in a traditional French restaurant which is such a pleasure that we all troop back the following night. Frogs legs are on the menu as proof of authenticity. On Saturday we take a walk to the old Perpignan citadel completed in 1309 by King James II of Mallorca. The citadel was effectively the front line between the kingdoms of Aragon and France but, finally, France (formally) nabbed Perpignan from the Spanish in 1649.

On Sunday morning my parents leave early to take the long train trip back to Paris. Seeing them was really wonderful...the next time we see them will hopefully be 500kms away from Perpignan, just across the Pyrenees in (modern day) Aragon...At 11am, after dallying in our comfortable hotel room for as long as possible, we set off towards Zaragoza.

DIA 341-347 - Trials and Tribulations

2008-10-14T04:03:00.000-07:00

Cannes-Le Muy-Tretts-Salon-Alboran-Frontignan-Beziers-Perpignan Dt = 14057 km

The playgrounds of the rich and famous. We fly by Monaco, Nice and Cannes in a day. The French Riviera is not really our scene. In Monaco we marvel at the hype the royal family have created for a charmless city. We are not supposed to bring bicycles so close to the Disneyland-style casino, apparently, and a swaggering young policeman confiscates our passports. We protest at the overreaction. He rings someone to record our vital statistics, and informs us that we are in a police state before finally giving back our passports. We are happy to leave Monaco, glad to return to the more civilised France.

The main attraction of Nice, the next stop on the Riviera, was a wonderful long bicycle path beside the sea. There is a general acceptance of cyclists in France, we have found. And, further down the coast, Cannes had a certain je-ne-sais-quois. Perhaps it was the air of old money...not the place to go if you are on a budget!

The French Riviera may be popular among tourists, but Provence was the real gem. Provence is like Tuscany in Italy - quite ridiculously beautiful and much less built-up than the Riviera. We were lucky with the weather too. No clouds and a little nippy. Great for cycling. Cars gave us a wide berth and drivers ceded right of way with a smile. The towns were charming. Aix-en-Provence in particular had a wide shady boulevard and a laidback elegance. People in Provence were friendly and helpful and interested in what we were doing. 'Bon courage' said an old lady giving us fresh bottles of water to replace our mangy-looking bottles. 'Bon courage' reiterated a lady in a caravan park who would accept no money for our long shower and mammoth clothes washing session.

The best part of the day was midmorning coffees in little towns, sitting out on sunlit pavements, watching the world go by with mouths full of brioche or croissant. Ahhh, the colours, the vibrancy of Provence. Not surprising that people like Van Gogh have fallen in love with the place. No one had to tell us that we had left the region. Cycling became a little more tense. Some cars (not as many as in the Balkans, to be fair) felt niggled by our presence and tooted their annoyance. A truckdriver felt the need to toot and shout at us because the road had narrowed. As if the road malfunction was our fault and we had somewhere to go to get out of his way. I then felt the need to flip him the finger, which led to him stopping his truck to indulge in some road rage. The fact that I was a girl took the wind out of his sails - he hadn't realised because it was raining and I was wearing my hood. So, instead of slowing down the minute necessary to pass us, he lost about five. There have been many friendly truckdrivers in France who have shared the road with us. It is a shame that there still exists a minority with brains the size of peas. And I know that flipping the finger is neither a dignified nor a feminine thing to do, but I think of it as a replacement horn...it is my way of tooting!

Finally, cycling into Perpignan was a nightmare. A lot of traffic going extremely fast, and the roads with very little shoulder for cyclists. Unsurprisingly, the numerous cyclists we had seen along the French Riviera and in Provence completely dried up. The most terrifying moment came when we very nearly ended up as collateral damage in a police car chase. We had reached a section of the road which had some shoulder - not much but enough for bicycles to fit. Two cars had just gone past us when a third car travelling at an insanely fast speed dog-legged in front of us onto the shoulder, almost cleaning us up in the process. The space was so narrow that the car almost blindsided the cars in front as it went past. The police were right behind, sirens blaring, but did not pull the same stunt. We had to stop so that my heart had a chance to start beating again. A few seconds earlier or slower reflexes on the part of the carjackers, and there is no way we would have survived.

So it was a relief to get to Perpignan in one piece. In Spain we will be choosing small roads as much as possible. And as far as France is concerned? We have been delighted by people's friendliness overall, thoroughly recommend Provence, and have been overindulging in cheeses. The French sure know how to whip up a fine Brie and Camembert...

DIA 333-340 - Musings on Italy

2008-10-07T03:57:00.000-07:00

Siena-Pisa-La Spezia-Chiavari-Genova-Imperia-Ventimiglia-Cannes Dt = 13525 Km

As we ride along in Italy, Tuscan hills dressed with vineyards and sprinkled with young forest give way to the Arvo Valley between Florence and Pisa. The coast to Genoa is extremely hilly - the Alps are starting to take hold. We go over a mountain pass to get to the sea. From Genoa to the French border the Alps are so close you can almost reach out and touch them, and every piece of even vaguely flat land along the coast is taken. But it is all beautiful. The only day in Italy which has not been a delight on the eyes was the day between Siena and Pisa - the valley looked very industrialised. The two cities we stop at are Siena and Genoa. Siena reminds Angel of Florence to the extent that he thought he may have actually been confused about the name of the city! I like knowing there is such similarity. The old buildings give me an idea of the urban landscape of 15th century Florence - my current fascination.

15th century Florence is synonymous with the Renaissance. But it is the Medici family rather than the painters which fascinates me. The famous bankers, politicians, patrons of the (religious) arts. These three aspects of the Medici are interconnected. Ursury (lending money at interest) was such a grave sin in medieval Christianity that if you wanted to be a banker, you had to make sure that you were relatively untouchable and were in a position to influence laws regarding money (politician),and also that your eternal soul would be saved by giving liberally to the Church and having paintings commisioned where your name saint is a star player (see Dante for what happens to bankers down in hell). The Catholic Church was not adverse to bankers; in fact, successive popes were the Medicis' biggest clients, but still one had to be careful.

The Renaissance, or rediscovery of ancient Greek and Roman knowledge seemed to have a lot to do with working out how one could build up riches on earth and still make it into the kingdom of heaven. Christianity did not fulfil the needs of the people who wanted to have fun in this life, and they needed to construct their moral base in a different way...all the time remaining staunchly Christian!

There is a possible reason why a little room to manoeuvre opened up in the Catholic world (apart from the obviously covetous nature of the Vatican). Everybody was dying. People started dying in Europe in 1348 when the Genovese brought the Black Death to Sicily. Apparently, Genovese merchants had been in a town in the Crimea, and invading Mongols began throwing plague-ridden corpses over the city walls to infect the general populace.Genoa had a fruitful alliance with the Byzantines and, therefore, access to the East and the Crimea. (Genoa is also located on what used to be an extremely important trade route. Trade routes changed in the end, and the Genovese also lost territories such as Sardinia, which they had acquisitioned as a result of power generated by successful trade. Trade routes changed and they lost all their territories in the end, but it was good while it lasted, and Genoa remains an elegant city with lofty arcades, palaces and finely turned out old buildings...although some are badly in need of a clean...)

Back to the Genovese merchants fleeing the city in the Crimea. They tried to return home, but only made it as far as Sicily. All the sailors in the merchants' fleet died of the Plague, and people looting the ghost ships had no idea what was in store. Nor did Europe. It is estimated that Europe lost around a third of its population, and in many cities, this statistic was closer to a half. The priest and monks were among the first to go since it was their duty to care for the sick. So all of this was fertile ground for social upheaval. It is extremely difficult to imagine the horror and trauma and fear that the Black Death (considered now to be the Bubonic Plague) must have produced. It was not until the 1700s that outbreaks ceased altogether.

So the Medici were banking away in a very insecure world. Good directors of banks were hard to find and, once found, they may suddenly die. However, the Medici did manage to find a few directors who lived for long enough to prove lucrative. The bank had branches in Florence, Rome, Venice, Genoa and Ancona, not to mention their internationhal branches in cities such as London and Bruges. The Medici would be extremely proud of today's world.

All in all, we would have liked to learn more, to explore Florence and Venice in particular. But that will have to wait for another trip...

DIA 329-332 - Italia: The Land of Lycra

2008-09-30T06:53:00.000-07:00

Split - Ancona-Jesi-Gubbio-Foiano de Chiana-Siena Dt = 12948 Km

We catch a night ferry from Split to Ancona in Italy and wake up in Europe. I try not to contemplate the next mountain range we have to ride over - the Appenines. Luckily, there is not too much time lost in contemplation since we ride over the Appenines in a day. I am still not sure how that happened, but we came shooting down the side of a mountain into rolling hills around late afternoon.

The next day is spent cruising along a valley. This is where we start blending with a crowd. It is Sunday and the hardcore Italian cyclists are out and about, zooming past us at great speeds, clad in full-body lycra with plenty of publicity across their chests and the usual clashing of colours. So we do not blend quite as well as we do in my imagination, but at least they are on bicycles! They shout out a 'ciao' as they become specks on the horizon.

In fact, it is not just the Tour de France contenders who ride bikes in this country, it is everyone. Which makes a wonderful change. Cyclists have been few and far between since India, and here in Italy we are accepted on the roads as opposed to being chased off them by buses and trucks. In little Italian villages every age group pedals about, although some nonnas have electrified their bikes, so they whizz past with only a few desultory pedalling actions. The villagers tend not to cycle in lycra, however. The lycra club is reserved for males who are capable of cycling a 10 second kilometre.

So the roads are narrow in Italy as well, but we all fit. It is still a novelty hearing car horns which are not directed at us. The other novelty is drinking a mid-morning coffee that is not so strong that it has an amphetamine effect for the rest of the day (In the Balkans, everyone is completely wired on coffee!). Italy is truly a civilised cycling destination.

DIA 328 - The Split of Diocletian

2008-09-25T06:20:00.000-07:00

Stari Grad - Split

DIA 325-327 - The Quiet Islands

2008-09-24T05:06:00.000-07:00

Dubrovnik - Drace - Sucuraj - Stari Grad Dt = 12674 Km

Croatia has a coastline littered with islands. Yachts sail tranquilly between these islands, and mountains reach skyward. Cycling is common here, but there is friction between cars and bikes because the roads are narrow. When there are no cars, the scenery and the peace are enchanting. We ride through vineyards and olive groves, up to the top of mountains, then whistling down to the sea, then up again. The average tourist is middle-aged: You need to have earned some money before coming on a civilised retreat such as this. Most people do not dive into the bushes as the sun sets and camp, like we do...

Today we are on the island of Hvar, said to be the greenest of Croatia's 1000 or so islands. It stretches at right angles from the coast. Last night we slept in an olive grove and there were no clouds so we could star gaze. Perfect. The islands are large - Hvar is more than 80kms long. It is an island for people who crave serenity on their holidays. There is little to do but stare meditatively at the turquoise sea (it is too cold to swim) or kill yourself cycling up and down mountains. Most people choose the former option, but we have met more fellow cyclists here than anywhere else on the trip....although they are not such long haul travellers!

The only downside of the Dalmatian coast is the rain. When the sun comes out and warms the pine needles up in the mountains enough to produce a heady aroma, and fluffy clouds scud across the sky and wrap themselves around the higher coastal mountains, and the sea twinkles far far below, it is paradise on earth. When it rains, it is cold, and it is hard to keep things dry, and the squeak-squeak of a bike chain washed free of grease reminds you of the unhappiness of your beloved steed. Today it is fine and we are in heaven.

DIA 323-324 - Dubrovnik (Ragusa)

2008-09-21T04:42:00.000-07:00

Cipili - Dubrovnik

I am a 16th Century Venetian Cloth Merchant

Hello. My name is Pietro Dandolo. Women love me for my charming manners and my fine length of leg. But I am even better known as a talented and highly successful cloth merchant. The only cloth merchants more successful than I live in a Godforsaken city named Ragusa. The merchants of Ragusa thieve our trade, and must be stopped.

They have 200 merchant ships in their fleet. It is the biggest fleet in the world. We need to rule over them once more so that we may share in their good fortune. In the Year of Our Lord 1205 we took their city, and they were forced to pay us tribute. We also took freely from their supplies of silver, hides and wax. The position of rector of the city was allotted to a Venetian. However, we lost our claim to the city in 1358 - Ragusa fell into the control of the Hungarians.

The situation worsened when the infidel Ottomans began terrorising Europe. One day they will be judged by God, just as the Byzantines were judged and found wanting, but that day has not yet arrived. The citizens of Ragusa pay a thousand gold coins to the Porte, and these handed over with the honeyed words of the shrewd diplomat. The Gran Signore (our name for the Sultan) left them alone, and their unholy alliance has given them trading rights with the infidel. They trade freely with the East and with the West, all the way to Syria, Egypt, France and Spain. They specialise in glass-blowing, weaving, textiles, and they have recently started trading in salt. They put their consulates all over the world - they know the latest intrigues and sell others the political information they have gleaned. They would no doubt deliver up their grandmothers if the price was right.

True, their city is beautiful, in similar tradition to Venice. In 1292 regulations were laid down, and everyone must abide by these, from successful merchants like me to lowly butchers. Windows and doors must be just so and houses made of stone. Their sewage system has lasted over 100 years and perhaps will last into a new millenium. The main street is paved and plays with the light in the most delightful way. A huge fountain near the entrance of the city brings in water from eight miles hence. The city holds wheat silos filled with wheat, and the citizens continue to construct additional fortifications to protect themselves against our might. The Fransciscans, Dominicans and Benedictines all have churches within the city walls.

Nevertheless, I pray to God everyday to let justice be done. These so-called Catholics do business with infidel. I would never sully the beauty of my rolls of cloth by allowing ungodly hands upon them. The citizens of Ragusa may pride themselves upon their diplomacy, but I predict that a man named Napoleon Bonaparte will take the city in 1808, and that the city will later be ceded to the Austrians. My intuition tells me so. God always judges in the end.

Now I must leave you. The brothel calls, and it would not be gentlemanly to keep the ladies waiting.

DIA 320-322 - Montenegro: Cycling Over a Cliff

2008-09-19T04:11:00.000-07:00

Koplik - Podgorice - Lovcen - Cipili Dt = 12433 Km

Up and down, up and down, all the way from Thessaloniki, but a lot more up than down. All of this gradual ascent led us to Monte Negro, the mountain after which the country is named, and then over a cliff, down-down-down to the sea far below. There are more than 25 switchbacks the drop is so steep, and the view from the top, just as the sun was setting is overwhelmingly beautiful.

DIA 317-319 - Albania: Riders in the Storm

2008-09-16T03:49:00.000-07:00

Struga - Elbasan - Rinos - Koplit Dt = 12235 Km

We are sitting in a tiny roadside restaurant in Albania while the rain pours down outside. The restaurant is cozy, but my legs in soaking wet bike pants are freezing. Thunder growls. We have just finished eating a huge plate of lamb cooked on a covered spit outside, a generous salad, chips and plenty of freshly baked bread. Amazing how much you can eat when you are cold!

The two people working here look like brother and sister. They are the best-looking Albanians we have seen all day - we rode over the FYROM-Albanian border this morning. They smile constantly. At the moment they are outside with a fresh goat, but it gets hung from a tree, waiting to be prepared for the spit. The old man at the next table is ploughing his way through the head of the last spitted goat. He has eaten the eyes first.

The restaurant is a small outfit with only four tables and a red lino floor. The side facing the street is encased in glass. The kitchen is tiny. I followed the sister in earlier to point at what we wanted to eat. The brother is cutting the innards out of the goat hanging from the tree. It is still raining heavily.

It is Sunday today and we notice that everyone is wearing their Sunday best. Strange in a predominantly Moslem country. During the long Ottoman occupation many Albanians converted to Islam, and many of those who preferred to stay Christian Orthodox went to Italy. Albanians were then generally treated well by the Turks, and often helped the Turks in quelling Orthodox uprisings in the region.

We stay in the restaurant for two hours waiting for the heavy rain to abate. It doesn't, so we finally head off downstream. The three days we spend in Albania are stormy. Albania will be forever etched in my memory as the land of the long black cloud...

DIA 315-316 - "FYROM"

2008-09-13T03:30:00.000-07:00

Niki - Resen - Struga Dt = 11988 Km

En route to Thessaloniki a policeman was angry with Angel. The conversation started pleasantly enough, and the policeman asked Angel where we were headed after Greece. Angel said 'Macedonia'. Wrong answer. The policeman told us in no uncertain terms that we were in Macedonia and we were headed to FYROM (the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia).

The Greeks have a right to be angry, considering that original Macedonia is an extremely important region in the national psyche. It is not even correct to say that the whole of FYROM was conquered by Alexander the Great, thereby becoming part of Greater Macedonia: He only conquered a small part of the region which currently constitutes FYROM. We agreed with the Greeks on the issue, and were curious about the choice of name. We then also became worried about the people when a woman near the Greek-FYROM border told us that the people in FYROM would try to rob us, and it was unsafe to camp.

It was therefore an absolute delight to find the people of FYROM warm, friendly and helpful. It took two days to ride through the country, but only because we tried to prolong our stay. There are a mere two million people, which leaves the roads relatively free of cars. Horses and carts and tractors were also regular features - nice when you are travelling by bike because they travel at the same speed! Many people have ties with Australia, and one man bought us both a drink because I was Australian. Food was tasty and very cheap - real coffee cost 50 euro cents. Internet worked and Windows was in English for the first time on this trip (not great for the Macedonians that there is not enough of a market for Macedonian version, but great for us!). The mountains were beautiful and lush. It was hard to leave in the end.

So yes, the right of the Macedonians to borrow a Greek name and heritage is dubious (although, when they first started fighting for their independence before the First World War, the region DID include what is currently known as Greek Macedonia. Greeks were apportioned this land by the Great Powers after the defeat of Ottoman Turkey). But the country itself? A real pleasure. We vote FYROM our favourite Balkan country!

DIA 312-314 - Rumbo a Yugoslavia?

2008-09-11T03:19:00.000-07:00

Peristera - Pella - Edessa - Niki Dt = 11877 Km

DIA 304-311 - Mount Olympus

2008-09-08T07:53:00.000-07:00

Vergina - Meteora - Pelion Peninsula - Mount Olympus - Peristera

I have dreamed of Mount Olympus since I was little. Ever since my imagination was set on fire by Greek mythology, the home of the Greek gods was a shadowy place, majestic and unreal. It was, and still is, difficult to believe that one can ascend its peaks with no superhuman powers - just sweat and sturdy knees.

There is a village called Litohoro which lies between Mount Olympus and the sea. We followed the advice of our Greek host Versilios, and began and ended our three-day hike at this popular tourist destination. The beginning of our trail lay about 7kms out of town and we camped in a secluded spot nearby in order to get an early start the next morning. An early start meant 11am due to interesting breakfast conversation, and the usual feast of Spanish jamon and cheese brought over by Piluca and Ester.

Off we went, plodding up the mountain, finding a rhythm. Not unlike cycling up mountains: slip it into the lowest gear and no rapid movements. The views were magnificent. We could see all the way to the sea. I have never been up so high (outside an aeroplane!) and been able to see all that sparkling blue. Black pines gave way to a more alpine landscape above. Mountains are the most beautiful of places. I always feel such a sense of peace...and suffering! But there is no place I would rather be.

Mount Olympus is the name for the whole area and the highest peak is called Mitikas (2917m). There are two refuges about 300m lower than the peak and we stayed in one of these. It was bitterly cold due to the fierce wind, but in the night the wind dropped. I needed to go to the toilet around 2am and the landscape took my breath away. The air was still, the silence complete, and the stars arching across the heavens as bright as I had ever seen them.

The next morning we set out to scale Mitikas. The final 200m are a scramble and it is wise to leave backpacks below. Arrows point the way up the rock. It is easy climbing but formidable for anyone who has never climbed before. There is plenty of exposure, loose rock and, as Banjo Paterson would say, any slip is death. Piluca and Ester, both of whom have no climbing experience, did impressively well. It was wonderful to witness Ester's elation at making it to the top...which constituted a tiny little space filled with a cheerful group of climbers. There was a Russian couple who cracked open a bottle of champagne. It just had to be the Russians! We had a few sips of champagne to commemorate the occasion.

Going down, as usual, was harder than going up. Then, when we started descending along the path carved into the side of the mountain, it became more painful than scary. When it got dark, we hobbled as quickly as we could to a suitable camping spot close to a river. We slept in the open air, which was a delight, although my too-vivid imagination conjured up beetles living in the leafy groundcover crawling into ears.

In the morning, ears mercifully free of beetles, we set off, legs aching. It was the day of the Mount Olympus marathon - people almost completed what we were doing in three days in four hours (and two knees). It took our friend Versilios five hours, the lazy bastard! The first runners we egged on enthusiastically, especially the girls. But after the 100th runner on the narrow path, we decided that these sort of events destroyed the serenity of the mountains.

When we staggered into Litahoro like bedraggled (and smelly) rats, it was Piluca who was the most cheerful, thinking that we had been telling her how strong she was to encourage her, only realising belatedly that the 'youngsters' where in as much pain as she was!

And the gods? I hear you ask. The burning question. Are Zeus and Hera and Athena and all the rest really there? Or are they just a huge pile of...myth? The answer is yes, they are there. Not at the top of Mitikas - it is way too cosy up there for all twelve gods and goddesses. Not even up high when the mountain becomes alpine and the trees disappear. And not down below where the beeches grow. The gods live in the shadows of the black pines just below alpine level. If you stay still, or walk very quietly, they are all around. But they come to you only if you let them.

DIA 295-303 - Enter Macedonians Stage Left

2008-08-31T05:06:00.000-07:00

Istanbul - Kesan - Alexandropolis - Kavala - Peristera - Vergina Dt = 11651 Km

From Istanbul we catch a bus to a town close to the Turko-Greek border called Kesan. We are in a hurry to meet Piluca and Ester (Angel's mother and sister) in Thessaloniki. We ride like maniacs from Kesan to make it on time, and Thrace passes in a blur. But there is still a little time to think.

The Persian king Xerxes is the first historical figure to spring to mind. We are riding between the mountains and the sea. Did Xerxes march this route on his way to see to father Darius' unfinished business and defeat those pesky Greeks? I remember standing in the ruins of his palace at Persepolis near Shiraz in Iran. It has taken us almost two months to cycle. How long did it take Xerxes? How did he feed all his soldiers? There is some debate over how many soldiers were in the Persian army, but many scholars put the number at 250 000 men.

