tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82637019998462359652024-03-12T21:57:04.271-07:008 Bags FullMongolia to Turkey, by bikeandrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-21484340837952515022010-12-03T09:38:00.000-08:002010-12-03T09:40:41.041-08:00Hunting Snarks: A Journey in 8 Bags<table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/wg3G-Ar2x82LEuDuhoBF0A?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPjh4Cus7TI/AAAAAAAABqI/9eI_u6SSNR4/s400/P6051826.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Snarks?feat=embedwebsite">Snarks</a></td></tr>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;</i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> They pursued it with forks and hope;</i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>They threatened its life with a railway-share;</i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i> They charmed it with smiles and soap.</i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark: An Agony in Eight Fits, 1874)</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"<i><span style="font-style: normal;">In crook stories it is almost always the necklace, </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-style: normal;">and in spy stories it is most always the papers.</span></i>"</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(Alfred Hitchcock on the McGuffin, interviewed by Francois Truffaut, 1966)</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Often throughout this journey we have wondered why. Why are we riding all day into headwinds on sandy roads? Why are we camping on a bare hillside surrounded by goats? Why did we craft such an elaborate and outlandish way to occupy ourselves during our grand year off? The romantic in me would like to think that we were on a quest of some sort, for an elusive object that always remained strangely out of reach.<br />
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<a name='more'></a> </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This journey began somewhere during our second year as doctors when we decided to sidestep the conveyor belt to specialization and take a sabbatical. ‘It’s healthy, we need it!’ we cried. Having taken the bold step, we were left with a large chunk of time to fill in, and to at least create the illusion of doing something substantial.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We had spent a month cycling in East Timor together the previous year. We could do a little more of that, we thought. Sitting down to compare our lists of ‘I’ve always wanted to go to…’, Mongolia was placed near the top and from there the seed was sown. Various snaking paths and possibilities emerged from Ulaanbaatar until the end-point of Istanbul emerged and a wiggly line was drawn between them. Much planning, acquiring of gear and altering of routes followed, and then we set off on our journey.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Rk5dFp_f7-WJmpJfCfVm2xcI9KlvXinIsIXDmxjBhAo?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="217" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/S8Gmj02ImgI/AAAAAAAAAIs/C1UoaIN8BUE/s288/P3290320.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/SeoulToAndong?authkey=Gv1sRgCMLH9sWfxv_eQQ&feat=embedwebsite">Seoul to Andong</a></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It all sounds so simple in retrospect, but what was it that drove us forward in our cycling quest and kept us going day to day? What was it that we sought? The questing story is at least as old as Homer, and exists in almost every culture in multiple, chimeric forms. Though on setting out we had no overt Golden Fleece or MacGuffin