From Xerxes, it is an easy mental leap to Alexander the Great marching in the opposite direction. They are related in my thoughts ever since Persepolis. When Alexander conquered Persepolis in 330BC, he burned the place down. The fire started in Xerxes' palace and was rumoured to be revenge for Xerxes' destruction of the Acropolis in Athens over 100 years earlier. (Athens was completely destroyed. In a rare display of solidarity, many of the Greek states worked together to hold off the Persians. They failed to stop Xerxes from taking Athens, but he sacked an empty city. After the Greeks' defeat at Thermopylae, Themistocles, the ruler of Athens, made the wise decision to evacuate all the women and children, and the men retreated to Corinth, the next line of defence. The Greeks had Athens back in a year by using their navy to good effect). Nevertheless, I thought Alexander was an animal for burning a place of such staggering beauty when I was in Persepolis. I do not subscribe to the eye-for-an-eye idea when it comes to losing so much artwork!

When we are near Thessaloniki, we cycle up into the mountains to stay with Vasilios, a super-cyclist we have contacted through the Hospitality Club. Vasilios has cycled around the world. He travels between 2-3 times faster than us on his bike. We are impressed and also very grateful for his excellent hospitality and trip advice. He lives in a house he has made with his father on the outskirts of a little village called Peristera, and the views all the way to Thessaloniki and the sea are magnificent. His house is extremely relaxing and we get to sleep on a comfortable mattress. We leave our bikes with him for ten days, and go down to meet Piluca and Ester at Thessaloniki airport.

The four of us hire a car and head to Vergina. This is the site of Aegae, the ancient capital of Macedonia, otherwise known as the springboard for Alexander's sacking of the known world. So far, as you may have guessed, Alexander has not been my favourite historical bloodletter, but when it came to burying his father, Phillip II, the young man surprised everyone and stepped up to the plate. King Phillip, who paved the way for his son by converting Macedonia from a provincial backwater to a major Greek player, was assassinated in 336BC at the wedding of his daughter. Alexander gave his father the best burial ever and, as either luck or strategic planning would have it, Macedonian citizens were buried on top of Phillip's tomb. Grave robbers managed to get into surrounding tombs, but Phillip's tomb was left intact until 1984.

Everything found in the tomb and also the tomb itself are on display inside the original mound. The most important aspect of the burial was the supreme sacrifice of a young woman. Meda, one of Phillip's younger wives, sacrificed herself for her husband, and Alexander paid her the highest honour, giving her a gold crown, and putting her cremated remains in a box just as ornate as his father's to take with her to the underworld. This Thracian princess is now immortalised along with her husband - she made an interesting decision, but one that has paid off in the long term! A beautiful dinner set, washing implements, gold crowns and numerous precious items were also found in Phillip's tomb. Other tombs have also been discovered in this mound, including the tomb of Alexander's son, who was born after his father's death and assassinated as a little boy.

However, it is the tomb of King Phillip II of Macedonia in particular which offers us a window into Macedonia's golden age. It feels like the events which unfolded occurred in recent history rather than more than two millenia ago. Thank you Alexander. Nice to see you could do something more than lift a sword and light fires...

DIA 293-295 - Istanbul Not Constantinople

2008-08-23T07:45:00.000-07:00

Sinop - Istanbul

Catching a bus to Istanbul is not always straightforward. Our plan was to catch a bus from Sinop since we were running low on time. Little did we know that Sinop is extremely attractive if you are a Turkish family looking for a beach holiday. All the buses were booked solid for a week. This made our journey to Istanbul quite interesting, albeit a little stressful.

We rode out of Sinop and hitch-hiked to another town, which proved to take a very long time. When we arrived at the next town only the 'drama' bus had room for us. This bus stopped at every one-horse town all night and whenever new passengers joined us everyone was forced to play musical chairs. A lot of shouting ensued each time, and one time the bus conductor hit a passenger in the face. Quite naturally, the passenger was upset by this turn of events. The only problem was that he was travelling with his mother who was extremely large, and the conductor managed to hide behind her in the aisle. The woman fanned her face frantically and looked on the verge of fainting as her son uselessly tried to reach over her to hit the conductor. This all happened about 3cms away from my left leg. Angel, who had been sleeping, woke up and tensed: He appeared quite eager to join in but wanted to work out first who to punch!

Getting to Istanbul was therefore a relief. The Golden Horn seen in the pink dawn light across the water was enough to start the butterflies in the pit of my stomach. But there was no bridge, we did not think to take a ferry, and the bus drove us away. It took us all morning to get back again (metros and bicycles do not mix well). When we found a dodgy hotel and recovered some semblance of calm, we planned our tourist itinerary. Here are the highlights.

Our first stop was the Aya Sofia Museum. It was built by the Byzantines in the 6th century, not by Constantine as I had formerly supposed, but by Justinian. Both men appear in the building: If you look back at the last archway as you exit, these emperors are immortalised in golden mosaic. Constantine on one side offers Jesus the city of Constantinople (held out in his hands), and Justinian offers Jesus the Aya Sofia on the other side.

For almost 1000 years no one could replicate the Aya Sofia's feat of engineering: such an enormous, apparently unsupported space under a dome. The architects, Isidore of Miletus and Anthemius of Tralles, were derided at the time for attempting the impossible. Indeed, their dome fell down in an earthquake after 20 years, so the sceptics got their chuckle. But not the last laugh. Isidore's nephew, Isodorus the Younger worked out some new logistics, and Jesus got his Aya Sofia back again.

What I love most about the Aya Sofia, the amazing golden mosaics and the impressive architecture notwithstanding, is the religious tolerance it displays. Well, religious tolerance between Christians and Moslems. (The place was sacked by fellow Christians during the fourth crusade in the 13th century.) When the Ottomans sacked Constantinople in 1453, scimitars swinging, Mehmet the Conqueror hoisted up a few Koranic prayers, repainted the ceiling of the dome with lots of wordy praise to Allah, blocked out all the low-lying Byzantine saints and miscellaneous greybeards, and declared the place a mosque. He did not burn the place down, he did not desecrate it, he simply left the virgin Mary floating in space with little baby Jesus perched on her knee, put Koranic prayers on either side of her, and started praying.

Our next stop was Topkapi Palace, but we spent so long in the Aya Sofia that Topkapi had to wait until the next day. This palace was begun by Mehmet the Conqueror straight after he told everyone to stop calling Constantinople Constantinople and to start calling the place Istanbul. Then all the subsequent sultans added extra rooms, especially in the harem, to show that they had been through. There are four sections in the palace: one for the public, one where the public could meet with the vizier acting on the sultan's behalf, one for the harem, and one reserved solely for the sultan.

All the sections are breathtaking but the harem is the most fascinating. The day-to-day life of all the concubines and the hierarchy amongst them is easy to imagine. The favourite of the sultan often wielded great power, and heads rolled as a result of pillow talk. Roxelana, the concubine/wife of Suleyman the Magnificent in the 16th century managed to convince her man to kill his competent first born son so that her incompetent son had access to the throne. Then she had him kill his grand vizier for good measure.

The Ottomans were clever: They had so many children by all their concubines that there was plenty of family to defend the empire. On the downside, brothers got suspicious of each other and some were forced to stay in the harem where they grew debauched with so much sex and soft living. A few of these made it to the throne, and then had a large number of people killed randomly, showing that lots of sex does not necessarily equal competent governance.

In sum, there is so much to see and think about in Istanbul, once known as the 'Great City'. Standing on Galata Bridge looking towards the Golden Horn, we thought about the rise and fall of empires. The sheer terror of the Byzantines, knowing that the Ottomans were going to win and sack their beautiful city, the dunbstruck awe of Istanbulites watching the Allied Forces sail quite literally into the centre of town in 1918. So much to Istanbul: a city with layered memories of greatness.

DIA 290-292 - The Black Sea Coast of Turkey

2008-08-20T06:27:00.000-07:00

Samsun - Sinop Dt = 11175 Km

We have seen a lot the Black Sea coast of Turkey has to offer - from Rize (almost) in the east to Sinop in the west. The Black Sea is like a giant pond in the early morning and then the wind springs up and the ripples start. Maybe in winter the sea gets wild and bursts against the shore in a fury, but in summer you could almost use it as a mirror. The clouds are always present but always different. They play beautiful games with the light.

To the left of us as we ride along are lush green hills, the higher hills wreathed in cloud, houses dotting them sporadically with no apparent path leading to doors. The air is thick with moisture and our sweat does not dry. Breaths of air on our body are warm but sometimes we ride through pockets of cold air. The scenery to our left gradually changes from subtropical green to temperate green, and patches of blue sky increase as we travel west.

Usually we speed along the highway made from land reclaimed from the sea, but when we can take the old roads we do. These roads go up and down but it is more beautiful to be up in those green hills looking at the sparkling sea below. There are plenty of hazelnut farmers - it is the harvesting season and hazelnuts are laid out by the side of the road to dry. There are also dogs but, although they bark, their hearts are not really in the chase.

I dream as I ride along. How did this coast look to the ancient Greeks? My imagination is filled with their history. Pontos Euxine: The Black Sea. The Greeks came here for the first time around 1000BC. At first they were a little nervous of all the barbarians. Jason and the Argonauts (of Golden Fleece fame) were sailing the waters of Pontos Euxine, meeting with all sorts of adventures. The Golden Fleece is thought to refer to the custom in Colchis (present day Georgia) of sifting for gold using fleece. We cycled past a promontory now called 'Yason' where ancient mariners made a sacrifice to Jason before continuing their journey.

Then there were the Amazons who lived in the Delta around modern Samsun. The Amazons were supposedly one-breasted man-haters (they cut off a breast to better throw a spear), although the Turks around Samsun tend to depict Amazons with both breasts intact, in sexy clinging tunic dresses shooting arrows. Amazons appear in this region in random places as statues and on the sides of buses.

Xenophon, a student of Socrates turned mercenary soldier, also came to these parts in 401BC. He found himself in Trapezus (modern day Trabzon) when he was fleeing from defeat at the hands of the Persian king Ataxerxes II at the battle of Cunaxa. Cyrus the Younger had hired Greeks to fight against his brother Ataxerxes because he viewed the Greeks as superior fighters and, although the Greeks did fight well, fıve Greek generals were betrayed and executed. Cyrus the Younger was also killed. Xenophon wrote of the return of 10 000 men - although skeptics could accuse him of slight exaggeration (let nothing stand in the way of a good story!). He stayed in Trapezus for a month, resting and organizing everyone's onward journey back to Greece.

As is evident with Trabzon, most of the Black Sea city names are mutations of the Ancient Greek names. My favourite is Sinop. This name derives from 'Sinope', the name of an Amazon queen. Zeus took a fancy to her, and promised to grant her a wish should she accept his amorous advances. True to her Amazon man-hating one-breasted roots, she asked to remain an eternal virgin. Zeus, in an unusually gracious and sporting gesture, curbed his enormous libido and granted her wish.

The Black Sea coast of Turkey is filled with history, and these are only snippets, my highlights as I look out to sea and avoid riding over hazelnuts. The Romans were here too, the Byzantines, the Ottomans, and they have all left their mark. But my imagination wanders past them all...

DİA 285-287 - Samsun - Our Favourite Unseen City

2008-08-15T06:20:00.000-07:00

Fatsa - Samsun Dt = 11005 Km

Samsun is a large sprawling city on the Black Sea coast of Turkey. We were lucky enough not to see it. Our beautiful warm host Banu gave us a much happier experience and lovely memories. She lives in Pelitröy about 20kms west of Samsun. The day we told her that we would be arriving, we rode 120kms and collapsed, exhausted, in an Internet cafe in Samsun. Banu came and collected us, negotiating our bicycles onto a local bus. She then asked a petrol station to look after the bikes at the bottom of the 2km steep hill (wall) which led to her spacious apartment.

The bikes ended up staying in the petrol station for three days. We were planning to stay one night but we were in heaven! A gracious hostess with whom we could have indepth conversations from Turkish politics to teeth (Banu was just finishing a thesis on orthodontics), the run of the kitchen, and two cats to keep us company. Well, one cat. Bıdık, the other one, spent most of the time in a kitchen cupboard, secretly knowing that we lived for the taste of cat flesh.

Banu was extremely busy - she handed in her thesis during our stay - but still found time to entertain us. On the first night we were invited to a scrumptious dinner at her university restaurant, and wish that we could remember the names of the dishes. On the last night, we feasted on fish which had the big thumbs-up from Angel, the fish connoisseur. During our stay we drank wine, we listened to Banu's great collection of Turkish and Brazilian music, we watched everyone but Australia and Spain compete in the Olympics. I even got to finish my book -I never seem to have time to read. As if all this was not enough, Banu took us to her favourite spot, a tranquil lake with clouds encircling distant hills. She then took us horseriding where we rode off into the sunset (and back again!).

Thank you so much Banu. We really hope to see you again in Spain or Australia, and also hope that those people you are going to in Sydney know how lucky they are!

La entrada en Samsun sobre autovia de seis carriles llena de trafico con prisas y sin espacio para nosotros remataba un largo dia lleno colinas. Buscamos internet para rescatar la direccion de Banu, nuestra hospitalera, y casi nos desmayamos al descubrir que se encontraba todavia a 20 km. y cuesta arrıba. Llamamos a Banu para decirle que nos sabiamos ni cuando ni como pero llegariamos. Su respuesta fue contundente: - No os movais, estoy ahi enseguida. Diez minutos despues entraba en el cibercafe con una suve sonrisa y mucho brillo en los ojos. Removio cielo y tierra para poner nuestras burras en un dolmus rumbo a su barrio y luego les encontro un establo donde pacer y a nosotros nos llevo a su calido apartamento. Mientras nos duchabamos arreglo una cama doble en el salon y pronto su casa era tambien la nuestra. Una estupenda cena turca a orillas del mar puso la guinda al dia.

Al dia siguiente Banu tenia que entregar su tesis en odontologia asi que paso todo el dia en la Universidad. Nosotros lo pasamos descansando y disfrutando de una casa de verdad. De una de esas que tiene de todo. En la cocina habia perolos de todos los tamaños; sartenes que no se agarran; vasos diferentes para vino, cafe, te, agua..; cuchillos grandes y afilados y hasta batidora!! para hacer mayonesa y triturar nueces. En el salon cosas mas basicas y mas esenciales como internet; unas cuantas estanterias llenas de musica; unas television donde ver los juegos olimpicos; y un gato y medio que deambulaban de aqui a alli (el medio era uno que paso la mayoria del tiempo escondido en un armario). Pero sin duda lo mas fascinante de todo se encontraba en el baño: rollo de papel higienico colgado de la pared; espejo; agua caliente; lavadora multiprograma (de esas con una puerta redonda que la abres, metes la ropa, le das a un boton y al cabo de un rato esta la ropa limpia); y una caja llena de bastoncillos para las orejas!! ay que baño!

Al dia siguiente Banu tenia un poco mas de tiempo y nos llevo, primero, a pasear por un lago, luego a montar a caballo y finalmente a degustar una cena de pescado fresco recien sacado del mar negro bien acomapañada de vino blanco, que cena mas tremenda! Una vez en casa, sobre los cojines de la terraza y con vaso de tinto en mano charlamos durante horas inolvidables de las diferencias y similitudes culturales del mundo. Durante toda la estancia no nos dejo pagar nada y a pesar de nuestras quejas y esfuerzos su rotundidad fue invencible. Pero sin duda el mejor regalo fue habernos hecho sentir como en casa, una casa que hace mucho tiempo que no tenemos. Muchas Gracias Banu.

DIA 284 - Hospitality Club

2008-08-12T08:11:00.000-07:00

Bulançak - Fatsa Dd = 95 Km Dt = 10889 Km

Watch out Iran: The Turks are no slouches in the hospitality department and are a definite contender for gold medal! The Black Sea coast in particular has been a hospitality highlight. OK, to be honest, we have organized some of the hospitality in advance. For all those who do not know this wonder of the Internet, there is a hospitality club operating all around the world, offering anything from a piece of floor to sleep on, to a guided tour or five-star treatment.

In a town called Trabzon, the first major town we visited on the Black Sea coast, we met a man called Erjan who cheerfully bundled us into his car and took us to all the major sites. In the space of a few hours we had admired the building in which Atatürk stayed on his visits to Trabzon (and its immaculate gardens), the Trabzon museum complete with a two-dimensional bronze statue of Hermes (he was rather ignominiously crushed under a pıllar of his own temple), and the Aya Sophia - a late Byzantine masterpiece of a church innovatively blending Byzantine, Moslem, Georgian and Selçuk styles. After this whirlwind tour we sat down to have a chat over the compulsory cup of tea. We learned a lot about Turkey's recent history and Erjan, in his opinions and comments, underlined the red crescent/star nationalism constantly fluttering over our heads.

Giresun was the next city we visited and was home to Nuri - another member of the hospitality club. Nuri lives 12kms out of town and came on his moped to guide us to his house. He had jumped ship on a visit to the US and stayed for 17 years: He spoke English well. Nuri had come back to Turkey, bought a 5 storey apartment building and a grocery store, got married, had a daughter but, even after all this flurry of Turkish activity, he still had an eye on the western hemisphere. He had recently successfully applied for a Canadian immigrant visa, and was heading off again (this time with young wife and child in tow) to seek his fortune for a second time. Nuri was extremely generous, taking us for pides, buying us beers, cooking us a big breakfast of eggs, cheese and chorizo in the morning, and all the while talking non-stop in American slang. But the best thing for me was the shower: I had not seen such a beautifully clean shower since leaving Perth. Such a pleasure.

DIA 283 - The Day of the Chicken Barbecue

2008-08-11T06:16:00.000-07:00

Görele - Bulançak Dd = 78 Km Dt = 10794 Km

While cycling towards Giresun we discovered that cycling on Sundays has its benefits. At lunchtime we stopped at a makeshift pavilion by the sea. Soon a family arrived for a Sunday picnic. We finished up at the only table and moved onto the rocks to write and drink tea so that the family could use the amenities. Soon a plate of barbecued chicken, some bread and melon arrived at our rocks. Fanta and plastic cups followed, along with grapes. Refusing was not an option. We ate a second lunch and, groaning, we waddled back to our bikes where they were parked near the pavilion. The friendly father pressed tea on us. We tried again to say no but he pretended not to understand, putting pastries into our hands for good measure (my pastry was swiftly placed in my front pack on my bike when the man was not looking).

We managed to somehow cycle through a haze of overconsumption and stopped for dinner at a picnic spot hidden from the road by tall leafy trees. There was another family lying in wait. The father wandered around drinking beer, his bare belly protruding over his shorts, saying 'problem' whenever he wanted to communicate with us. It was the only word he knew in English and he simply changed the intonation depending on his feeling. His wife was extremely short and bubbly. She was voluptuous and bottle-blonde. Their daughter was 18 and wanted to be a doctor, and their son was 15. The kids both engaged with us, practising the English they had learned in school. We found ourselves feasting on yet more barbecued chicken and drinking beer and bottomless cups of tea.

The day of the barbecue actually extended into the next day when we set up camp in a picnic area just outside of a small town called Fatsa. The extended family sitting near us fed us...you guessed it...chicken barbecue..but there was a slight variation on the theme when the meatballs arrived. This family also later invited us over to their picnic rug for tea. There were children everywhere - all age groups were well represented. The children were the offspring of three brothers, and the family looked very religious, all the women wearing headscarfs and the grandmother trumping them all with her burka. Although we thought that the lack of contraceptive use was a little alarming, the behaviour of the children was a dream: They were well-behaved and mature. No one could speak much English, but we managed to communicate a little. When I said that I was Australian I was honoured with:"Putin, oh my God! Bush, oh my God! Australia, I love you!" It is nice to know we are not being too annoying as a country at present.

DİA 282 - El dia de la barbacoa

2008-08-10T05:56:00.000-07:00

Trabzon - Görele Dd = 31.7 Km Dd = 10636 Km

Domingo y encontramos un chiringo a orillas del mar con tejadillo, sillas, mesa y lo mas imprescindible de todo: bandera de Turquia. Una vez perfectamente instaldos llega la famlia Mohamed Dominguez con todo el equ.po: pelota, barbacoa, coj.nes, nevera, mantel a cuadros, bañador y perro. Pero no t.enen sitio, se lo hemos quitado. Se van a una piedra cercana y desde alli emp.ezan a enviar em.sar.os con uvas y croquetas para cortejarnos. Al f.nal nos tocan nuestro corazonc.to, acabamos rapido nuestro almuerzo, nos retıramos a otra p.edra y prem.o! Nos toca un plato generoso de pollo a la brasa. Habra que hacerle hueco. Preparamos te, leemos, escribimos, nos bañamos (no olvidemos que es domingo y hay que tomarselo con calma) y cuando queremos despedirnos no hay manera de rechazar el te y las pastas de la familia Dominguez. A punto de explotar pedaleamos no sin dificultad.

Hoy la suerte nos acompaña y a la hora de acampar encontramos un bosquecillo con una mesa de picnic tambien a orillas del mar. La familia Mustafa Dominguez lo ha visto antes pero se ofrece a compartir el preciado rincon. Son una familia feliz. El hijo y la hija (15 y 17 años) ponen a prueba su ingles sin miedos. Mustafa, el padre, pone musica en el radio-cassette del coche y la madre se anima a cantar y a bailar. Nosotros un poco cansados y todavia llenos comenzamos a preparar una ensalada que junto a unas olivas negras la pondremos sobre la mesa para compartir. Ellos no tardaran en poner su barbacoa: pollo y chorızo (de vaca, nada de cerdo).

Todos juntos compartimos la cena y cerveza del padre que una vez acabado el botellin se planta en medio del claro del bosque cual torero en medio del ruedo, pies juntos, saca pecho, y con todo su arte hace volar hacia atras el botellin. El ruido de cristales rotos cual clamor del publico le evita mirar hacia atras. Al tercer lanzamıento de montera-botellin la madre le llamo la atencion señalando la bolsa de basura (yo casi le lance un torero!!). El alcohol paso factura. Me dijo cinco veces que no me olvidara de apagar el fuego. Vale que tengo mala memorıa y no soy muy listo pero hombre que hasta ahi llego! Mis sospechas sobre su estado fueron confirmadas cuando se acerco hasta mi y, señalando la guindilla que picaba como un demonio e insistia en que me comiera, dijo: Sex no problem, good sex, sex no problem, good sex.

Nos despedimos con sonrisas y afortunadamente fue la madre quien condujo. Nos acostamos con el estomago lleno de comida de barbacoa por generosidad turca.

DİA 280-281 - Un İmperio en el trapecio

2008-08-09T05:52:00.000-07:00

Arsin - Trabzon - Sumela - Trabzon

Mosterio de Sumela

Aya Sophia (Trabzon)

DİA 279 - Llueve sobre mojado

2008-08-07T04:08:00.000-07:00

Ikizdere - Arsin Dd = 78 Km Dt = 10634 Km

Las invitaciones a te en Turquia caen por todas partes, desde el frutero hasta el gasolinero pasando por panadero. Siempre tentadoras ponen en grave riesgo el kilometraje diario. Hoy la tercera invitacion caia desde una gravera, justo a media mañana. No la dejamos escapar y nos sentamos bajo la marquesina de madera a disfrutar del te entre conversaciones fustradas. Nuestro amago de continuar valle abajo se vio neutralizado completa y rapidamente.

-Pero donde vais sin comer hijos mios! Que son ya casi las doce. Anda, haced el favor de sentaos aqui. (Pueda que la traduccion no sea del todo literal)

Sentados en el comedor de la empresa nos sirvieron una fritada de tomate y carne acompañada de arroz, sopa de maiz y yogur. Por supuesto bien de pan, que no falte. Acabada la comida como no, te otra vez. Empieza a llover y hacemos tiempo viendo los juegos olimpicos con el te en una mano y un trozo de pastel en la otra (el pastel fue cortesia nuestra). Finalmente deja de llover, nos despedimos y bicicletas hacia abajo.

Pronto empieza a gotear de nuevo mientras nos dirigimos hacia una nube que es cada vez mas y mas negra. Ocurre lo esperado: el agua empieza a caer con ganas. Es curioso lo de que llueva cuando vas en bici. Al principio el chubasquero te protege y tan solo son los dedos los que se mojan. Poco a poco tus pantalones se van mojando pero con el calor de tus piernas trabajando no importa demasiado. Pero despues de un rato bajo lluvia de verdad no hay chubasquero o gore-tex que te salve. El agua encuentra ese pequeño hueco que queda entre el casco y la capucha, te moja un poco el pelo, hace masa critica y se desliza por espalda y pecho robandote suspiros. Piensas en parar o no parar, sigues. El agua tambien sigue su camino y llega a esas partes intimas para hacerte cosquillas y entonces sabes que ya esta, has perdido. Al cabo de un rato estas completamente calado, se han acabado todas esas placenteras sensaciones y todo son ya comodidades. La ducha que hace tres dias se habia hecho imprescindible ya ha sido olvidada. Que tienes sed pues abres la boca y pegas un trago del chorro que cae de tu nariz. Y si de repente quieres ir al baño pues como en el mar, total un poquito de pipi entre tanta agua quien lo va a notar.

Como dos gigantes gotas de agua caiamos horizontalmente por el fondo del valle, compitiendo con las gotas del rabioso barranco y cruzando una nube negra rumbo al mar negro. Al fondo del valle se distinguia un poco de luz. Cuando llegamos a la orilla donde rompen las olas el sol se asomo timidamente y entre su timido calor y la tibia brisa marina nos fuimos secando lentamente. Para cuando montabamos campamento bajo un monton de avellanas ya estamos totalmente secos, limpios y seguros.

Aqui en la carretera costera del mar negro el trafico parecia poner fin, a pesar de la belleza, al paraiso cicloturista que veniamos pedaleando desde el norte de Iran. Carreteras pequeñas de trafico casi ausente con paisajes y gentes alucinantes y cambiantes. De los mejores tramos del viaje.

DIA 278 - Fresh (Soggy) Mountain Air

2008-08-06T03:26:00.000-07:00

Ispir - Ikızdere Dd = 60 Km Dt = 10526 Km

We knew it was going to be a hard day. The day before we had ridden along a valley rising very slowly but steadily. The road went up and down, up and down steeply, always coming back to the river, similarly to the Aras valley. Today we got up early as usual but were more efficient in our packing up. Off we went at 7am. Sustained climbing this time - we were following a branch of the same river upstream, high into the mountains. The sun shone, the sweat trickled, then poured. Always the rush of the nearby river. Sometimes we were lucky and the steepness of the gorge blocked the sun.

It was slow going: We averaged 6kph. After 20kms we rode into an icy wind, which was great for about 5 minutes because it dried the sweat. After that, the fact that it was a headwind became its primary characteristic. We crawled on, past construction work and hills still patched with snow in midsummer. There were plenty of people in makeshift houses and a Muezzin calling everyone to prayer. Nothing was growing on the hillsides now and the wind was fiercely cold. We stopped for lunch, taking shelter on the leeward side of a small cottage.

When we set off again, the wind was so strong and cold that I was gasping for air (although it could have been indigestion - lunch was rather rushed). We could not stop because the conditions were increasingly uncomfortable. Tendrils of cloud were starting to snake towards us, and within a kilometre the cloud had become so dense that visibility reduced to less than 10m. I prayed that the traffic would go slowly because the road was narrow. The traffic did go slowly, which was a huge relief. Most of the cars had their hazard lights on as well as their normal lights - a fine idea. And never have I been so delighted to see cows on the road...they slowed down the trucks. Funny to see them emerge out of thick fog, and they are quite as silly as kangaroos, clattering along beside us in fright and then making kamikaze dashes in front of us.

Finally, we were at the top. We knew this even before we saw the requisite sign showing the altitude (2640m) because there was a Turkish flag the size of a house cracking and groaning, hoisted above the middle of the road. Angel did not see it until we were about 2m away and yelped in shock at the colossal shape looming above us. Here we were, most definitely in Turkey (let there be no doubt), at the top of one of their three highest mountain passes - well, impassable between the months of October and May. It was a little difficult to enjoy though. I could not remember the last time I had felt so cold, mainly because I was so unprepared - I was only wearing my usual T-shirt under my raincoat. We had ridden to around 2400m in Nepal without experienciıng such an enormous change in conditions. My hands were seızing up and I was completely drenched in cloud.

We started going down. The cloud did not stop. I could not feel if my hands were on the brakes - I figured that they were since I was going slowly. The cloud still did not stop. We thought we would be out of the cloud within 5kms given that we had entered it under 5kms from the top on the other side. It took almost 20kms of downhill to finally escape the cloud and recover visibility. It was amazing the effect the mountains had on the weather: 20kms down the other side we had been sweating like crazy in the hot sun. It appears that East Turkey lies in the rainshadow of those mountains. On the Black Sea side the landscape was so lush and green it looked subtropical. Tea is the staple crop of these parts and was all over the place.

It was drizzling. Our bodies had adjusted slightly to the new conditions, but we were still soaking wet and freezing. A hotel miraculously appeared, but they were charging sixty dollars US a night - more than we had spent in a week. We could not do it and rode on, teeth chattering. In the end, we found a bridge to sleep under. The only problem was a rather large dog who also thought that under the bridge was a pretty nice place to sleep. It ran through about three or four times during the night barking its head off, trying to frighten us away. In the morning it watched us from a distance as we packed up. We called to it and it wagged its tail - not unfriendly, just frightened of the tent.

So, that is the story of how we finally arrived at the Black Sea coast, the verdant soggy Black Sea coast so anomalous with the rest of Turkey. The mountains do a great job of cloud herding in these parts!

DIA 275-277 - The Valley of Arthur the Beetle

2008-08-05T06:56:00.000-07:00

Nicantasi - Yusefeli - Ispir Dt = 10463 Km

Turkey's Father

There is a man in Turkey who is everywhere. His photo is above the window of the Internet cafe where we are sitting, it is in restaurants and bookshops. His bust adorns streets and museums, and is as much a part of the Turkish landscape as old Turkish men sitting around drinking tea and large groups of cows. Atatürk, or 'Father Turk', was the humble name he chose for himself. He was born Mustapha Kemal and took his last name as his first to make room for his patriarchal tendencies. And Atatürk more than lived up to his name considering his determined and ultimately successful fight for Turkish sovereignty after WWI.

I first became aware of Atatürk on my first trip to Turkey 10 years ago. I knew only one thing about the man and I liked it: He erected a beautifully worded memorial for all the Turks and ANZACS who died at Gallipoli. I thought it was a gracious gesture considering that the ANZACS were attacking him. And it was him personally they were attacking. He was one of the generals defending the Dardanelles against the Allied forces. The defence was successful, and he shone as a military strategist.

On this current trip to Turkey I have discovered more. After the war, when the Allied forces were occupying Turkey and the last Ottoman Sultan was acquiescing to rather compromising demands, Atatürk flipped the proverbial finger, and fought the French, Greeks and Armenians on three different fronts (the old chestnut of Turkey having plenty of fronts to protect). He won. In 1923 the Republic of Turkey was proclaimed and the Allied forces departed. Ankara became the new capital: The Allied forces had been occupyiıng Istanbul and wily Atatürk had made Ankara his base, knowing that he would probably have been executed if he had remained in the old capital.

So Atatürk was a hero, and he still is. It seems that his great strength was that he could see situations very clearly. This made him an excellent general and a powerful first president (the last Ottoman sultan fled, leaving a vacancy for top dog). He was autocratic, an adherent of the enlightenment, a firm believer in the separation of religion and government. He destroyed the caliphate (Selim the Grim - an Ottoman sultan of the 16th century - had won the caliphate for the empire), and Turkey became a secular state. He was also responsible for full suffrage for women, recognizing that Turkey could only become stronger with women's help. He attacked illiteracy in Turkey by introducing a new alphabet and promoting education: Prevıously only around 10% of the population were literate in Arabic and Persian.

However, as a charismatic autocrat, there were also disadvantages to his rule. When he died at the age of 57 ın 1938, he left a vacuum emphasised by subsequent political turmoil and corruption. His legacy has given the military a prominent role in the governance of Turkey - there have been coups as late as 1980, and the military still appear to remain an extremely influential group. His strong reaction to women wearing headscarfs has also meant that headscarfs have been banned at universities and in the public service, although this is now changing under the current Government. Ironically, the daughters of the current Prime Minister went to university ın the US in order to wear a headscarf. By advocating the rights of women so forcefully, he failed to allow freedom of choice. Perhaps in order to promote a new way of thinking, it was necessary to be so forceful, and the Turks have needed to rethink their legislation since. The cult of Atatürk has made this process challenging.

All in all, Atatürk was a very strong, perceptive man who concentrated on the big picture. His legacy still affects Turkey and could be seen as a bulwark against current Islamic fundamentalism. Erdogan, Turkey's Prime Minister, is an Islamist but has this secular aspect of Turkish nationalism as a foil. He is promoting reform and has been elected for a second time, concentrating on fulfiling conditions for accession to the European Union. Who knows whether this will happen (cynics say that it will not), but endemic corruption in particular is being tackled, which can only be good for Turkey.

DIA 274 - Marianne's Birthday

2008-08-02T02:22:00.000-07:00

Balcesme - Nicantasi Dd = 48 Km Dt = 10263 Km

Here is the tale of a beautiful birthday...The day before this very special day we rode more than 20kms uphill, and set up camp just before a long downhill. We slept in until 6am (we usually set the alarm for 5am) when we were awoken by yells and the lowing of cattle. A large number of cows were on the move. Verdant grassland sweeping down the side of the hill where we were camped was getting steadily munched. A couple of men and young boys were energetıcally running and herding. Perhaps they did not use dogs because they did not want to get fat: We have noticed the lack of dog use in herding animals in these parts. Fair enough for geese herding, but dogs appear to be quiter useful for sheep/goat/cow herding. Another reason for operating without dogs is that it may take dogs away from their main duty: to attack passing cyclists.

Getting out of the tent I bemoaned the lack of privacy - I wanted to go to the toilet. Angel advised me to go behind a cow. I decided that the cow might move and marched up to the top of the hill instead. Peeing on top of the world. We were about 2500m up and it was lush and green. The hill dropped away steeply into a ravine and there were purple flowers everywhere. The beauty set the scene for the rest of the daty. Pine forests by the side of the road, soaring walls of rock, no wind, the constant burble of a river.

About midmorning we cycled into another cowjam as they were moved along the road. The cowherds greeted us as we rang our bells and wobbled our way around bovine curiosity. Then we found ourselves in a little town called Göle. We stocked up on beer and chocolate and started riding out of town. And there it was: a cake shop. The first I had seen on the whole trip...and on my birthday! İn we went and had some slices of cake. Angel balanced a candle precariously on the edge of the plate (the creamy cake looked liable to implode given the ınsertion of any foreign objects), and I managed to blow it out without setting fire to anything. This little snack was supplemented by a later invitation to drink chai. Our hosts - a truckdriver and his family - plied us with crusty bread and tasty, fluffy cheese called something that sounded suspiciously like 'penis'.

Around midafternoon we found a beautiful campsite and swiftly put the beers into the everpresent river to chill. There was no one around - it was a rare pleasure. One of the best days yet and on my birthday!! This region of Turkey/old Georgia is really amazing...difficult due to its mountainous nature, but worth the effort.

DIA 273 - Altiplano de burros y vacas

2008-08-01T06:15:00.000-07:00

Kars - Balcesme Dd = 58 km Dt = 10215 Km

DIA 268-272 - The Road to Ani

2008-07-31T06:59:00.000-07:00

Dogubayazit - Igdir - Digor - Ani - Kars Dt = 10157 Km

Cycling a High Plateau

Visiting a City of Ghosts - Ani

The old Armenian city of Ani is not on our way precisely. In fact, it is so far off the beaten tourist track ın Turkey that it receives few visitors. A shame since, with more visitors, more excavation and restoration of the site may happen. Ani in its heyday in the 9th and 10th centuries rivalled Constantinople and Baghdad in importance and was home to around 100 000 people.

There has been a settlement here for millenia but Ani began to increase in importance around the fıfth century A.D. due to its location on an east-west trade route. Then in 961 Kıng Ashot III of the Armenian Bagratid dynasty moved his capital from nearby Kars. For three generations Ani experienced great prosperity, but in 1045 the Byzantines annexed the city as a result of religiously-driven enmity: the Armenian Apostolic Church was deemed heretical by the Christian Orthodox Byzantines. The Byzantines themselves were not doing so well by this stage and the Seljuk Turks easily took Ani from them ın 1064. Although the Armenians were able to regain Ani in the 12th century with the aid of neighbouring Georgia, the Mongols swept through pursuing their usual destructive itinerary in the 13th century. A terrible earthquake in 1319 and changing trade routes sealed Ani's fate: It was abandoned and has been a city of ghosts and rubble for the past 600 years.

It is easy to see why a city prospered on this site. On one side of a plateau, more or less in the form of a triangle, the Arpa Cayi (Arhuran River) has carved a gorge and on two more sides run deep tributaries. The northern side is the only exposed side in need of fortification. Defence looks impregnable although looks are often deceivıng, as in this case! The buildings left standing are churches. Armenians were the first to create a Christian state around 301 A.D. (Kıng Trdat III beat the Roman Emperor Constantine by a few decades), and they were quite fond of Saint Gregory. Three of the remaining churches at Ani were dedicated to this particular saint. It seemed that, before his conversion, Trdat III was not particularly kind to Gregory and tortured him for being Christian.

So, ever since Trdat saw the error of his ways, repented and converted to Christianity, Armenians have been Christian. The Byzantines did not see it this way, considering the Apostolic Church to be heretical, but the Armenians traditionally see themselves as descendants of Noah's grandson, whıch is fair enough: Noah crashed into a mountain on their doorstep after all.

Considering their proximity to Islamic empires, the Armenians have done well negotiating a degree of autonomy, and have usually had access to Ani as well as other churches dotting the nearby landscape. Armenia was a part of Persia, for example, although Russia took Armenia from the Persians ın the 19th century, lost the small country again after the Bolshevic revolution/World War I, regained it after World War II, and then lost it again when the USSR crumbled. The Armenians are now independent but they still appear to rely on Russia to help with hostile neighbours and have a Russian military base inside their borders, at their request. They also retain cordial relations wıth the Islamic Republic of Iran.

The Arpa Cayi is now the designated Turko-Armenian border, so Armenians can no longer access Ani. The area down by the gorge is mined, indicating the hostility surrounding this decision. But at least the Turks are not destroying what is left of the citadel: In the nearby Turkish town of Digor, whıch we also visited, four out of five Armenian churches have been destroyed. These churches were built around the 11th century and restored ın 1878, but between 1920 and 1965 explosives and boulders were used to destroy them.

The little that is left of Ani is beautiful. The Armenians are historically renowned for their masonry (Shah Abbas - the Shah who built Esfahan in Iran - rounded up the whole Armenian town of Jolfa and brought them down to work on his new city. There is now a suburb in Esfahan called Jolfa because many of those Armenians subsequently stayed). Armenian churches are made of dark volcanic rock and warm red sandstone. They are well-proportioned, usually with blind arcades, Armenian inscriptions, long rectangular recessed vaults and ornate crosses. The stones are cut extremely straight and are fitted together seamlessly. Domes are also in evidence and there is an interesting mix of curves and the squared edges of so many European churches. Frescos, mainly of saints, adorn inside walls, although these have often vanished, and only vague shadows of human figures wıth halos remain.

Finally, walking around Ani, we think about the fate of cities. Constantinople, a Christian city, was taken by the Ottomans and now thrives as Istanbul. Baghdad is currently taking some hard knocks, but is still nominally ruled by Moslems, though occupied by Judeo-Christians. And Ani? Ani languishes all but forgotten on a windy, treeless but breath-taking plateau.

DIA 267 - Welcome to the Democratıc Republıc of Turkey

2008-07-26T05:41:00.000-07:00

Maku - Dogubayazıt Dd = 65 Km Dt = 9906 Km

The Turkish securıty guard on the Turkish side of the Turko-Iranian border welcomes us to Turkey wıth a smile. He looks at my headscarf and tells me that Turkey ıs a democratic republic. I take my headscarf off wıth a flourish and Iranian women all around me stare at the gesture, pulling theır chadors more tightly around their faces. I think it is going to feel stranger than it does to have my hair uncovered: I feel normal again although Angel takes a few minutes to get used to the new development.

As we rıde into Turkey, we see military everywhere. We see tanks, bags of sand piled up, training grounds. Turkey borders Iran, Armenıa, and Iraq ın these parts. Who is it that Turkey is most worried about? I wonder if it is Armenia considerıng the icy relations between the two countries. Turkey does not recognize the genocide of Armenians in 1895 and 1915. At the turn of the 20th century 1.5 million Armenians were living in Anatolia, according to a Turkish census carried out at the time. After 1915 they had all gone - half a million are thought to have escaped to become refugees in other countries and a million thought to have been systematically killed by the Turks. Thıs issue is still very much alive with Armenians lobbyıng hard all over the world for recognition of their loss. Some countries (Russia, France, Canada) have officially recognised what happened to the Armenians as genocide, while other countries (the USA) have not in order to protect trade relations with Turkey. Turkey hotly dısputes that genocide took place.

Later I realise that the huge military presence is also very much a result of the "Kurdish problem", as the Turkish Prime Minister Erdogan called the situation in 2005. A separatist Kurdish resistance group called the PKK has been fighting the Turkish government since 1984, and around 50 000 people have died in the conflict. But the US invasion of Iraq and Turkey's desire to enter the European Union have led to reforms in Turkish treatment of its Kurds. The US reliance on Iraqi Kurds for support has no doubt been a concern for Turkey since it is not in Turkish interests that a Kurdısh state be created in Turkish territory. And the European Union no doubt has conditions concerning human rights. When we enter Turkey the first town we visit - Dogubeyazit - is predominantly Kurdish. We are only 150-200kms from the Iraqi border.

However, our problems wıth the Kurdish do not lie wıth the PKK (the PKK have recently kidnapped three German tourists in the area, but friendly Belgians assure us that the Germans were kidnapped because Germany had done something to arouse PKK wrath, and we would be fine). Our problems lie wıth Kurdish children and dogs. Chıldren get overexcited at the sight of tourists on bicycles and throw whatever is at hand: rocks, tomatoes, water. Dogs are very bıg and are afraid of bicycles. We have a similar strategy for both groups: attack back. I yell at the top of my lungs (it seems to work for the dogs too, surprisingly), and Angel gives chase (the chıldren usually try to hit me rather than Angel). Hard to frighten the children when their parents think that it is fıne though. We get a little more help with the dogs. One time 3 dogs come barrelling out of nowhere to attack and an old lady also comes running from a nearby field: I have never seen such an old lady runnıng so fast. She has picked up rocks to throw at the dogs. With the extra artillery the dogs stop attackıng.

Wild children and frightened animals aside, it is fun to be in Turkey. Some children are delightful and we cannot stop to ask for directions without adults trying to herd us into their houses for a chai. The military are good to us as well, plying us with orange juice, pouring out our water which has almost reached boiling poınt in the hot sun and replacing it with cold water, and doing their best to communicate. They are so young - boys doing their military service.

And the landscape is rugged and beautiful. Mount Ararat (5165m) looms over us so close we can almost reach out and touch it. Impressıve from Iran but magnificent to be so close. We end up going around the mountain to get back to the Aras valley and have the pleasure of cycling in Ararat's shadow for over 100kms. Noah's Ark is not visible, but I am sure it is up there somewhere in the uppermost snow of that old volcano!

DIA 266 - Hoda'afez Iran

2008-07-25T03:17:00.001-07:00

Makoo

Good-bye Iran. One month of generous and dogged hospitality is coming to an end. Off we go to Turkey where I suppose we will have to start paying for things again. One becomes quickly accustomed to being treated like a VIP. So many people concerned about our welfare, about how we are enjoying Iran.

This could be very very good but sometimes overwhelming. Like a few nights ago when all we wanted was to set up our tent and to go to sleep. We found a place near the Aras River reservoir. It was windy, nearby bushes hummed with tiny flies and an anthole swarmed with enormous ants. The flies stayed put in their respective bushes. Angel put a small rock over the anthole. The ants quickly made another hole, but the rock kept them thinking and they left us alone. Unlike a local fisherman who drove up in a battered ute. When he realised that we did not understand Farsi or Turkish, he proceeded to pantomime various threats to our comfort and safety. The flies and ants would bite us. the wind was too strong, it was going to rain, the Azerbaijanis would start shooting at us from across the reservoir. We said we would move to placate him but our hearts were not in it, and we only made it 100m. The only way to get him to leave us alone was for me to take off my headscarf - this strategy can always be used as a last resort.

So we are looking forward to being a little less interesting to the locals. I am also looking forward to reclaiming my arms, legs and hair...giving these body parts a litte more airtime. And having men address me in the street rather than walk, drive, ride their motorbikes right past me to talk to Angel. Talking to me, looking at me, or in any way affirming my existence is disrespectful. Hopefully less disrespectful in Turkey. (Some Iranian men were able to break the mould - all power to them!)

Goodbye to Iran's wonderful history, goodbye to this transit region for so many travellers on the Silk Road, this land of magnificent curvy architecture and deep blue inscriptions, of eye-poppingly exquisite rugs and cinnamon and saffron tea. And goodbye to gender apartheid...May one day black headscarfs and chadors be toppled as symbols that a girl is not a whore, and may more and more girls take their rightful, colourful place in a country so steeped in colour.

Hoda'afez Iran, and thank you so much for your amazing hospitality.

DIA 262 -265 - The Aras Valley

2008-07-24T07:06:00.000-07:00

Ustebhin - Jolfa - Paldast - Makoo Dt = 9841 Km

The Aras Valley. We go up and down, up and down. The river sometimes winds beside us, sometimes below us. It gushes and surges: a proper river, even in summer. Millenia of travellers have passed through this valley. Traders, soldiers, holy men. Small mountains rise steeply on either side for kilometres. The looming rock looks like loose granite in danger of sliding down onto our heads in many places.

Across the river is Azerbaijan, then Armenia, then Azerbaijan. There is an east-west ceasefire line east of the Armenian border. The two countries still have not resolved the territorial dispute of the 1989-1994 war. Near the ceasefire line villages lie abandoned. It is terrible to think of the villagers, the fear, desperation and sadness of fleeing their homes. Where are they now? The wind whistles through their houses, the roofs are off. We watch the eery emptiness soberly from the other side of the Aras.

There is a strong military presence on the Iranian side. Bored soldiers camouflage well against dark grey rock. We jump as they call to us. Military posts are built of light brick and resemble small medieval forts. There are also lookout points on the other side. Inside Armenia there is movement: a few cars, a small child. There is a railway line too. Built by the Russians? It was the Russians and the Iranians who carved out this border in the early 19th century. There is also evidence of many tunnels. Indeed, there are more buildings in general on the other side of the river than in Iran, which is home to a few sleepy villages and a winding road remarkably free of traffic.

Sometimes there is more space on the Iranian side before the hills rise up steeply, sometimes on the other side. When there is no space on either side, the wind is especially ferocious, coating us with dust, and skidding us across the road.

Apparently, Noah came through the Aras Valley (Gihon Valley in the Bible) with all the animals, bumping into Ilan Dag, or Snake Mountain, before reaching Mt Ararat. As I ride along I like to imagine a huge Ark with animals scampering around, playing with each other, eating each other, the enormous craft ploughing its way miraculously upstream. Even in a great flood, these steep jagged mountains would have the potential to scuttle a ship. Lucky for the animals (which were not getting eaten) that Noah was a relatively good skipper!

DIA 261 - Pastores de abejas

2008-07-20T05:46:00.000-07:00

???- Usthebin Dd = 54 Km Dt = 9577 Km

Despues de unos kılometros de dura pendıente el camıno se convıerte en carretera que relaja frenos, dedos y muñecas. A ambos lados de la carretera empıezana a aparecer tıendas de campañas rodeadas de colmenas. Los pastores han traıdo aquı a sus abejas para recojan el polen de esas flores que vısten a las montañas de rosa, azul, amarıllo, rojo... La tentacıon de equıparnos con mıel nos vence y fınalmente paramos en uno de los chırınguıtos. Un nıño que esta de vacacıones ıntenta atendernos pero tras vacılar unos segundos se va corrıendo a avısar a su abuelo que sale de la tıenda-pabellon frotandose las legañas y abrochando con una rapıda lazada sus pantalones holgados. El abuelo entıende nuestros deseos y traspasa un poco de mıel desde un enorme bıdon hasta nuestro pequeño recıpıente. Seguıdamente nos ınvıta a te. Por supuesto aceptamos y pronto estamos acomadados sobre la alfombra dentro de la tıenda de campaña.

El nıeto saca un poco de pan, el abuelo mıel y yogur. Observando a nuestros hospıtaleros los ımıtamos y nos preparamos montadıtos de rıquısımo yogur y mıel fuerte, de la que tıene sabor de verdad, no de azucar. Los montadıtos son acompañados de ıntermınables rodas de te. Una abeja holgazana vuela hasta el cuenco de te para ahorrarse un poco trabajo. Lejos de ser espantada el abuelo le acarıcıa la cabeza y despues la toma cuıdadosamente sobre su dedo. El nıño hara lo mısmo con una segunda. Nosotros para rato. Yo todavıa recuerdo con ıntensa amargura el dıa que fuı atacado por una centena de abejas furıosas. Tengo mıedo que sean algun parıente lejano de las vıctımas que deje tras mı defensa.

Pasamos mas de una hora con la encantadora pareja entre conversacıones fustradas, sesıones de fotos, abejas, pan, yogur y mıel. Nos tıentan a quedarnos a dormır y cası aceptamos, pero es medıa mañana y debemos hacer algun kılometro mas. Seguımos bajando hacıa el bıblıco valle Aras y hacemos otra parada a recolectar unas moras sılvestres. Entonces me doy cuenta de que yo de mayor quıero ser pastor de abejas.

DIA 260 - Maps

2008-07-19T06:14:00.000-07:00

Kaleybar - ???? Dd = 41 Km Dt = 9423 Km

Before this trip, whenever I could, I would get someone else to read a map if there was a map to be read. I do not like reading maps. I am the type of person who will shamelessly turn a map upside down if necessary, and follow anyone who takes responsibility for map-reading over a cliff. But now too much energy rides on reading a map incorrectly (dying is one thing...suffering is quite another). Every kilometre you get wrong on a bicycle, you pay with sweat. Especially in the mountains. And if the map-makers get it wrong? Annoying is an understatement!

In India, the German map knocked off about 35kms of steady climbing to a little town called Bilaspur. As we inched up the mountain towards Bilaspur, I dreamed about what I would like to do to the person who had made that mistake. Even though the signs gave random kilometres - at one stage Bilaspur was 30kms away, then the next sign said that it was 45kms away - it was the mapmaker who I held responsible. Let's face it: Germans have a much greater reputation for precision than the Indians do.

Back to Iran. We are riding from a town called Kaleybar towards the Aras Valley. On the map there is a river and a dirt road which runs along the river. Turn right at a little village called Oskelu and follow the valley. Was the person who drew the map bored? Did s/he have a river quota that s/he had to fill? THERE WAS NO RIVER!! Turning right at Oskelu is only possible if you are a mountain goat. The hills we are climbing are so steep that my front wheel is lifting and sliding on the dirt and small rocks.

We try to ask passing cars how far it is to the top - knowing exactly how many kilometres you have to do at a thigh-crunching angle is motivational for some reason. I am not sure why, but it helps to know. Effective communication with the friendly Iranians, as usual, proves to be difficult. Iranians have a very blurry hand movement to show you the way, and no amount of repetition makes the movement clearer. One man says 'follow me'. He is with his family in a car, so perhaps this is all he can say in English and wants to say something. At any rate, he chugs off. Another man having as much trouble getting his little car up the hill as we are having (we catch him reversing back down to get a better run-up) indicates the steep slope is almost over. It isn't. We camp, despondent.

In the morning, when we finally reach the top of who-knows-what mountain, and the Aras Valley is spread out far far below us, the feeling of elation is overwhelming. We do a little 'top' dance, and then enjoy a very very long downhill.

To all you shonky mapmakers out there: Your job is extremely important you bastards!! Some of us are riding bicycles and mistakes hurt... Being able to mentally steel yourself for a day of agony is a small mercy of well-drawn maps! So a big thank you to precision map-makers. You are not bastards, you are beautiful people for whom I have the greatest respect.

DIA 259 - Castillos imposibles

2008-07-18T08:09:00.000-07:00

Kaleybar

La hora del te

Detras de Kaleybar, en lo alto, muy en lo alto se alza un castıllo de fantasıa. Provocando a la vertıcalıdad desde un rısco que sube mas alla del cıelo contempla el ınmenso horızonte. Es un castıllo de cuento. Pero no de esos cuentos de mentıras que nos cuentan de pequeños. No de esos con prıncıpes de melena rubıa bıen arreglada que cabalgan corceles blancos y rescatan a la hermosa y rubıa prıncesa que esta secuestrada por un dragon malvado. No, no de esos. Es de los cuentos de verdad donde el prıncıpe no es prıncıpe nı es rubıo. Es un valeroso aldeano de pelo oscuro sucıo y enredado, que ha cruzado reınos y condados, peleado contra ogros, exquıvado hombres malvados. Ha cruzado mares y oceanos a lomos de su rocın castaño y ha llegado, cansado, hasta los pıes dei castıllo. Sabe que solo queda ese lugar en el mundo. Sabe que solo puede estar ahı.

Sube a trote lıgero, empuja la puerta y ahı esta el dragon protegıendo a la prıncesa. Pero el dragon no es un dragon malvado, y vıendo en los ojos del aldenado termınada su funcıon se retıra volando hacıa el ınfınıto. Y ahı esta la prıncesa. Pero la prıncesa no es una prıncesa. Es tan solo una doncella de mırada asustada y sonrısa curıosa que cubre su pelo con un pañuelo. Pero su pelo sı, su pelo es rubıo. El le ofrece una mano. Ella la toma. El la agarra fuerte y suavemente y la sube a la grupa del caballo. El prıncıpe que no es prıncıpe espolea a su rocın y lo lanza en un ultımo galope. El rocın, venas de la cabeza hınchadas resopla y sus herraduras gastadas chocan contra la roca y retumban en todo el castıllo. Su eco lo oyen todas la montañas. Exhausto llega hasta lo alto de una colına cercana. El jınete echa pıe a tıerra y coge a la doncella que se deslıza delıcadamente. Le despoja del pañuelo y su rubıa melena es peınada por el vıento. Duda unos segundos. Las palabras se atascan en la garganta pero ha llegado el momento. El prıncıpe le susurra a la prıncesa unas palabras que nunca mas volveran a ver el aıre.

DIA 256-258 - Altiplano Irani

2008-07-17T08:07:00.000-07:00

Ardabıl - Meshgın Shar - Ahar - Kaleybar Dt = 9482 Km

Pedaleando por el altıplano de Ardabıl escapamos del calor del desıerto pero no de la hospıtalıdad y generosıdad ıranı. Tras varıas semanas en Iran hemos sufrıdo en nuestras propıas pıeles los ınconvenıentes de las pelıgrosas actıtudes de los ıranıs y hemos decıdıdo numerarlos y enuncıarlos de manera altruista para todo aquel vıajero que se adentre en Iran sepa los pelıgros a los que se expone.

Los 5 gran ıncovenıentes de la hospıtalıdad y generosıdad ıranı

1. Ausencıa de ıntımıdad: La ıdea romantıca de acampar bajo las estrellas y dısfrutar del sılencıo y mıstıcısmo de la noche es cası mısıon ımposıble. En cuanto empıezas a acomodarte en un cacho de hıerba o de tıerra que te parece apropıado para tu tıenda empıezan a aparecer ıranıs, y tırandose de los pelos por los que estas hacıendo te ınvıtan a cenar y a dormır a sus casas. Ante tus negatıvas te advıerten de los pelıgros que corres acampando: tıgres y leones acechan por la noche a los turıstas. Sı, tıgres y leones en Iran, aunque no os lo creaıs y los bıologos lo nıeguen, y no solo eso, una noche dormımos en una zona de mosquıtos gıgantes que te devoran vıvon. Aun ası tomamos el rıesgo. Por suerte esa noche debıeron quedarse dormıdos.
Resıstırse a estas ınvıtacıones es tarea dura y la vıctorıa tan solo se obtıene tras una larga batalla.

2. Sobrealımentacıon. Explıcaremos este punto con un ejemplo. Un dıa mıentras devorabamos nuestro almuerzo bajo la calıda sombra de un pıno vınıeron unos lugareños a ınvıtarnos a comer. Obvıamente nos negamos (era uno de los prımeros dıas y todavıa tenıamos fuerzas para ello). Desenfudaron movıles y pıdıeron refuerzos. Pronto una docena de ıranıs nos lanzaba ınvıtacıones que acabaron derrotandonos. Tras fırmar una tregua nos fuımos todos juntos a una casa cercana. La señora de la casa nos ınvıto a todos a agua de rosas fresca. Cuando se acabo el agua la comıtıva que nos habıa acompañado se despıdıo y se fue (esto es lo que se conoce como hospıtalıdad ajena, nadıe de los que nos ınvıto a la casa era de la casa. Es el summum de la hospıtalıdad) Al quedarnos solos caımos sobre la alfombra y nos perdımos en el mundo de la sıesta. Cuando nos despertamos toda la famılıa nos esperaba con la alfombra (mesa) puesta. Empezabamos a aprender y no nos resıstımos. Por nuestras traqueas cırculo la segunda copıosa comıda en menos de dos horas. Nı que decır tıene que luego cayo otra sıesta.

3. Sobrecarga: Cuando el prımer dıa de pedaleo un buen señor se bajo de su Peugeot y vıno corrıendo hacıa nosotros con la manos llenas de pepınos nos lleno de ılusıon a pesar de que tuvımos pepınos en las alforjas durante una semana. Cuando otro buen señor, tambıen con un Peugeot, me lleno las alforjas de manzanas hacıendo caso omıso a mıs ındıcacıones de que tres kılos eran sufıcıentes empezamos a ver cıertos ıncovenıentes, especıalmente en las subıdas. El tıpo que nos regalo 3 lıtros de agua despues de ver como nos cargamos con 12 lıtros desperto nuestras sopechas de que todo se trataba una broma con un negro sentıdo del humor. Pero cuando empezaron a llovernos sandıas de 5 kılos desde las ventanıllas de los coches (uno de ellos no era Peugeot) vımos claramente a la generosıdad ıranı como una amenaza para nuestra ıntegrıdad fısıca.

4. Materıa organıca descompuesta: Esto un daño colateral que se hace realıdad el dıa que encuentras en un rıncon olvıdado de la alforja una hedıenta bolsa de plastıco que emana una ıntesa luz verde con cıerto caracter radıoactıvo. Tras sucesıvos analısıs en laboratorıo descubres que se trata de aquel bocadıllo que preparaste una buena mañana de un buen dıa, y que debıdo a reıteradas ınvıtacıones a comer nunca llego a su destıno.

5. Drogodependencıas. Sın duda lo mas pelıgroso. Se desarrollan muy rapıdamente dos tıpos, una fısca y otra psıcologıca. La fısıca es conocıda como chaıoısmo: Toda ınvıtacıon ıranı es acompañada de chaı (te) que con una alta concentracıon de cafeına y un sabor exquısıto pronto hace que busques cualquıer excusa para meterte un chute. La psıcologıca recıbe el nombre de hospıtalısmo: se manıfıesta claramente cuando te encuentras un dıa a la 1 del medıodıa mırando ansıosamente el reloj y maldıcendo a todos los ıranıs: -Maldıtos ıranıs! que poca decencıa! la 1 y todavıa nadıe nos ha ınvıtado a comer, que tengo hambre coño!
O el dıa que el tacaño del panadero te cobra el pan y le sueltas: - Que pasa masetas! que no te has enterado que el pan es gratıs para los turıstas o que! que para algo pagamos 60 euros de vısado agarrao!!!

Como todo el mundo sabe Iran es un paıs altamente pelıgroso. Este artıculo da pruebas ırrefutables de ello. Ya habeıs sıdo avısados.

DIA 255 - Escapando del desierto

2008-07-14T06:47:00.000-07:00

Esfahan - Ardabil

Satisfechos de tener lengua de esparto durante dias, de beber insanas cantidades de agua hirviendo que no calman la sed, de dormir en piscinas de sudor. Satisfechos de subir durante horas en un falso llano, de ser castigados por el sol de 6am a 7pm, de perder la vista en el horizonte y ver que ese arbol o esa roca, unicas variantes del monotono paisaje, se alejan al mismo ritmo que nosotros nos acercamos. Si, satisfechos en definitiva de la experiencia del desierto y derrotados por su aliento ardiente, nos escapamos en busca del frescor de las montañas.

Hablando por el movil, aspirando para que el cigarro no se apague, sirviendose te a si mismo (nada de pedir ayuda a alguno de los 4 ayudantes), conduciendo con codos y rodillas y sacandose un moco con el unico dedo que le sobra, nuestro querido conductor nos lleva a toda velocidad hacia el norte de Iran.

En el ultimo momento decidimos no visitar Teheran, la gran capital de 13 millones de habitantes. No nos interesaba mucho los grandes atascos y las toneladas de maquillaje que usan las mujeres y que al paracer es lo mas remarcable de la capital, pero nos quedamos con ganas de ver la opulencia
de la dinastia Qajar representada en el Golestan Palace, otra vez sera.

"Iran: petroleo y chadors"

En 1921 Reza Khan dio un golpe de estado y acabo con la derrochadora y inepta dinastia Qajar. Reza, un soldado valeroso de poca educacion se enfrentaba al reto de traer Iran al siglo XX. Con la mirada puesta en occidente prohibio el "chador" (gran sabana negra con la que se cubren completamente algunas mujeres hoy en dia y que significa literalmente tienda de campaña) y promovio el uso de ropa occidental. Puso en marcha medidas para desarrollar la educacion, las infraestructuras, la agricultura y la industria, sectores que se encontraban en estado decadente.

A pesar de que Iran permanecio neutral en la segunda guerra mundial, los comentarios de Reza en favor de los nazis no les gustaron mucho a los britanicos y rusos, potencias con fuertes intereses en Iran, y en 1941 Reza se vio obligado a exiliar. Los britanicos colocaron a su hijo como sucesor y se ganaron la simpatia del joven Shah de 22 años.

"The Anglo-Iranian Oil Company" (hoy en dia BP) comenzo a bombear petroleo de manera casi gratuita hasta que en 1951, el nacionalista Mohammad Mossadegh fue elegido democraticamente primer ministro y nacionalizo la compañia. Obviamente esto no le gusto mucho a los isleños y pidieron ayuda al hermano mayor. En 1953 la CIA daba su primer golpe de estado (luego vendria Lunumba en Congo, Surkano en Indonesia y Allende en Chile) y derrocaba al pobre Mossadegh.

Estados Unidos presiono al nuevo gobierno para que modernizara socialmente el pais. El nuevo Shah impulso reformas que eran insuficientes para los progresistas y demasiadas para los conservadores, pero en lo que estaba interesado era en la buena vida y en derroche. Mientras Estados Unidos, el gran nuevo amigo del pais (los britanicos quedaron un poco relegados) chupaba todo petroleo que podia. Pronto el Shah, que respondia a cualquier protesta con toda la fuerza y violencia posible, tendria a todo el pais en contra. En 1978 el regimen se volvio especialmente brutal, Estados Unidos dejo de apoyarlo y finalmente en a primeros de 1979 el Shah, Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, tuvo que exiliar.

Poco despues volveria al pais el exiliado conservador Khomeini y encontraria el apoyo de casi todo el publico, pero pocos midieron la profundidad de su nacionalismo y de religiosidad. Un año despues se inaguraba la primera republica islamica del mundo, en la que el uso del "chador" o el velo era obligatorio y la edad legal a la cual la mujer podia contraer matrimonio era reducida a los 9 años. Iba Iran de mal a peor o de peor a mal? Dificil decir.

Estados Unidos e Iran se declaron enemigos del alma y cuando Irak ataco Iran intentando aprovechar el caos del incio de la revolucion islamica Iran se encontraba sola ante el peligro. Estados Unidos, al igual que Rusia, no tuvo ningun incoveniente en veder armas a su entonces amiguito Irak para que no fallara en el ataque. Khomeini envio a miles de hombres a la guerra dispuestos a morir por la bandera irani y asi lo hicieron, y a pesar del aislamiento el nacionalismo pudo mas que las armas e Iran en cierto modo se impuso si bien el balance de muertes fue similar en ambas filas. La guerra que duraria 8 años se cobraria mas de un millon de victimas entre ambos bandos.

Iran sigue hoy con la republica islamica pero el numero de seguidores se reduce cada dia. Por miedo a fuertes represiones cualquier manifestacion o cualquier tipo de protesta en contra del regimen es practicamente inexiste. Pero si le tiras de la lengua a los iranis pronto dice que no les gusta el gobierno, que religion y politica deberia separarse. Las mujeres menos conservadoras llevan velos retrasados que enseñan el flequillo y que de repente se cae dejando a la vista todo su cabello perfectamente peinado y laqueado. Los hombres mantienen su barba bien afeitada como simbolo de poca simpatia hacia el orden religioso.

Persas antiguos

Mi idea de dejar crecer la barba durante 7 meses para encajar un poquito en un pais islamico ha sido todo un fracaso en Iran (en Pakistan tuvo algo de exito). De hecho he sido apodado varias veces "el taliban" y alguno me ha preguntado que si era terrorista. Asi que cansado de las bromas de los iranis y con miedo a que Estados Unidos ataque el pais y acabe mis dias en Guantanamo negando cualquier vinculo con Al Qaida, decidi mostrar mi oposicion al regimen.

Persas modernos

DIA 253-254 - Conversation in an Esfahan Teahouse

2008-07-13T05:41:00.000-07:00

Esfahan

There is a teahouse overlooking Imam Square - the centre of Shah Abbas' 17th century Esfahan. The stairs are steep, the two rooms dark and covered wall-to-wall in Persian rugs. There is an outside terrace area and everyone has chosen the al fresco option. Not surprising given the fine view of the Imam Mosque at the far end of the square, the fountain in the middle, the small yet exquisite mosque built for Shah Abbas' harem to the left, and the numerous arches which are lit up at night.

As we walk in the first thing I see are water pipes - bubbling contraptions on which people are puffing. We are offered a pipe with our tea. We decline: They look frightening. Difficult to know which part to put in your mouth and very uncool to ask. The tea is the usual cinnamon and saffron mix, and some overly sweet white chewy things with pistachios on top are also served.

We have picked up a random student from the square. His name is Masood and he is eager to practice his English. He studies engineering at a local university. He wants to know what we think about Iran. We tell him we think it is a fascinating country with friendly people. He keeps questioning so we also tell him that we do not like the gender apartheid. He explains that it is a matter of religion. This provides a fine opening for the intriguing theme of sexual relations. Does Masood have a girlfriend? No. Does he want one? Yes, but his parents will find him someone to marry soon enough.

There is an Iranian couple sitting close to us flirting with each other. We use them as Exhibit A. Boyfriend and girlfriend or husband and wife? Mahsood calls over to them in Farsi. They get up and come to sit with us. They are boyfriend and girlfriend. But that is not allowed, we exclaim. They explain that they are going to get married soon. Masood adds that some people are more religious than others. We attempt to show solidarity with the couple by saying that that it is normal in our countries to have boy/girlfriends. The girl says yes, but that is because there are no rules in your countries.

We laugh and say that there are plenty of rules (especially in Australia), just not necessarily directed at discouraging sexual relations. I give an example of Australian traffic rules. A man from New Zealand who is sitting nearby laughs and calls out that if Aussie traffic rules applied in Iran, 70% of Esfahan drivers and 95% of Tehran drivers would be locked up.

We start talking to the New Zealander and his beautiful Iranian wife. They say that Iranians may give the appearance of being conservative but you should see what they get up to behind closed doors. I try hard to imagine the rural familes with whom we had interacted cutting loose. The Iranian woman laughed. No. Inhouse parties in Tehran and Esfahan. They had been to one such party the previous night. Drugs everywhere: pills and opium all over the floor. Girls in bikinis (presumably no headscarf). And the couple had gone with their toddler. Masood agrees that these parties are common. Police raids happen every two to three months, and the parties just shift. A far cry from the home life we had seen in the countryside. Does Masood go to these parties? Sometimes, he said sheepishly, but he does not take pills.

The young Iranian couple say goodbye and leave our table. After they have gone, Masood says that the girl is with the boy because he is rich. Once the money has dried up, she will move on. If that is what he thinks of girls with boyfriends, it is not surprising that he is choosing not to have one. Also, it might be permitted for a girl to have a boyfriend in Iran, but it is perhaps not advisable if she wants to marry later.

Teahouse conversation is illuminating. Move over bars and pubs - no loud music or beer goggles...copious amounts of tea and the odd water pipe can also be effective social lubricants!

DIA 252 - Persian Rugs

2008-07-11T03:16:00.000-07:00

Esfahan

Esfahan is a beautiful city to go browsing for Persian rugs. This old capital city of Persia is home to one of the biggest bazaars in the world, and in this bazaar there is a large area devoted to rugs. The rugs are spectacular. There is a mix of city rugs and nomad rugs. The city rugs are made in big cities like Esfahan, and also smaller towns such as Nain, about 130kms east of Esfahan. The rug design takes up a quarter of the rug and is repeated four times to create the whole rug. The art requires exact copies, and mimics the intricate symmetry of mosque design. The silk rugs shimmer with brilliant colours. Other rugs are a mix of silk and wool and cheaper rugs are made of wool. Most are made by hand. The patterns sometimes include animals or depict scenes of legends, but traditional 'mosque' designs appear to be more common. Colours can be deep red, dark blue, sky blue, cream, salmon pink, yellow and light green. Darker colours are usually put together, but dark blue with cream is also popular. Light colours are more delicate and subtle - more suited to wall hangings than floor coverings.

The other type of rug follows the nomad style. There are apparently 7 main nomad groups in Iran. The group closest to Esfahan is called the Baktiari and another group which moves between Shiraz and Esfahan is known as the Kashgai. Only about one million nomads still live their traditional lifestyle (many have moved to the cities), and Iranian and global demand for rugs exceeds traditional supply. This means that about 80% of nomad style rugs are not made in the traditional way. The nomads traditionally do everything. Not only do they weave the rug but also gather the wool, make the dyes from vegetation, and construct the looms. They weave bread rugs (for making bread and using as tablecloths), prayer rugs, saddlebags for camels, salt bags, flour bags, and suitcases. Daughters learn from their mothers and carry the designs in their heads. This means that designs always vary slightly - there is an individual stamp on every design. This is very different from the precision of the city rugs. The nomad groups can be identified by their different designs. The designs can be geometric and some are Zoroastrian - the traditions of rug-making predate Islam. Nomad style rugs are often rusty red, diluted blue, or various colours of camel hair. The colours are less brilliant and more natural.

All in all, Esfahan is a rug aficionado's delight... a shame rugs are so hard to lug behind bicycles!

DIA 250-251 - Desert Hospitality

2008-07-10T04:15:00.000-07:00

Yazd - Esfahan Dt = 9242 Km

When you are riding through the desert and the last bit of shade you saw was about 20kms ago, and it is time to stop for some lunch, desert hospitality is much appreciated. The best thing to do is to get off the bike and look confused. The chances are someone will take pity on you. You will be led (hopefully not too far since they are in a car and you are on a bike, and hills hurt more for you) to a house.

The house will have a very spacious livingroom with rugs covering the floor and either no furniture, or chairs and a table in an alcove off to one side. The rugs will be red with intricate patterns. Plump cushions lean against the walls. There will be a 'shrine' area lit from above by a skylight. The subject of this shrine will be a medieval-looking man with a trimmed beard and a cut on his forehead. His name is Abul Fars Lel Abbas and he was Imam Hussein's half-brother. Hussain was the third Imam. From the pictures it seems that both he and his horse were badly wounded in battle (Lel Abbas was killed alongside Hussein. Pictures of Imams are prohibited, but pictures of their family members are fine). Some reference to Persepolis also may appear somewhere else in the living room. This will be a picture mosaic of beautiful girls offering gifts to King Kurosh of the Achmeinids (aka 400BC), or Kurosh with eagle feathers denoting right thought, right speech and right action. Kurosh, along with the other Archaemenids, was Zoroastrian, and right thought, speech and action is central to Zoroastrian beliefs. In brief, the house will have some reference to both Islamic culture and pre-Islamic Persian culture. The Iranians are proud of both.

For lunch a tablecloth will be laid out on the floor, and dishes of mutton stew, chicken, rice and salad will be placed on the tablecloth, as well as very large round flat bread. A type of cola and orange fizzy drink will be offered. Your host will say 'befame' or 'help yourself'. Fruit - apricot, nectarines, melon - follow the main course, although these are sometimes offered first if your host needs more time to prepare the meal. Tea is always offered at the end of the meal.

A siesta will also be offered after the meal or, if you look like you are going to drop dead from exhaustion, before the meal. A lack of common language will be no impediment, especially if you say that you are Spanish. Spain is popular in Iran - perhaps the Iranians remember the good old days when the Moors occupied Spain. The fact that Spain won the European Cup 2008 is a great way to start any conversation.

Finally, resistance is futile. If you really do not want to experience desert hospitality, you have to keep cycling. Do not rest and do not stop to buy food. Resting and food-buying present friendly Iranians with irresistible opportunities. A confused look precipitates hospitality, but it is not a pre-requisite. We tried to escape desert hospitality one day because we found a pine tree to sit under. We managed to hold out for the time it took for us to eat our sandwiches, and then we were bustled into a nearby house where a second lunch awaited us. We now realise that desert hospitality is an important part of the Iranian experience and we now surrender ourselves to the arduous task of being pampered.

DIA 248-249 - El polvo de las Caravanas

2008-07-08T06:24:00.000-07:00

Merhiz - Yazd Dt = 9070 Km

Echo la vista un lado y distingo el polvo que levanta la caravana. Ha salido temprano con los camellos bien cargados de mercancias, comida y las carpas de campamento. Lenta avanza formando un estilizada linea que deja tras de si una nube marron. Al frente varios caballos. Sobre uno de ellos cabalga Marco Polo. Echa la mano a un lado de su montura, agarra con firmeza la cantimplora de piel, la estruja y se moja con agravio los labios cortados y la seca garganta. Sus ojos, protegidos por el sombrero que le regalo el Gran Khan, escudriñan el horizonte en busca de alguna sombra que pueda calmar por un rato el aplastante sol del desierto. Su poca esperanza pronto se rinde a la evidencia. Atras quedaron los peligros de los guerreros mongoles, ahora se enfrentan a la soledad y monotonia abrumadora del desierto. Una vez atravesado todo sera mas sencillo.

Si no fuera porque Marco Polo calbalga a nuestro lado el dia seria aburridisimo. Y seguramente el, al igual que nosotros, tambien se alegro al ver desde lejos las altas torres de la mezquita de Yazd en medio del desierto. En Yazd seguro encontro una buena excusa para parar a descansar y pasear por los callejones que se retuercen entre paredes de barro arañadas en el desierto y torres de viento que han capturado las brisas de muchos imperios.

DIA 247 - The Mayor of Marvast

2008-07-06T03:25:00.000-07:00

Marvast - Merhiz Dd = 120 Km Dt = 9040 Km

In a town called Harat the police found us. It was either a remarkable coincidence or Ali, the hydraulic engineer who had invited us for lunch, called them. The police drove behind us for 55 kms to the small town of Marvast, and then told us to wait. After a man dressed in a striped business shirt and jeans had spoken English at us for 15 minutes, showing very little interest in our replies (later it turned out that he was the local English teacher, and prioritised speaking over listening), a man we had seen on the road drove up. He was introduced as the Mayor of Mavast, welcomed us cheerfully and indicated that we should follow him on our bicycles. We soon arrived at a spacious house, and were introduced to his family - his wife, his mother, his two sons and daughter. His wife was covered from head to toe in what looked like a beige sheet. His mother was tiny and dressed all in black. She sat next to me on the sofa and immediately started talking. The mayor told her that I did not speak Farsi, but she was not discouraged. About 10 minutes later I realised that she was telling me that I had something in my teeth. She sat back, satisfied.

The mayor could say a few words in English and told us that his mother had had ten children, but two of his brothers had died in the Iran-Iraq war.

The mayor's wife whisked me to the shower. When she had closed the door, she immediately took off the sheet she was wearing. Underneath she had dark cropped hair, a fitted orange T-shirt and black tracksuit pants. She looked so normal that it took my breath away. After my shower, I sat with her in the kitchen. We managed to communicate that we were both teachers - she taught the Koran in the local middle school. I watched her prepare dinner (she would not let me help). She moved gracefully, every movement as important as its consequence. She was making a chicken dish with a rich tomato sauce, rice, and beef kebabs. At one stage, Angel tried to come into the kitchen, but the sheet had been removed, so I had to motion him away.
Then the mayor told us there was a castle in town and would we like to see it. We said yes although we could hardly walk we were so tired, and the whole family except for the wife piled into the car. Mother was dropped off early at her own house but we and the children carried on to the castle. The castle looked medieval and was made of mudbrick. From a turret we had a beautiful view of the town, which was also all mudbrick.

When we returned home, the wife needed to go to hospital. She had a bad back and needed an injection. She wanted me to come with her. We got on very well together given that we found it so difficult to talk to each other. The hospital took a while due to triage - a very sick, very thin lady took precedence.

Dinner was served late that night and we were absolutely starving. Straight after dinner we went to bed in the children's room. I asked Angel where the children were sleeping, and he said on the street. I thought he was joking but then looked out of the window, and there they were outside under a mosquito net. No amount of persuasion could make the mayor change the sleeping arrangements so that we were outside.

The next morning after a big breakfast of eggs, cheese, bread, jam and tea, we were on our way to Yazd...with the police still in tow. The mayor's wife slipped me some pistachios. The mayor and his family made Marvast the most beautiful town in Iran so far.

DIA 246 - Rasgando la bruma

2008-07-05T06:21:00.000-07:00

Dehqanan - Sharq Abab - Deh Murd - Marvast Dt = 8920 Km

El paisaje ha ido cambiando en el transcurso de los ultimos dias. Las pequeñas y verticales sierras rocosas de color pardo-grisaceo que aparecian y desaparecian se han ido desintegrando poco a poco. La bruma ya se ha levantado y dejado paso a un viento que nos cubre de polvo y a un sol que nos castiga y nos muestra un horizonte cada mas lejano. La hospitalidad que nos desbordo el primer dia no ha cambiado, no ha hecho si no confirmar que no fue un caso puntual.

Los 20 Km de camino de piedras que cruzan la ultima sierra y nos ofrecen bonitas vistas son seguidos por una recta asfaltada que nos lleva hasta Harat. Justo cuando ya nos habiamos equipado para la comida una muchedumbre empieza a rodearnos. Una moto pasa cerca, ve el jaleo, derrapa y se acerca corriendo. El de la moto es el primero en hacer la oferta a comer, le siguen los demas con la misma invitacion, y tras unos segundos dudando entre independecia y hospitalidad aceptamos la primera invitacion antes de que inicien una pelea para resolver quien nos invito primero. Una vez en casa, llenos de confianza en cuanto hospitalidad se refiere (ya es la cuarta vez que nos invitan a comer en 5 dias), pedimos una ducha alegando que nuestro olor no es digno de tan hermosa casa, y ya liados con el agua porque no hacer la colada. Armado con las herramientas necesiarias me voy al baño a frotar piel y ropa mientras entono en voz grave el clasico de Labordeta "Arremojate la tripa que ya viene la calor". Acabada ducha-colada-comida-fruta-te es hora de rechazar las invitaciones a la boda de la tarde y a quedarse a dormir en casa que hace mucha calor para salir a pedalear; decir que gracias pero no queremos llamar a España ni a Australia desde su movil, y mucho menos dinero por mucho que el fajo de billetes que me ofreces sea tentador (menos mal que no lo ofrecio tres veces si no a la tercera se lo pillo porque segun el codigo hospitalario no escrito hay que rechazarlo todo tres veces y si insisten pues...) Nos despedimos de toda la familia y agradecemos la comida. Para terminar de agasajarnos llaman a la policia para que nos escolten.

Al llegar a Marvast, puerto de destino, pedimos a la policia que nos indiquen un hotel barato. Nos encuentran el mas barato de todos: cero pesetas. Su excelentisimo señor alcalde nos acoge en su perfectamente alfombrada casa. Nos sentamos y aparece fruta y agua fresca para entretenernos mientras respondemos a las ya clasicas preguntas: - Edad? -Casados? - Niños? - Que pensais de Iran? - Y de los iranis? (todo irani esta obsesionado con lo que el mundo exterior piensa de ellos, parece ser que saben de la mala publicidad que anda por ahi) - Pais?. Esta es la mejor pregunta, con la aficion por el futbol que hay en este pais cuando dices España casi saltan de alegria, y luego comienza la retaila de nombres: Raul Gonzalez, Casillas, Torres, Villa... y unos cuanto mas que no conozco pero que hago como que si. Pero el alcalde se calienta, tira de memoria y suelta: Vicente del Bosque! Hierro!... y yo finalmente embriagdo de melon me acabo calentando y le devuelvo la pelota: "El Buitre"! "Ratoncito Pardeza"! Su excelencia me mira sastifecho y asiente silencioso con la cabeza, labios ligeramente adelantados, y se que desde ese momento me ganado un sitio entre los suyos. (Al pobre Morientes nadie lo saco sobre la mesa)

Momentos despues salto sobre un terreno de juego formado por alfombras rojas y azules en vez de cesped, y enormes cojines en vez de porterias. Un triangualar esta a punto de comenzar entre Mohamad Areff alias Robinho con camiseta del Milan, Mohamad Taha alias Ballack con camiseta del Esteghlal (Iran) y un servidor alias Villa con camiseta del Arsenal. Al pitar el comienzo del partido siento caer sobre mi toda la presion del reciente campeon de europa. A pesar de jugar fuera de casa y de la gran calidad de los Mohamad de 7 y 10 años respectivamente logro imponerme no sin dificultades con unos marcadores muy ajustados: 9-10 y 4-5. El padre que ha sido testigo de mi juego sucio me llama para que me calme y me somete a una segunda ronda de preguntas en compañia de unos cuantos amigos que al parecer se han dejado caer por casa porque nunca han visto extranjeros, algo que se me antoja mas como una excusa que como una realidad. Mientras tanto las mujeres han entrado en la cocina, se han cerrado las puertas y los velos han caido. Ahora es una zona restringida a mujeres y hombre que todavia no eyaculen.

Las segundas rondas de preguntas siempre son las mejores. Lo mas tipico es comenzar con Religion? pero el alcade es una excepcion y a pesar de su profunda orientacion religiosa (pues si no para rato seria alcalde en este pais) se arranca con algunas preguntas nuevas: que pasa con el pais vasco? y con Jerry Adams? Pues las repuestas son complicadas majete, especialemente la del colega Adams, ya me diras que quieres que te cuente yo sobre el, quiza mejor que le preguntes a un irlandes, o a un ingles, o es simplemente por sacar algo de conversacion? Al ver que esta pregunta no funciono muy bien hizo comentarios sobre la belleza de Al Andalus y a Mezquita Roja ??

Y es que las conversaciones con los iranis nunca sabes por donde van a salir. El mas gracioso fue aquel que pregunto:
- Crees que somos terroristas?
A lo que le devolvimos
-Pues claro que si, seguro que llevas una bomba en el bolsillo.
Lo que provoco las carcajadas de todos los contertulianos.
Y el mas interesante y extraño fue un vendedor de gafas ambulante que al descubrir que era español, cometio un error liguistico-geografico y dijo: -Oh Borges! Es mi escritor favorito, me he leido todos sus libros. - Pues ole tus huevos chaval, debes ser la unica persona en este mundo que lo ha conseguido, incluyendo al mismisimo Borges.

La velada con el alcalde, sus dos hijos fanaticos del futbol, su hija que empezaba a caminar y su mujer cubierta en todo momento por una larga sabana, fue realmente acogedora. Por la mañana nos desbordarian aun mas con un esplendido y mas que generoso desayuno. Nos despedimos con afecto prometiendo enviar algun recuerdo.

DIA 243 - A Very Short History of Iran

2008-07-02T04:07:00.000-07:00

Shiraz - Dequanan Dd = 96 Km Dt = 8616 Km

Iran has a very long and distinguished history - difficult to do justice in a few words. But here goes... The Medes, Archaemenids, Sassanids, and Safavids have all created empires on Iranian soil, not to mention invaders such as the Arabs and Mongols. Iran has been a superpower in its time - for example, the Archaemenids created one of the biggest empires the world had ever known from 550-330 BC, and gave Ancient Greece a run for their money. The Archaemenids built an awe-inspiring city, now near Shiraz, which the Greeks called Persepolis, or city of the Persians. On behalf of the Greeks, Alexander the Great set fire to Persepolis in 330 BC. Nice work Alexander: soldiers are such appreciators of fine architecture. At their zenith, 28 nations paid homage to the Archaemenids, coming every year to Persepolis at the beginning of spring to give a gift to the reigning king (Darius, Xerxes, Kurosh etc). The Archaemenids were Zoroastrian, and the Sassanids (around 300 BC - 600 A.D.) carried on this religious tradition.

Although the Islamitisation of Persia started with the Arab invasion in the mid seventh century, it was not until the ninth and tenth centuries that Islam really took over. The Moslems even managed to assimilate the Khans - well, maybe not Genghis but his descendant Khans, at any rate. The next big empire to unite Iran was the Safavids who were Shiite Moslem (the Arabs were Sunni) in 1551. The intervening time was filled with all sorts of shortlived dynasties - both native and foreign. The Mongol invasion is rather conspicuous as an interesting event during this time. Genghis apparently did not intend to invade the Moslem world in 1219, but when two diplomatic missions were executed, that was it. Enough was enough.

Shahs ruled Iran from 1551 until 1979 - the Safavids were over in 1736 but the shah tradition still continued. One of my favourite shahs was a Safavid - Abbas I (1587-1629). He was so paranoid he was going to get assasinated that he either killed or blinded family members. Because he killed two sons and two died before him, he was left with no heirs. Now there's thinking!

Since the revolution in 1979 Iran has been an Islamic Republic. So goodbye to the shahs with all their material indulgence and paranoia and hello to the new regime with all their religious indulgence and paranoia. Long live the powers that be!

DIA 241-242 - Two Girls in Shiraz

2008-07-01T05:28:00.000-07:00

Shiraz

Sara

Sara is 25 years old and has just finished studying an English Masters in Kerman university. She is also recently married and very much in love with her husband. We met her on the bus travelling from Kerman to Shiraz, and she was eager to talk. She was open and friendly, and happy to explain the Iranian movie we had been watching (a love triangle where I had thought there was only one man in love with the woman. Apparently the hero had also contracted AIDS, injected into him by his rival - I missed that as well). She showed me a picture of her husband, and also of herself on her wedding day. Angel was not allowed to see the second photo because her hair was uncovered.

When we got off the bus, we did not know the way to the hotel. Sara's husband Omid had come to pick her up and we were invited to follow on our bikes behind the car. Later, they asked us where we wanted to see in Shiraz. Persepolis? OK, see you back here tomorrow morning at 7.30am. The next morning Sara had changed her black headscarf for one of mint green and had on a matching jacket. She looked fresh and glowing.

When we were returning to Shiraz in the car, she confided her fears to us. America was going to attack Iran and she was frightened. She had seen the Stanley Kubrick movie Eyes Wide Shut and her professor had told her that Kubrick was depicting normal life in America. She was frightened of such an immoral country. She was very surprised and happy to hear that so many people in the US were deeply religious. The actual religion appeared to be unimportant.

Maryam
Maryam is a nurse in a central hospital of Shiraz. She is around 30 years old and speaks to me non-stop in Farsi. I have sinusitis, a splitting headache and want to sleep. The doctor will not be in for another three hours. She takes us to another doctor's office, gets us water, gestures to the bed in the corner. I lie down. In 10 minutes another nurse comes in and tells us to leave. We sit outside, and Maryam comes back. She is apologetic and stays to talk. It is clear she is trying to break rules so that I am more comfortable. She is cheerfully irreverent, complaining about the headscarf. Men. She rolls her eyes. She plays the Gypsy Kings for us on her mobile phone, then asks if Iranians are terrorists. She says 'America' points her fingers at her heart in the shape of a gun, fires and slumps in the chair.

After a while, she shows us to another doctor's office and I can lie down again, but only for 20 minutes. When Maryam's shift is over, she comes over to say goodbye. She has changed her black hospital headscarf for a green one and put on makeup. She gets us tea. It was difficult to appreciate her irreverence and friendliness at the time because of my illness, but I would have enjoyed sharing a language with her.

DIA 239-240 - Iranian Fashion

2008-06-29T03:11:00.000-07:00

Shiraz

Iranians cover themselves quite comprehensively. Chadors (quite literally, 'tents') can be seen everywhere - these black cloaks cover women from head to toe, and are held shut with hands or teeth. The women often carry a handbag or backpack underneath, which further conceals their curves. Long 'body veils' sprinkled with tiny flowers are also popular. They are filmy and translucent but still look like the girl has thrown a sheet over herself. Headscarfs are usually worn underneath the sheet because the sheet has a habit of slipping around if the girl tries to do anything; for example, move.

However, many women get around in a headscarf and manteau (a loose jacket which must reach just above the knee). These women push their headscarf back from their forehead to display their fringe and, in some cases, wear their headscarf so that a ponytail shows at the back. The jackets often hug curves in all the right places. Headscarfs and jackets can be all colours of the rainbow. A popular style for the headscarf is the style favoured by many grandmothers - tied under the chin. It is not necessarily a flattering style, but I discovered the benefits of this style early on: You are free to go about your business without a loosely tied scarf falling about your ears. (Note, this style does not suit cycling. For cycling, the 'pirate style' is best, or bringing the scarf down quite low on the forehead and tying it at the back).

The men are also covered, although they do not have to wear sheets or headscarfs. Long shirts and jeans or slacks are the norm. It is surprising to see that men generally do not have beards. This may be a small rebellion against the strictness of the regime....or a rebellion against the 40 degree desert heat. Angel's beard is perhaps the longest in all Iran.

Both the women and men in Shiraz concentrate on their appearance. Walking down the main street in Shiraz, for instance, is like being in a European city. The girls look elegant and have gone to some trouble with makeup, beautiful shoes and colour coordination. The men look dapper in neatly pressed shirts. The only difference would be the season: everyone looks like they are ready for a chill wind and heavy grey skies.

The way many women in particular are so fashion conscious has been the greatest surprise of Iran so far. I am almost relieved I bought my loose pants and tunic top in India: I definitely do NOT look like I am trying hard to fit in. The Indian girl who took me shopping in Rishikesh said hopefully: Maybe Bollywood is popular in Iran right now. I remain sceptical.

DIA 238 - Persepolis

2008-06-27T05:41:00.000-07:00

Persepolis (Shiraz)

A las 7:30 am Omid y Sarah nos recogen en la puerta del hotel. Nos saludamos entre bostezos y ponemos rumbo hacia lo que dejo Alejandro Magno de Persepolis. En el camino repostamos a 0,15 euros el litro de gasolina y nos aprovisionamos con algo de almuerzo. No dejan que paguemos nada y haran lo mismo con las entradas para Persepolis. Una vez en las ruinas de la ciudad formada por terrazas a diferentes alturas Sara se desvive corriendo aqui y alla para cazar toda la informacion posible de los guias Iranis y luego traducirla para nosotros. Somos oficialmente sus huespedes y debe cuidar de nuestros deseos y necesidades.

Persepolis fue la capital de religiosa del Imperio Aquemenida, primer gran imperio persa y el mas extenso de su epoca. La construccion de la ciudad fue iniciada por Darius I hacia el año 500 A.C. y continuada por Xerxes I y el resto de la dinastia durante unos 150 años. Su vida se acabaria a manos de Alejandro Magno en el 330 A.C. tras una buen borrachera que queriendo o sin querer pego fuego a la ciudad. El conjunto, ubicado en un paisaje un tanto desolador esta formado por numerosos palacios y templos para satisfacer las necesidades religiosas de todos, especialemente de los soldados. Hasta aqui llegaban las gentes de los 28 pueblos diferentes que formaban el imperio para ogrecer regalos al emperador el dia de año nuevo (principio de primavera). 23 de estos pueblos fueron esculpidos en las paredes del Palacio Apadana, recinto en donde el rey de reyes oficiaba las audiencias oficiales. Cada pueblo esta representado con las donaciones mas carecteristicas que solian ofrecer.

Otra representacion bien extendida es el rey flanqueado por alas de aguila y con cola de aguila en vez de pies. Tanto las alas como la cola estan formadas for tres filas de plumaje que representan los valores esenciales del zoroastrismo, religion oficial del imperio: buena palabra, buen pensamiento, buena accion. Estos valores estan por encima de todos incluso del rey.

Una vez olisqueados todos los rincones emprendemos el camino de vuelta en el que la conversacion va ser mas que interesante. Lejos de seguir hablando de la grandeza y encanto de los tiempos antiguos vamos a dar un gran salto en el tiempo para encarar los problemas internacionales de hoy en dia, que tambien incluyen imperios.

Al preguntar a Sarah cual es su pelicula favorita su respuesta va a ser la mas increible e inesperada de todas. En un pais musulman conservador donde las mujeres estan obligadas por ley a cubrirse el pelo, los brazos y las piernas por completo, y en donde el adulterio lo paga la mujer con la sangre, la ultima pelicula que cabia esperar ser su favorita era "Eyes wide shut". Necesitamos unos minutos para asimilar la respuesta y despues preguntamos por que, todavia no conozco a nadie que le gustara la pelicula (para aquellos que no la hayan visto la ultima de Kubrick se trata de una cosa rara donde se mezclan drogas, problemas matrimoniales y la guinda de la pelicula: bacanales enmascaras. Todo ello sin ningun sentido aparente). Sarah dice que le gusta porque segun su profesor de ingles de la universad, quien la habia proyectado un dia en clase, "Kubrick habia mostrado a la perfeccion la sociedad americana" y para Sarah es muy interesante el que hubiera sociedades tan distintas a la suya y con una moralidad tan baja. Nos desvivimos en palabras para hacerle entender que la pelicula no tenia nada que ver con la realiadad americana, que teniamos amigos americanos que seguro detestaban la pelicula, que la mayoria de la sociedad americana en conservadora ultra religiosa y la cinta cuando menos les parecera asquerosa si no satanica, que es tan solo un fruto de la imaginacion de Kubrick y que obviamente su profesor tenia algo en contra de los estados unidos y/o sabia muy poco sobre los americanos.

Cuando nos bajamos del coche todavia no podiamos creerlo, pero pensandolo bien tampoco era de extrañar, esto pasa en ambos bandos. Me recordo a esos imagenes que retransmitieron los medios de comunicacion el dia de los atentados del 11 de Septiembre en donde se veia a musulmanes celebrando los atentados y que dias despues se descubrio que eran imagenas grabadas hacia 4 años en una fiesta pagana y que nada tenian que ver ni con los atentados ni con los americanos. Desgraciadamente todavia hay en este mundo medios de comunicacion y valientes ignorantes que amparados por la ceguera de su ignorancia se esfuerzan en potenciar el odio y el miedo entre pueblos en vez de fomentar el entendimiento y el acercamiento.

Sara tambien nos dijo que vivia con miedo a que su pais fuera atacado por USA. Quiza, y ojala que pronto, los gobiernos extremistas de Iran y USA abriran un poco los ojos un dia de estos, dejaran de lado sus intereses politico-economicos y ofreceran a sus pueblos una vida libre de miedos.

DIA 234-237 - Baluchistan

2008-06-26T05:59:00.000-07:00

Quetta-Zahedan-Kerman-Shiraz

"I Am An Iranian Border Policeman"

Protecting foreign tourists is extremely annoying. They appear to have no idea of the dangers and complain about stupid little things, like having their passports taken away. It is for their own protection! It is so that they will not do anything that they regret later! Try telling them that. The Pakistan-Iran border is dangerous. Drug-runners are trying to kill us all the time, and kidnap Western tourists if we seize any of their drugs...maybe they can make money that way. Drug-runners can be quite entrepreneurial. What about the trick they pull with the dromedaries, walking them through a route a few times, then piling them high with drugs and setting them off alone through the desert hills? We cannot arrest every camel roaming through the desert after all.

But back to the tourists. We round them up. For their own good. We charge them $50 for the lift to Zahedan. OK, OK, we are not supposed to do that, but hey, it is our time these adventure-seekers are wasting. They argue about the price, the stingy misers. We end up having to take them for free. There's a Spanish guy, an Australian girl, a Dutch guy, and an Afghani guy with his young son. The Afghani has an Australian passport. Well. We have it at the moment.

Naturally, there is no room for the tourists in the front of our ute, so they sit out back with their luggage. They shuffle around, no doubt thinking they are sitting ducks for the drug-runners. We have a trick though. We drive fast - around 130 kph. No one can take any potshots at that speed. The Australian girl has her headscarf glued to her face. The Dutch guy's trying to light a cigarette. We stop the ute after 40kms, and wait for the vehicle which will take the tourists on to Zahedan. When the tourists get there they will have to change police vehicles another four times. The two with the bicycles will have to ride through the streets of Zahedan following the police car. It is not our fault that not all of our police vehicles are utes, or that it is more than 40 degrees in the shade. Who told those mad tourists to bring bicycles anyway?

Later, when the tourists were supposed to wait for the final police car to take them the last 50m into the bus terminal, I heard that they started shouting at the police. Something about it taking about 5 hours to cover around 90kms, their passports, lack of water, sunburn. The ingratitude of these people. But what can we do? A job is a job. We will be waiting for them in Kerman too - it is not safe for them to get off the bus in the bus terminal. But after Kerman, they are on their own....*

*Actually, not quite true! The police picked up our scent when we were cycling from Shiraz to Yazd and followed us for a day and a half. But these police liked us better and treated us well, giving us cold water and joking with us, playing Iranian music to us through a loudspeaker as we rode along. They even suggested that we put our heavy panniers in the police car when we were going up 30kms of incline, but we soldiered on with the panniers, being the strong iron-hard cyclists that we are!

"La ruta de la droga"

Baluchistan es una tierra que en otras epocas vio pasar a Alejandro Magno en su ambiciosa e increible conquista hacia Oriente; escucho a los arabes pregonar el Koran por todas las esquinas; se mojo con la sangre con de las cabezas cortadas por los jinetes mongoles; alimento y dio descanso a las caravanas de la ruta de la seda entre las que se encontraba la de Marco Polo. El Baluchistan de hoy parece haber sido olvidado por el mundo, en sus secas montañas y en sus polvorientos desiertos los oasis solo habitan en la imaginacion.

Las fronteras modernas repartieron a Baluchistan y sus Baluchis en tres pedazos, uno en Afganistan, otro en Pakistan y un tercero en Iran. La lejania y olvido de los tres gobiernos centrales ubicados en Kabul, Islamabab y Teheran respectivamente han dado como resultado fuertes sentimientos independistas y una gran deficiencia en infraestructuras que han desembocado en una tierra sin ley donde los asesinatos entre sunis y chiis, y entre militares y guerrilleros son mas que frecuentes. A pesar del pasar de los años las caravanas de mercaderes siguen funcionando. Hoy los nuevos "Marco Polo" lo que venden a Occidente es heroina en vez de seda, porcelana o especias; y lo que llega a Oriente son armas en vez de cristales preciosos, oro, plata, marfil, vino o lana. La droga es transportada por camellos bien entrenados que una vez bien cargados son soltados y ponen rumbo entre montañas y desiertos hostiles durante cientos de kilometros hasta la casa donde saben volveran a encontrar comida.

En una zona gobernada a punta de pistola no es de extrañar que el autobus que nos llevaba hasta la frontera irani fuera detenido e inspeccionado por militares pakistanis cada pocos kilometros; y tampoco nos extraño que nada mas entrar en Iran nos requisaran los pasaportes y nos pusieran una simpatica escolta dispuesta a pedir dinero por un servicio que no habiamos encargado, obviamente se quedo en eso, una peticion infructifera. Pero lo que no imaginamos es que los 100 km que nos separaban de Zahedan, la primera ciudad en Iran, serian largos y sufridos. Instalados en la parte de atras de un pick-up policial volamos sobre el asfalto bajo un sol policial mientras un militar bien armado que se cubre con un pañuelo palestino se anima con unos gritos en farsi que por su entusiasmo y gesticulacion apostamos que son canciones tradicionales de amor. Pronto paramos, cambiamos de pick-up, nuestros pasaportes cambian de manos. Este preceso se repite varias veces, siempre con esperas bajos el sol del mediodia hasta que no hay mas pick-ups y tenemos que perseguir al cohe policial por entre las calles de Zahedan de cuartel a cuartel. Cada vez los relevos son mas cortos, el sol mas intenso, la sed mas acuciante y nuestra piel mas roja. Cuando un penultimo coche paro a escasos 50 metros de la entrada de la estacion de autobuses en espera de otro relevo que nos llevaria hasta dentro, como no al sol e impidiendonos seguid sin escolta, rompimos en improperios en ingles y español que se estrellaron con el farsi de la policia. Cogidos por los pasaportes como nos tenian no nos soltaron hasta que no teniamos el billete en mano, la piel totalmente quemada y estado de deshidratacion grave. Nuestro protectores se nos antojaban mas bien torturadores. Los 3 cicloturistas que en 2003 fueron secuestrados por un grupo de contrabandistas recibieron mejor trato. Tardamos 5 horas en recorrer unos 100 km en coche.

DIA 232-233 - The Longest Train Trip Ever!

2008-06-22T05:14:00.000-07:00

Lahore - Quetta*

Catching the train from Lahore to Quetta in Pakistan takes around 30 hours. This does not include the time it takes to ride to the train station because you're not entirely sure where you are supposed to get off the bus and you overshoot the station, nor the time it takes for extremely friendly Pakistanis to negotiate both your tickets and tickets for the bicycles. Oh, and sitting in the train for two hours because it is running late also needs to be taken into account.

We were lucky in the end because we had a sleeper compartment. Well, we thought it was a sleeper compartment. There were three bunk beds but there were eight people in the small space, including us. It took five or six hours for everyone to sort themselves out. Two Pakistani boys were in the compartment because they had become our firm friends. Without Hamid and Amir, we would never have made it onto the train. Hamid in particular displayed an impressive degree of initiative. He was shouted at by a number of officials for his audacity trying to get us tickets. Each time he took a deep breath, looked extremely uncomfortable, muttered under his breath, and then tried again with someone else. The problem, as usual, was our bicycles. Then, when we were finally allowed onto the train for double the price, Hamid and Amir came with us. They were university students studying in Lahore and travelling to their hometown four hours away. They wanted to practice their English. It was difficult to know whether they actually had tickets for our train, but they were definitely not supposed to be with us in our sleeper. Hamid was shouted at yet again, this time by the conductor. After that, they were like ghosts, appearing and disappearing at a moment's notice.

Hamid's and Amir's illicit presence in the sleeper did not put them in the minority. We had a steady stream of visitors. An old man with a wispy white beard and a stick came in and Amir stood up for him. The man, who no doubt thought that Amir was a valid passenger, was so determined that Amir should sit too that he pulled his arm sharply and caught him off-balance. Amir sprang up again, embarrassed. Other men came and went. Five women and a little girl all silently filed in at one stage, and sat squashed together on a seat staring at us until they too were booted out by the conductor. They fluttered out, their veils billowing behind them.

When we finally settled down to sleep we were left with two fellow passengers: an easygoing older man and a devout Moslem man equipped with a cardboard box to use as a prayer mat. When he prayed, we all had to rearrange ourselves because there was a lack of floor space. We felt guilty because our shoes were centimetres from his nose as he prayed. But, like a trooper, he did not complain. When he alighted from the train with still five hours to go until Quetta he ducked his head at us and put his hand on his heart.

The sleeper itself was relatively comfortable, but the heat was oppressive. There were fans on the ceiling which often stopped due to intermittent electricity. Everyone dripped with sweat: all of us smiling at each other in sympathy, offering each other biscuits and dates, the others laughing at us as we strapped on our head torches to read during the blackouts. The train cook for our section came in with our meals over the course of the journey. Greasy omelette for breakfast, and chicken korma for lunch and dinner. We ate all the meals and, although our stomachs were unsure about the incoming material, they did not rebel as much as expected.

It was a long journey. Thinking back on it is not as much a visual rather than visceral memory. Sticking to the vinyl bunk. Not wanting to move because movement caused me to become intensely aware of the pooling of my sweat. It was definitely the people who made the journey bearable. And not only the people in the train. When we stopped at stations, we had commercial breaks. The sleeper door opened, and all sorts of goods were offered to us; from relevant items such as mineral water, to more dubious items such as high-heeled shoes. People laughed, smiled, engaged with us. All in all, catching the train from Lahore to Quetta my impressions of Pakistan were of dirt, heat, poverty...and very friendly people.

*Cycling in Pakistan was a fairly unattractive proposition given the threat of kidnap or getting bombed over a morning chai. The Australian Government uses its DFAT website to good effect - frightening would-be cycle tourists. European Governments have now decided not to write the letter of approval tourists need to get a Pakistani visa (Angel just managed to get a letter before the rules changed). Both strategies are highly effective, although the Australian strategy does allow you to nip through on the train!

*Con Chiis y Sunis matandose unos a otrs por una pizca de poder y con embajadas volando por los aires la idea de pedalear por Pakistan no sonaba muy atractiva y tan solo pensar en coger un avion para sobrevolarlo nos ponia malos, asi que como Buda escogimos el camino medio: el tren. Arriba todos los detalles en ingles de la jornada de 30 horas.

DIA 231 - Sikhilandia

2008-06-20T06:09:00.000-07:00

Amritsar

En Amritsar, ultima parada en India nos encontramos con viejos amigos: el calor soporifero, los templos Sikh y la furia del Monzon. Arreglamos el dinero para Iran (hay que llevarlo todo en contante sonante) y nos preparamos psicologicamente para cruzar Pakistan en tren.

El templo de Oro

DIA 230 - Comida que entra por los ojos

2008-06-19T06:14:00.000-07:00

Phatankot - Amritsar

Unos de los mayores placeres de viajar en India es la comida. En la foto un "Special Thali" compuesto de sahi paneer (queso fresco en salsa de tomate), dhal (lentejas), menestra con curry, yogur con trocitos de cebolla y pepino para suavizar el picante del resto, arroz y una pequeña ensalada. Los "Thalis" (plato combinado) son generalmente lo mas barato y mas variado para darse una buena comilona. Pero existen otras muchas posibilidades, entre nuestras favoritas: Malai Kofta (bola de queso en una salsa cremosa llena de especias), Palak Paneer (trocitos de queso en salsa de espinacas) y Aloo Dum (patatas asadas en salsa de tomate), siempre acompañadas con chapati o nan (panes hechos al instante en hornos de leña).

DIA 229 - Filling the rice paddies

2008-06-18T06:45:00.000-07:00

Dharamsala - Phatankot Dd = 99.3 Dt = 8471 Km

DIA 227-228 - 100% humidity and rising! (De cañas con el Dalai Lama)

2008-06-16T08:06:00.000-07:00

Dharamsala

En Dhraramsala solo se habla de la liberacion del Tibet y se hace hasta bien entrada la noche. En todos los restaurante se sirven "momos" (dumplings), pan tibetano, y otras comidas tibetanas. Las calles las llenan monjes tibetanos, turistas extranjeros y algun que otro indio perdido.

Desde que Tenzin Gyatso, el actual Dalai Lama, abondono Tibet a sus 24 años por miedo a la brutalidad china, cruzo a pie los Himalayas y pidio asilo al gobierno indio, este pequeño pueblecito comenzo a convertirse en un reflejo del Tibet al otro lado de los Himalayas en donde tanto en sus calles como en su templos la esperanza por un Tibet mas pacifico y mas autonomo nunca se apaga.

Llamamos a la puerta del Dalai para ir a echar unas cervezas pero nos dijeron que se encontraba en Australia. Despues de venir desde Australia para verle...

Si quiere saber un poco mas sobre el Dalai Lama: http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tenzin_Gyatso

DIA 226 - Cycling in the clouds (Y llego el Monzon)

2008-06-15T22:29:00.000-07:00

Kangra - Dharamsala Dd = 28 Km Dt = 8372 Km

DIA 225 - The long downhill to Kangra

2008-06-14T22:27:00.000-07:00

Nandaun - Kangra Dd = 52 Km Dt = 8345 Km

DIA 224 - Esa cosita que sube y que baja

2008-06-13T22:22:00.000-07:00

Ghumarwin - Nadaun Dd = 78.2 Km Dt = 8292 Km

DIA 223 - Una dulce sonrisa para un dia nublado

2008-06-12T22:20:00.000-07:00

Moura - Ghumarwin Dd = 58.7 Km Dt = 8214 Km

DIA 222 - Dia universal de los camioneros

2008-06-11T22:19:00.000-07:00

Chandigarh - Moura Dd = 92.4 Km Dt = 8156 Km

Hoy todos los camioneros se han echado a las calles con sus camiones multicolores, sus pitos politonicos y el tridente de Shiva en el morro en vez del escudo de Mercedes. Los sintomas son claros: camiones volcados obstruyendo media carretera; camiones parados a un lado arreglando un pinchanzo o recogiendo los pedazos de la caja de cambios esparcidos por el asfalto; camiones que adelantan a otros camiones y camiones que adelantan a otros camiones que a su vez adelanta a otros camiones. Hoy parece que los camiones son los unicos que imponen su ley.

Pero hoy tambien hay alguien mas sobre el asfalto. Ahi va, señoras y señores, ese superpedaleto a trote ligero pero decidido, con su carroceria de piel y huesos y su casco de gomaespuma, mirando directamente a los focos de su antiheroe, dispuesto a luchar por su pedazo de carretera. Y ahi va, unas veces aguantando a sangre fria hasta el ultimo segundo y haciendo retirarse al gran gigante, otras girando el manillar en el ultimo suspiro de sus dias y perdiendo el firme del asfalto. Y es que algunos dias hasta ser superheroe es dificil en India.

DIA 221 - India's Beauty Secret

2008-06-10T22:17:00.000-07:00

Road Hotel - Chandidgarh Dd = 39 Km Dt = 8063 Km

India's beauty secret is the sari. Indian women wear saris, not just on special occasions, but all the time. These saris splash the street with colour: deep yellow, crimson red, peacock blue. Everything is grimy, the heat is almost unbearable, the humidity is around 150%, the cow pats are multiplying before your eyes, the men look like they have been taking a snooze in the gutter...and the women look as fresh as flowers. The traditional sari reveals a layer of flesh beneath the bust, and this flesh often rolls forth, revelling in its freedom. Many older women choose this style, and younger women often opt for a loose tunic and pants suit with a long scarf to wrap around the head as the situation - or sudden bursts of modesty - demand. It is refreshing that the women have decided not to follow the dictates of Western fashion and, instead, garb themselves according to their own customs. Girls are free to wear Western clothes, and some girls do dress in jeans in particular. But it seems that Indian fashion very much centres on the sari, and the women take their responsibility of making India beautiful very seriously.

DIA 220 - Jailed Natural Chicken

2008-06-09T22:15:00.000-07:00

Painta Sahib - Road Hotel Dd = 94 Km Dt = 8024 Km

If you are seeking a job you may find your career on these images.
Por si alguien esta buscando trabajo quiza pueda encontrarlo en esta imagenes.

DIA 219 - Sikh and you shall find

2008-06-08T22:13:00.000-07:00

Rishikesh - Paonta Sahib Dd = 97 Km Dt = 7930 Km

DIA 195-218 - Al refugio de los Dioses

2008-06-07T06:41:00.000-07:00

Rishikesh

"Los sagrados elementos"

Los canticos del Ashram del otro lado del rio ya flotan en el aire. En la orilla se puede distinguir, como todas las mañanas, a mujeres lavando y secando sus saris multicolores al aire, a hombres dandose un baño en las aguas sagradas del Ganges, y a ambos, hombres y mujeres, haciendo plegarias matutinas a su dios particular acompañadas de incienso y fuego. El Ganges fluye tranquilo e imponente, sobre el, la pasarela que trae a este lado del rio ya empieza a llenarse de gente que vienen a visitar los templos, y el replicar de sus campanas ya empieza a impregnar el aire. Los dias en Rishikesh parecen no saber de ni de dias de la semana, ni de meses, ni de años, y quiza tambien ya se hayan olvidado de epocas. Rishikesh es una ciudad sagrada que si bien no es una de las siete mas importantes recibe a diario enormes cantidades de "peregrinos fugaces" que cumplen con su obligacion anual de peregrinaje.

Y como una ciudad llega a adquirir el estatus de sagrada? Pues al parecer, segun nuestras investigaciones, se necesitan ciertos ingredientes: Ashrams (una especie de monasterios), Templos, Rio Sagrado, y el mas importante de todos: Vacas Sagradas por todas partes.

Los templos florecen alegremente a las orillas del rio y siempre en base a una estructura cuadrada. Su tamaño y la cantidad de dioses que hospedan puede variar considerablemente de uno a otro. Posiblemente el mas popular es Swarg Niwan, una especie de todo a cien de los dioses. Para entrar tienes que abrirte paso a codazos y empujones entre la multitud que se aglomera en la puerta, no te olvides descalzarte por que si no te hacen volver y tendras que pelear por la entrada de nuevo. El curioso templo es un edificio de 13 plantas que se van haciendo mas pequeñas conforme asciendes, dando al conjunto un aspecto pseudo-piramidal. En cada planta hay habitaciones cuadradas que recuerdan a celdas de prision y que son habitadas normalmente por 3 dioses o en algunos casos por uno solo, pero tiene que ser uno importante como Shiva, Vishnu o Ganesh para tener el privilegio de no compartir celda. En frente de cada dios, colgande del techo, hay una campana para ser golpeada energicamente por los devotos, hacer retumbar tierra y cielo, llevar al yunque y al martillo al borde del colapso y hacer saber a los dioses que han ido a visitarlos. Pobre de ellos, a estas alturas deben de estar todos sordos. Pero tampoco se pueden quejar porque aunque tenga problemas de oido disponen de otras muchas virtudes. La mayoria tienen 4 brazos y algunos hasta 6; los hay con dos y cuatro cabezas; con barba y pecho de mujer; con serpientes enroscadas en la cabeza y plumas de pavo real; con cabeza de mono, de tigre o de elefante como el querido Ganesh (que es una monada a pesar de su cabeza no parezca encajar con este calificativo); y despues esta el Superdios: 6 brazos y 4 cabezas (si, todo en uno) y cabalgando un tigre, si senior, con un par. En los pasillos tambien cuelgan campanas que hay que golpearlas tanto mas fuerte como alguien tengas cerca. Salimos del templo con dolor de cabeza y admirando a los dioses por su paciencia, los pobres se ganan el cielo cada dia.

Aspirante a Superdios

Tener un rio sagrado con "gaths" (lugares de baño) en donde purificar tu alma y realizar tus oraciones matutinas y vespertinas es otro factor importante; y si ese rio es el Ganges ya no puedes mejorarlo. Sus aguas tambien purifican los saris de las mujeres, proporcionan diversion en forma de rafting en los pocos tramos en los que se enfurece y en los atardeceres se lleva las oraciones en esas diminutas e improvisadas embarcaciones cuya unica tripulacion es una llama que centellea timidamente. Intente purificar mi alma el dia de mi treinta aniversario pero tan solo consegui purificar mis pies, el agua estaba inesperadamente helada. Me alegro por Aitor y Diego que si lo hicieron, pero de todas formas la mia tampoco estaba tan sucia y la de ellos ya hacia dias que necesitaba una limpieza a fondo...

Pero sin duda el factor mas sagrado y mas importante de todos son las "Vacas Sagradas". Al principo sorprende ver pasear a enormes toros por las calles, o cruzarse con una vaca en una pasarela de peatones de metro y medio de ancho porque ha decido hacer una visita a un pariente cercano que habita al otro lado del rio, o hacer cola en la fruteria tras un hermoso ternero, o ver a la madre del susodicho subida en un tejado, o ver a otra vaca que se cuela en una casa tentada por el olor que emana la cocina pero al final uno se acostumbra, y no solo eso, uno las quiere y se emociona cada mañana en ese magico momento que es el darle los buenos dias a las vacas sagradas de tu calle. Pero no son sagradas por que si, juegan un papel muy importante en la sociedad india. Si bien la gente las trata muy amistosamente, hablandoles, tocadonlas y alimentandolas a base de pepinos frescos, ellas tambien saben buscarse su propia comida. En un pais con un sistema de recogida de basuras ineficiente cuando no inexistente son ellas, las vacas sagradas, las encargadas de tratar los Residuos Organicos Urbanos (ROU). En su planta interna de tratamiento de ROU en 4 etapas procesan todo tipo de residuo organico que se halla dejado tirado a la "basura" (el suelo), recogiendo asi la mayoria de los desechos que de otro modo apestarian e inundarian las calles. Y no es esta su unica gran tarea, sus agujeros de salida proporcionan otros dos de la misma importancia. Sus magnificas ubres suministran leche, lassi, curd (yogur) y queso, principal fuente de proteinas para una poblacion mayoritariamente vegetariana. Y su fantastico trasero expulsa el primer recurso energetico para las cocinas. Y es que una buena mierda de vaca medianamente seca se mezcla con un buen puñado de paja para crear una torteta de combustible que genera una energia que te cagas. Las tortertas se amontan en perfectas y preciosas montanias de mierda.

Uno podria pasar horas escribiendo sobre las entrañables vacas sagradas, terminare con una pequeña anecdota. Volvia yo un dia a mi lado del rio por la pasarela que, como siempre, se encontraba llena de gente cuando una vaca que caminaba en frente se encontro con una vieja amiga que iba en la otra direccion. Como al parecer hacia tiempo que no se veian pararon a olisquearse y a lamerse aqui y alla, y como ambas estaban bien fornidas obstruyeron por completo la circulacion. La gente se empezo a apelotonar pero nadie se atrevia a decirles nada (recordemos que son sagradas y pueden hacer los que les plazca). Senti que alguien se impacientaba detras de mi, y tras varios empujones me volvi furioso a llamar la atencion al mal educado indio de turno. Mi furia se encontro con una simpatica vaca sagrada que pedia educadamente a cabezados que me moviera. Me dejo boquiaboerto, sin palabras y sin mujidos. India sin vacas seria una experiencia completamente distinta.

Y el ultimo elemento, pero no por ello menos sagrado, los Ashrams. Templos-albergues donde algunos indios viven de por vida y otros tan solo pasan unos dias de meditacion y oracion. Tienen caracter semicomunitario; disponen de pequenias habitaciones familiares y de grandes comunales; suelen ofrecer comidas y bebidas (te) a diferentes horas del dia con caracter gratuito; y lo mas importante de todo, tienen un templo con un buen puñado de dioses y un espacio dedicado para la meditacion. En general son bastante sosos en cuanta a decoracion y arquitectura a excepcion del Ashram al que fueron Los Beatles alla en los 60 y que ahora en desuso, esta siendo devorado por la naturaleza. Esto indica que no solo los indios se ven atraidos por la espiritualidad de los Ashrams: si ves a un turista extranjero con rastas, varios "piercings", falda naranja y que anda descalzo, es que ha venido a cargar y alinear sus chakras a uno de los Asrhams. Y es que los yoguis son en cierto modo otro elemento de las ciudades sagradas.

Asi que con tanta energia emanando por todas las esquinas, tanta espiritualidad transmitida por las vacas y tantos yoguis en estado de iluminacion, yo tampoco me pude resistir a la tentacion de poner al dia mis chakras, me apunte a un curso de cocina.

Ashram en el que estuvieron Los Beatles

DIA 195 - Superpedaletos por el mundo

2008-05-15T05:44:00.000-07:00

Amaya da asiera (el final es el principio)

Todo empezo una semana santa alla por el año 97 cuando unos amigos de CAIN me invitaron a ir a una excursión que organizaba Ecologistas en Acción por el rio Matarraña, el lema ¡Por un rio vivo! Con una bicicleta prestada, la mochila de cuando iba a campamentos y un pulpo de dos metros, descubri los placeres de viajar en bicicleta, sintiendo el sol calentando mi piel, la lluvia mojando mi cara, el viento soplando entre las ruedas... sintiendo la libertad en las ruedas en cada pedalada. A aquella excursión le siguieron muchas otras, con el Pedalea, con amigos, fines de semana, vacaciones... poco a poco iba descubriendo el Superpedaleto que todos llevamos dentro.
Un dia Gabi me dijo que su tio le había regalado un libro de un tipo, un tal Miguel, que había pedaleado "De la Alcarría al Himalaya". Al tiempo conoceriamos a Miguel y Natalia cuando vinieron a contarnos otro viaje en bici, de San Francisco a Usuahia, a unas jornadas de viajes por el mundo en bici que organizo Gabi. Junto a otros cicloviajeros nos contaron viajes y aventuras que me pusieron los dientes tan largos que al llegar a casa raye el suelo.
Se había metido el gusanillo del viaje, sobre todo despues de leer "De la Alcarría al Himalaya" (ya he conocido a tres personas que han salido de España hacia oriente despues de haber leido ese libro), pero me parecia una tarea de superheroe... Un dia mis padres me contaron que yo habia aparecido cuando era un bebe en el huerto de Monzalbarba tras una colision de una bici voladora con la tierra. Ese dia descubri que era un Superpedaleto, solo habia que esperar el momento para ponerse la capa y volver a volar con la bicicleta. Y ese momento llego cuando Angel me conto que tambien era Superpedaleto y que habia aterrizado en Pinseque en otra bici voladora.
El desde Australia y yo desde Estados Unidos saltamos a Indonesia y lo demas... esta escrito en el blog.
Durante el viaje nos dimos cuenta de que no estamos solos, que el mundo esta lleno de Superpedaletos y que todos podemos serlo, el secreto esta en una buena bicicleta con alas. Rose se unio primero, luego William y al final Marianne. Aitor tampoco pudo resistir la tentación, aunque fuese por unos dias, de probar que se sentia siendo Superpedaleto.
Como escribiera R.Kipling, "...los ojos del hombre nunca están contentos, son siempre insaciables...", eso es lo que mueve a las personas a viajar; la curiosidad por conocer nuevas cosas, la intriga de descubrir que habrá despues de la siguiente curva, esa es la energía que impulsa las bicicletas a rodar por el mundo.
Este es el final de viaje para algunos Superpedaletos. Rose se va a inventariar plantas a los bosques de Nevada, William con el kayak y su familia por la costa de Maine, Aitor a Luxemburgo donde seguira luchando contra los supervillanos y Diego en Zaragoza, a la fresca por los montes de Zuera. Pero aunque este viaje termina no dejaremos de mirar mapas, imaginando nuevas rutas, escudriñando valles y montañas, soñando con volver a volar en bicicleta... porque al igual que le pasa a Benedetti con las mujeres, a mi me importa un pito si mi bici tiene un buje shimano deore LX o un buje chino, si el sillin es Brooks o del Lidl, pero eso si, y en esto soy irreductible, lo que no les perdono bajo ningun pretexto es que no sepan volar, gracias a las bicicletas con alas...

"La bicicleta con alas"
La bicicleta un día va a volar.
La bicicleta de todos.
Ya lo verán.
Le están saliendo las alas.
Son de verdad.
El niño quiere que vuele,
y volará.
El niño irá por el aire
a comprar el pan;
dará una vuelta al campanario
de paloma y de cal.
El niño y la paloma
sobre la ciudad.
El niño acompañando al ganso blanco
Eso se verá.

Le están saliendo las alas.
Ven a mirar.
Mira como el lirio de los campos.
No pienses mal.
Las alas tienen miedo de algo.
Salen y vuelven a entrar.
Miedo de nosotros,

quizás.

Tan pronto los hombres
ganen la paz,
la bicicleta de todos volará.
La que duerme en la puerta de los cines
volará.
La del cartero
volará.
La de la reina Guillermina,
volará.
La mía y -la tuya-
volará.
Por arriba del humo y los cables
me verás.
La bicicleta tendrá un solo nombre:
Libertad.

El ángel de las aguas
ya no se irá.
Calle ancha del cielo
para mirar.
Flores que nunca vimos
aquí, allá.
Habrá tiempo para mirar.
Cuánto tiempo perdido,
ay!

Tan pronto los hombres
dejen de guerrear,
la bicicleta del mundo
volará.
Todos los pueblos tendrán un velódromo
donde los niños correrán.
De alli alzarán el vuelo.
Darán una vuelta sobre el mar.
Si no lo hubiera
sobre el trigal;
irán donde lo hayan y volverán.
Ir y volver
será como cantar.
Porque la bicicleta tendrá alas de verdad.
La del cartero, la de la reina Guillermina.
Nadie se caerá.
Todo es cuestión que los hombres
ganen la paz.

Poema de José Pedroni

DIA 189-194 - El culebron de los Mughal

2008-05-14T05:40:00.000-07:00

New Delhi + Agra

La nueva Delhi, construida por los britanicos en 1929 (pocos años antes de que India ganara la independencia), todavia emana la grandiosiosidad y ambicion del Imperio Britanico por sus grandes avenidas arboladas, sus imponentes edificios imperiales, sus grandes plazas con sus porches.

La vieja Delhi, que ha visto ya otras muchas "Viejas Delhis", guarda el amor de los Mughal por la exquisita arquitectura. Shah Jahan, uno de los ultimos emperadores Mughal, empezo a construirla en 1639 pero nunca a llego a gorbenar desde alli ya que su hijo Aurangzeb, aprovechando que Jahan estaba enfermo, lo arresto y lo metio a la carcel. Fue Aurangzeb, que adopto el titulo de Alamgir I (conquistador del universo), el primero y el ultimo en gobernar desde el "Fuerte Rojo".

Pero entre los Mughal no hubo solo amor por la arquitectura hubo tambien arquitectura por amor. Un primer ejemplo es la tumba de Humayun, construida por su mujer al quedarse viuda y que sirviria de inspiracionpara el Taj Mahal, la guinda de la arquitectura de los Mughal y cuya magia todavia no ha dejado a nadie sin cautivar.

Tumba de Humayun

El Taj Mahal (1643) fue construido tambien por Shah Jahan para albergar a Mumtaz, su amada y difunta esposa que partio cuando daba a luz a su decimo cuarto hijo, dejando al emperador completamente abatido. Cuenta la leyenda que nunca logro recuperarse, que su pelo se volvio blanco de un dia para otro, que nunco pudo volver a disfrutar del sexo con ninguna de sus otras tres esposas. Semejante derroche de dinero puede parecer excesivo para albergar tan solo un cuerpo inerte, pero que no se puede hacer por amor?

Baby Taj

Taj Mahal

Jama Masjid

DIA 188 - El gran y sagrado Ganga

2008-05-08T06:14:00.000-07:00

Dhampur - Rishikesh Dd = 137.4 Km Dt = 7833 Km

DIA 187- Ganesh Smiled

2008-05-07T06:03:00.000-07:00

Ramnagar - Dhampur Dd = 98.8 Km Dt = 7696 Km

DIA 186 - Asian Paradise Fly Catcher (Corbett Safari)

2008-05-06T05:10:00.000-07:00

Corbett Tiguer Reserve

Estaba en un rincón, tumbado. En el calor del mediodía. El suelo, en ese punto de la llanura del Ganges, quemaba como el fondo de una sartén y bullía de insectos a medio asar, crujientes. Yo tenía el privilegio de no pisarlo. Andaba por mí un elefante amable y lento. Perforaba la selva como un panzer. Montar en elefante es parecido a navegar. Incluso hay quien se marea.

Un privilegiado, sí, pero había batallado para estar allí. Días antes me habían prometido que había elefantes disponibles en otro rincón de los 1300 km2 de parque. Era falso. Me enteré después de pasar allí la noche. Sólo quedaba un punto donde probar, a menos de media hora en jeep de donde estábamos, pero en un buen ejemplo de burocracia india, no era posible consultarlo por radio. Había que recorrer dos horas y media de pistas hasta la salida, pedir un nuevo permiso de entrada y regresar. Allí debía dormir y tratar de hacer el safari en elefante por la mañana. Tenía derecho a pagar, eso sí, de nuevo el canon de entrada, el coche, el sueldo del guía… y, claro, nadie me aseguraba nada.

En la oficina del parque me puse a protestar. He sido abogado, sé como ser un auténtico tocapelotas. Además, tenía razón. Con buenas maneras, les dije que eran unos subnormales. Ahora me arrepiento de algunas cosas. Pero funcionó. Un chupatintas me llevó ante el Señor encargado y este ante su Excelencia el supervisor. Su Excelencia era muy ayudador. Mis razones le parecieron de lo más convincente. En la India de las multinacionales no era de recibo no saber si hay elefantes, que son bichos aparentes, a cuarenta kilómetros de uno. Me trató de convencer que el elefante es cosa del pasado. Mejor un safari en jeep. Es más cómodo y se ven animales. Hasta tigres, si hay mucha suerte. En elefante no se ve un carajo. Y además uno se marea. Pero yo erre que erre. Con buenos modos, esos sí. Su Excelencia se cuadra, suspira. Me dice que va a arreglarlo. Hace dos llamadas. Grita, se sulfura (trabajo con ineptos, me dice, y yo pienso, pobre Excelencia, lo que tiene que sufrir) Me siento, espero. Me dice que lo ha arreglado. Sólo tendré que pagar tres mil rupias más. Le enseño ligeramente el pulgar y simplemente con eso comprende que estoy calibrando en qué orificio de su cuerpo encajarlo. Es un tipo listo y servicial. Hace más llamadas. Ya está. Ha encontrado el sistema. Podré montar en elefante hoy mismo, sin tener que volver a dormir, sin pagar nada más (que las trescientas rupias que cobra el paquidermo) Para eso sólo tendré que hacer unos kilómetros en la moto de un primo, montarme en un jeep de un tipo que no conozco, esperar dos horas debajo de una ceiba aislada y subirme en otro jeep. Vamos, casi nada, minucias para un lugar así. Pero yo no me fío. Su Excelencia jura, ríe y promete. Yo aunque le río las gracias le voy enseñando de nuevo, por si no lo tiene claro, mi pulgar. Pero está a años luz de mí en asuntos burocráticos. Quema su último cartucho. Me dice, vamos a ver a Su Majestad. Y era cierto. Unos metros de pasillo, ujieres cuadrándose y estaba frente a Su Majestad el Director del Parque, con su pelo teñido de rojo, su bigotazo, su mapa de India tras él, su ventilador en el techo, su escribano casi de rodillas, su escupidera de latón a los pies. Silencio sepulcral. El escribano está leyendo una carta. Su Majestad escupe. Me ignora. Pero su excelencia aprovecha un resquicio y en un momento se cuela entre dos frases del escribano. Le susurra mi historia. Su Majestad me examina y vuelve a escupir. Entonces toma una nota en blanco y garrapatea unas líneas que firma. Nos echa con la mano ¡y con qué porte! sin decir una palabra. Ahora no tendrás más dudas, ¿no? Todo está arreglado. Y yo, de alguna forma, lo tengo claro. Porque en esas líneas en Indi no puede haber escrito nada maligno. Ninguna orden para que me saquen los riñones y los vendan. Sólo un pasaporte claro de Su Majestad al elephant safari.

Lo cierto es que esa firma ejerce un efecto demoledor sobre quien la ve. Lo medito en mis dos horas bajo la ceiba. Y luego, en casi nada, estoy sobre el elefante, en ese parque inmenso que atraviesa como un panzer.

Y él también está allí. Ninguno de los dos sabíamos que teníamos esa cita. Pero lo veo de pronto. Se lo digo al mahdi. Lo susurro. Se gira, enseguida lo ve… Está en un rincón tumbado, con medio cuerpo en una charca, en lo más profundo del bosque. Doscientos kilos de fuerza descomunal y una belleza sobrecogedora. Es como mirar al fuego. Podrías hacerlo durante horas. Y es cierto que tiene algo de elemento, de fuego, de llama. Es difícil explicarlo. Al verlo me doy cuenta de algunas cosas, quizá porque está allí, tan cerca. Comprendo ese miedo primitivo y animal a la bestia y ese deseo de divinizarlo. Tengo ante mí a una deidad. Nadie puede dudarlo, como nadie que haya visto a cincuenta metros caer un relámpago puede dudar del dios de los rayos. Es parecido, igual de misterioso, igual de temible y lejano. También comprendo que viéndolo, acabo de aprender algo de mí. Un secreto ancestral. Antes era menos persona que después de verlo. Pasa el tiempo. El tigre de bengala no nos tiene ningún miedo. Es natural que se lo tengamos nosotros. Nos acabamos yendo. El mahdi, durante la vuelta, ríe como un niño. Sólo quedan mil quinientos tigres como este en el mundo. Es muy difícil ver a uno de ellos y más sobre un elefante. Tengo mucha suerte.

Me he acordado hoy de todo. Ha sido al escuchar, por milésima vez sólo este año, que el hombre se compone en un 75 % de agua, os ahorraré el contexto. De repente he entendido que también se compone de que aún existan mil quinientos tigres libres en el mundo. Si no estuvieran, ¿qué seríamos? Tal vez pronto lo sepamos.

DIA 185 - Bajando al horno de tandoori

2008-05-05T05:01:00.000-07:00

Nainital-Ramnagar-Sikula Dd = 68.5 Km Dt = 7597 Km

Despues de diez disfrutando de las vistas de los himalayas, de su frescor yde la ausencia de mosquitos llego el momento de saltar sobre las burras, dejarse caer cuesta abajo y darse una bofetada con el axfisiante calor de la planicie india premonzonica.

Aitor, que de pequeño siempre quiso ser Superpedaleto, no pudo resistir a la tentacion y cogio prestada a "Silver Arrow" para cabalgar junto a nosotros durante unos dias.

DIA 183-184 - Confesiones de un Sikh

2008-05-02T03:52:00.000-07:00

Nainital

Es nuestra ultima velada con Antonio y Mamen asi que nos hemos surtido bien de cervezas y ron y nos hemos acomodado en el suelo de la terraza del hotel. Un silbato lanza un profundo y largo grito que desgarra la noche e interrumpe nuestras conversaciones. Que demonios significara ese silbato que se repite una y otra vez cada noche?

Un joven indio cliente del hotel se acerca a pedirnos fuego para encender algo con aspecto de cigarro. No se muy bien como pero de repente nuestro nuevo amigo, con la lengua un poco atrancada, nos esta contando que su religion no le permite tomar ni alcohol ni ningun tipo de drogas pero que los "Sadhus" (hinduistas que llevan una vida ascetica con el objetivo de alcanzar el Nirvana) se van a los montes a meditar bien cargados de marijuana aprenden, ven y hablan con los dioses, adquiriendo un gran conocimiento que guardan para si mismos y que no comparten. Asi que el no fuma como los adolescentes para divertirse sin mas, si no para enriquecerse espiritualmente.

La religion de Raj, nuestro nuevo amigo, es el sijismo (o sikhismo). Una religion nacida en el siglo XV con la idea de juntar lo mejor del hinduismo y del islam y, probablemente, como un intento por poner algo de paz entre hinduistas y musulmanes en una epoca en la que su unica preocupacion parecia ser aniquilarse unos a otros. Los sijs (o sikhs), no aceptan el sistema de castas del hinduismo, asi que accede a sentarse con nosotros en el suelo, algo que solo harian los Sudhras, hinduistas de la casta mas baja de toda, conocidos tambien como los intocables.

Raj esta estudiando ingenieria en la universidad de Nueva Delhi, donde ha conocido a muchas chicas e incluso alguna se ha interesado por el, pero el las ha rechazado a todas al igual que ha hecho con las pretendientas que sus padres le han encontrado. Raj confiesa con toda honestidad y sinceridad que esta esperando el amor verdadero, un amor que sea el primero que sienta y que dure eternamente. Mientras espera a que llegue disfruta con prostitutas, que para eson son profesionales del sexo. Le gustaria que su novia fuera virgen pero sabe que en estos tiempos que corren eso esta dificil.

No sabemos mucho de los sijs, pero una de las pocas cosas que hemos averiguado es que no se cortan nunca el pelo y lo suelen llevar envuelto en un turbante, asi que le preguntamos a que se debe el que el lo lleve completamente rapado. Al parecer lo llevaba hasta la cintura pero ni se lo cuidaba ni lavaba asi que una humilde familia de piojos encontro alli una vasta y fertil tierra en la que levantar un imperio. Su exito fue enorme y pronto, a pesar de la enorme extension, llego la superpoblacion arrastrando consigo enfermedades e infecciones. El medico se dio dos opciones: lo cortas o lo lavas.

Nos embarcamos en conversaciones sobre religiones, islam, cristianismo, hinduismo, sijismo... y nos sorprende el amplio conocimiento que Raj tiene sobre todas ellas. Entre muchas cosas le preguntamos por que las vacas son sagradas para los hinduistas. Segun el, esto se debe a que son las monturas de los dioses, pero la verdad no esta clara ya que cada uno parece tener una version diferente. Diego, fascinado por el estatus sagrado de las vacas no puede contener su curiosidad y le pregunta:
-Puedes hablara con una vaca?
-Pero que dices chaval! Como te va entender una vaca!!
Moralaja: Sagradas si, pero mudas

Los colegas de Raj acaban uniondese con nosotros y comparten el humo de la espiritualidad. La musica sigue sonando, la cerveza y el ron se van acabando pero el encuentro australindiohispanoamericano tiene pilas para rato. De nuevo el silbato vuelve a quebrar el aire.
-Que demonios es ese silbido? (preguntamos a Raj)
-Es un vigilante nocturno, toca el silbato para que si hay alguien en la calle sepa donde esta y le pida ayuda si la necesita, y de paso tambien espanta a las malas personas. En definitiva, es un tipo que se pasa toda la noche dando por el culo con un silbato mientra el resto de la gente duerme y encima a final de mes le pagan un salario.

Fue bonito asomarse a la ventana de la juventud india, jovenes cualificados y con ideas de cambio, pero que quiza afortunadamente para ellos y desafortunadamente para la India todos o casi todos encontraran trabajo en paises lejanos (USA, UK, Australia), como ya lo hicieron muchos de sus compañeros, y dejaran que la India, para bien o para mal siga varada en las leyes del viejo mundo.

DIA 177-182 - El valle de las mariquitas

2008-04-29T03:50:00.000-07:00

Gualdan - Wan - Bendi Bugal - Baguabasa

Umraw no tiene hoy muchas ganas de ir a trabajar. Hemos llegado a Wan y nada parece tan facil como nos lo habia contado nuestro amigo Ashok hace apenas dos dias mientras comiamos deliciosos Malai Koftas en su restaurante de Nainital. Fue una suerte encontrar a Ashok. Cuando ya habiamos empezado a perder la esperanza de encontrar un club de montaña o una tienda donde poder alquilar unas mochilas y unas botas (ni soñando alquilar crampones y piolet, pero quien los necesita en el himalaya?), alguien nos hablo de Ashok y su restaurante. Alli fuimos a jugarnos el todo por todo y mientras cobraba 2 palak paneer y 3 butter nang, nos dijo que pidieramos por esa boquita lo que queriamos. Ese indio con aspecto de Mojino Escocio no tuvo problemas para conseguirnos mochilas, botas, sacos, tienda... y lo que es mejor, nos regalo un gran conocimiento de los trekkings que se podian hacer por la zona. El nos recomendo el mejor, el que a el mas le gustaba, una excursion circular pasando tan cerca del Trishul que casi lo podias tocar con la mano, con lugares tan pintorecos como Roopkund, un pequeño lago a 5000 m de altura donde se acumulan cientos de esqueletos que quedaron atrapados en las nieves perpetuas tras una tormenta de granizo alla por el siglo XII, aunque si quieres puedes dejar volar tu imaginacion con las multiples leyendas que hay... (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roopkund )
Pero en Wan es diferente, ahora nos enfrentabamos a los problemas de no llevar un guia. En este pueblecito perdido en medio de las Himalayas no se habla mucho ingles. No nos queda claro si hay o no hay mulas, si si que hay pero llegan mañana, si es muy tarde para salir y mejor que nos quedemos a dormir en Wan, si Umraw ha quedado esta tarde para echar la partida de guiñote y no quiere ir de mulero con los Superpedaletos... Pero no hemos pasado casi dos dias de mareos metidos los ocho en un pequeño todoterreno por una carretera que hace que las curvas de Yesa parezcan una recta interminable. Tras unas largas e intensas negociaciones por las que fuimos pasando todos los miembros de la expedición conseguimos que nos traigan una mula y un caballo. Umraw y Madho, con sus zapatos mocasines y cuatro palabras en ingles, nos acompañan de muleros. Es la primera vez que van con un grupo de guiris y sus habilidades como muleros no parecen muchas.
El camino muy pronto se pone vertical, que para algo estamos en el himalaya, andamos por frondosos bosques, cruzamos rios recien nacidos en los cercanos glaciares, observamos quebrantahuesos surcando el cielo, contemplamos pequeños altares donde los hindues ofrecen oraciones a cuyas casas estan muy cerca de aqui. Los dioses habitan en las escarpadas cumbres nevadas, alli donde ningun mortal pueda ir a incordiarlos con su presencia. Nosotros nos conformamos con llamar al portal y admirar sus casas desde el patio de vecinos. Su enormidad nos abruma, la nieve trata de agarrase con toda su fuerza a sus laderas con equilibrios imposibles en la vertical. Esta residencia de los dioses se deja ver con todo su esplendor muy temprano por la mañana, cuando las brumas y la humedad del aire todavia no dan al cielo el color blanquecino que durará hasta el atardecer.
Tras dos dias caminando hemos llegado a Bendi Bugal. Desde aqui debemos continuar sin las mulas. No hay mucha nieve, pero como comprobaremos al dia siguiente la suficiente para hacer imposible el paso de las mulas. Las predicciones que nos habian hecho los habitantes de Wan se han ido cumpliendo escrupulosamente y se nos hace evidente que no vamos a poder hacer el trekking circular. A ello se une la flojera de esfinter de Angel que le ha mantenido despierto toda la noche y que ahora se encuentra demasiado debil para continuar. Decidimos ir en el dia hasta Baguabasa para contemplar mas de cerca la montaña sagrada de Trishul. Hay mas nieve de la que creiamos y Umraw va de aqui para alla caminando con sus zapatitos por la nieve para ayudarnos a cruzar estas laderas nevadas. Despues de estos dias hemos cogido cariño a Umraw, ese chico timido con su mirada del Dioni, que siempre esta atento a que vayamos bien y nadie tenga problemas. El collado de Baguabasa esta lleno de nieve. Clavados en la nieve se yergen hacia el cielo varios tridentes. El tridente o trishul es simbolo del dios Shiva y simboliza las tres funciones de la triada: la creacion, el mantenimiento y la destruccion, de las que se encarga Mr. Shiva. La montaña de Trishul tiene tres cimas ¿no es sorprendente?
A 4800 m de altura el oxigeno escasesa y todos los notamos en nuestras cabezas. Continuar hasta Roopkund sin crampones es imposible, asi que decidimos dar media vuelta y bajar a nuestro campamento desde donde veremos como la luz roja del atardecer enciende estas montañas, montañas que aqui son las catedrales del Hinduismo.

DIA 175-176 - En el pais de nunca jamas

2008-04-26T03:48:00.000-07:00

Nainital

DIA 174 - Sticking together

2008-04-24T01:08:00.000-07:00

Katdgodam - Nainital Dd = 36 Km Dt = 7528 Km

DIA 173 - Cagando por la rueda abajo

2008-04-23T01:04:00.000-07:00

Sitargani - Kathgodan Dd = 45 Km Dt = 7492 Km

DIA 172 - La India huele a Marijuana

2008-04-22T01:00:00.000-07:00

Mahandranagar - Sitargani Dd = 63 Km Dt = 7447 Km

Nepal nos encanto desde el principio, con su gente, su comida, sus montañas, sus bosques... Conforme la carretera que nos brindaba tapas de samosas a todas horas se iba acercando a la India los colores parecian hacerse mas intensos. Los hombres carentes de todo gusto y estilo dejan el glamour para las mujeres que se envuelven en largos vestidos monocromaticos complementados por saris. Los hay de un verde tan intenso y vivo como el pistacho; de un azul tan irreal como las aguas de los mares tropicales; de un amarillo tan brillante como una espiga de trigo a la luz del atardecer; de un rojo tan encantador como un campo de amapolas en primavera. El rojo es sin duda el favorito de las nepalis.

Una vez en India el caos parece multiplicarse, el ambiente se hace mas ruidoso y los conductores muestran poco amor por las vidas, pero tambien se siente mas dinero aqui y alli. Hay mas variedad de comida, mas coches privados, pequeñas tiendas bien surtidas con diferentes productos, campos trabajados a maquina en vez de a golpe de pezuña de buey...

Intentamos escapar del caos y nos metemos a pequeñas carreteras donde en los ribazos la marijuana es la reina de las malas hierbas.

DIA 171 - The end of Samosa Highway

2008-04-21T00:56:00.000-07:00

Atariya - Mahandranagar Dd = 34.5 Km Dt = 7384 Km

DIA 170 - Protestas estudiantiles

2008-04-20T00:53:00.000-07:00

Lamki - Atariya Dd = 77.7 Km Dt = 7349 Km

DIA 169 - Delicioso Dalbat Chapati

2008-04-19T00:48:00.000-07:00

Kabalpur - Lamaki Dd = 88 Km Dt = 7271 Km

DIA 168 - Explota explota me explo!!

2008-04-18T00:19:00.000-07:00

Bosque animado - Kabalpur Dd = 65.4 Km Dt = 7183 Km

DIA 167 - El Bosque animado

2008-04-17T00:17:00.000-07:00

Lamahi - Bosque animado Dd = 74.4 Km Dt = 7117 Km

Conforme pasan los dias y la carretera nos lleva rumbo fijo hacia el oeste, hacia la India, el paisaje se va llenando de mas y mas encanto, las ciudades se hacen mas raras, los pueblos menos frecuentes y el bosque mas omnipresente. Pequeñas grupos de casas hechas de adobe y paja, ejemplo de adaptacion al clima, son la unica nota de civilizacion.

Cae la tarde y el bosque animado nos hechiza con sus encantos, nos promete refugio para la noche y nos atrapa en sus profundidas. El comite de bienvenida lo forman unos habitantes alados de todas formas y colores que entonan entusiasmados canticos de alegria. Los mas impresiantes uno no muy grande que debajo de sus alas doradas esconde un plumaje de un azul tan intenso que hipnotiza, y otro pequeñajo y blanco, escurridizo y fantastico que aparece y desaparece ante tus ojos y que con su larga cola de renacuajo, diez veces mas larga que su cuerpo, pinta el aire con suaves pinceladas de fantasia.

DIA 166 - Rayos y centellas

2008-04-16T23:57:00.000-07:00

Gorusinge - Lamati Dd = 66.8 Km Dt = 7043 Km

Es temprano, pero en esta parte del mundo el sol se levanta muy pronto y sus rayos ya iluminan todo el valle. Cuando abrimos los ojos ya hay gente esperando, curiosa por saber quien hay dentro de esas casas de tela con extrañas bicicletas a su lado. Las bufalas hoy se pararán antes de pasar por debajo del puente y solo cuando el pastor les atice con el palo se decidirán a pasar corriendo a nuestro lado.
Las vigas agujereadas del puente dejan entrever su esqueleto de acero. Los murcielagos que anoche iban y venian ahora estaran durmiendo en sus ataudes. En sus agujeros aparecen ruidosas crias de pajaro esperan a que su madre vaya y vuelva una y otra vez con comida.
Tambien han desaparecido las nubes y los relampagos que las encendian.
Las cabras son las ultimas en llegar, buscan las ramas bajas de los arboles mientras los niños "juegan" con los cabritillos.

DIA 165 - Tras los pasos de Sidharta Gautama (Buda)

2008-04-15T23:51:00.000-07:00

Lumbini - Gorusigne Dd = 53 Km Dt = 6976 Km

Sidharta Gautama, alias "Buda" o "El Iluminado", nacio aqui. Por su cuerpo corria sangre azul asi que paso los primeros 29 años de su vida en palacio aprendiendo sobre el mundo exterior. Pero cuando se enfrento por primera vez a la realidad y descubrio que las vidas reales no eran para nada como las "Reales" quedo completamente impactado y decidio cambiar su vida de principe por la de asceta. Durante los primeros dias, una vida sencilla y una dieta mas que austera le llevaron al borde de la inanicion y fue entonces cuando penso que debia encontrar un camino entre los dos extremos que habia vivido. Tras años de meditacion y vida contemplativa un buen dia, posiblemente debido a una ola de calor soporifero subida del subcontinente indio, Sidharta Gautama se ilumino y descubrio que en esta vida de lo que se trata es de ser feliz. Se convirtio en Buda, tenia 34 años. Pasaria el resto de su vida hasta que se apagara a los 80, enseñando y predicando su experiencia.

DIA 164 - Piel roja de puño en alto

2008-04-14T23:47:00.000-07:00

Sammath - Lumbini Dd = 83 Km Dt = 6923 Km

El bosque donde acampamos estaba tan lleno de luciernagas que a momentos parecian fuegos artificiales. Por la mañana enormes monos de cara negra y pelo grisaceo curioseaban por aqui y por alla. De vuelta a la civilizacion, pedaleando por sabanas de trigales, los piel roja estan de celebracion a pesar de que el recuento electoral todavia ha terminado, los primeros datos arrojan una aplastante victoria para los Maoistas que no deja hueco a remontadas epicas de ultima hora. La victoria maoista significaría el fin de 240 años de monarquía en Nepal. Los caprichos de la historia han querido que sea otra vez en 14 de abril cuando la gente salga a la calle a celebrar el fin de otra monarquia. Hoy el saludo oficial es un puño en alto. ¡¡¡¡¡QUE VIVA LA REPUBLICA DE NEPAL!!!!!!

DIA 163 - Al agua con un par de bueyes!

2008-04-13T23:39:00.000-07:00

Arunkhala - Sammath Dd = 59 Km Dt = 6800 Km

DIA 162 - Human Elephant Bath

2008-04-12T23:37:00.000-07:00

Sauraha - Arunkhola (Km aqui, Km alla) Dd = 46 Km Dt = 6782 Km

Lo de invitarnos a bañar el elefante fue una trampa bien adornada. En pocos segundos, antes de que nos dieramos cuenta nos encontrabamos situados/atrapados en la primera linea de fuego. Una y otra vez obedeciendo las ordenes de su domador la elefanta nos lanza cañonazos de agua contra nosotros desde todos lo angulos durante varios minutos. Indefensos y atrapados a 4 metros de altura no nos queda otra si no que reir con gana y aguantar el chaparron. Terminada la metralla de agua llega el hundimiento inesperado. La elefanta, toda ella grande y pesada, se deja caer a peso muerto lateralmente y salimos volando y aterrizamos en medio de la corriente del rio que nos empieza a arrastrar aguas abajo hasta que reaccionamos y remontamos a nuestra posicion. De nuevo cara a trompa con la elefanta aprendemos a trepar por su trompa. Finalizamos el baño aplicandole un fuerte masaje en su dura y curtida piel.

Los elefantes son impresionantes.

DIA 161 - Hell if I know (Elefino)

2008-04-11T23:27:00.000-07:00

Sauraha

DIA 160 - Biciutopia

2008-04-10T23:04:00.000-07:00

Hetauda - Sauraba Dd = 74.6 Km Dt = 6736 Km

Imagine there´s no cars
it´s easy if you try
no trucks around us
Above roads only guys
Imagine all the people
cycling all the day

Imagine there´s no horns
it isn´t hard to do
Nothing to scare or die for
And no pollution too
Imagine all the people
walking roads in peace

You may say that I´m a dreamer
but it happens in Nepal´s election day
I hope all days were elections days
And the world will be as one

DIA 159 - Everest y Anapurna entre las nubes

2008-04-09T23:02:00.000-07:00

Daman - Hetauda Dd = 73.1 Km Dt = 6661 Km

DIA 158 - Vuelta en cortos y a los puertos

2008-04-08T22:58:00.000-07:00

Naubise - Daman Dd = 74.6 Km Dt = 6736 Km

DIA 157 - Operacion Salida

2008-04-07T22:56:00.000-07:00

Katmandu - Naubise Dd = 30 Km Dt = 6548 Km

DIA 145-156 - Vising and Embassing in Katmandu

2008-04-06T05:07:00.000-07:00

Katmandu

"Caos sobre caos"

Banderas verdes, rojas, blancas, con soles, arboles, hoces, martillos; gritos y canticos por calles y callejuelas, en marcha bien organizada a pie o encima de autobuses en marcha; mitines en las plazan donde descansan y reciben ofrendas los dioses.... Nepal esta a punto de elecciones y su nerviosismo y excitacion palpita en cada esquina. Abriendose paso a golpe de pito y acelerador nuestro taxista nos desembarca en el barrio de Thamel, un amasijo de tiendas, hoteles, cibercafes, restaurantes y pastelerias de las delicias, todo bien amasado con calles estrechas y retorcidas, banderas de oracion tibetanas, taxis impacientes y ricksaw con bocineta. Un agridulce caos que se intensifica a medida que avanza el dia y al que los lugareños parecen haberse adaptado a base de paciencia y pitidos. Pero nos quejamos, los nepalis con su picaresca, su bacileo y su sonrisa traviesa nos han levantado el animo tras los ultimos dias en china.

Katmandu, capital mundial del rafting, trekking, bungee jumping nos alimenta durante casi dos semanas con sus pizzas, sus thalis, sus lassis, sus biryanis, sus croasanes... mientras practicamos nuestros particulares deportes de riesgo: vissing y embassing en las embajadas de Pakistan y la de India (fenomenal prueba para la paciencia) y tambien en la de USA y Australia, y hasta en el extraño consulado español donde ni siquiera el consul habla un palabra de castellano y al que hubo que presionarle un dia entero para que nos ayudase con una maldita carta para el visado paquistani. Aunque lo parezca estar toda una semana de embajadas y visados puede ser muy emocionante y tambien por que no admitirlo desesperante.

Y en Kamandu nos encontramos con Ruben y Aurora. Dos super cicloturistas vascos que tras un año de ruta y aventuras acababan de unir Vitoria y Katmandu a pedales. Nos dieron un monton de informacion y consejos ademas de unos cuantos utensilios muy utiles, entre ellos una rueda!! Si quereis saber mas sobre ellos y todos sus viajes en bicicleta visitad viajenbici.blogspot.com , alli encontrareis una gran variedad de informancion acompañada con fotos dignas de exposicion.

Mucha suerte compañeros y hasta la proxima!!

DIA 141-144 - Superpedaletos fracasados unidos

2008-03-23T05:02:00.000-07:00

Chengdu-Kathmandu

Finalmente tuvimos que comprar billetes de avion para poder salir de China y continuar hacia el oeste. Pasamos la espera revoloteando por las callejuelas de Chengdu disfrutando de los ultimas dias de dumplings y de chiringuintos de comida en la calle.
Desde el avion el impresionante Everest se erige imponente. Hubieramos preferido verlo desde abajo, en tierra firme y con los pies en los pedales, pero no pudo ser. Otra vez sera.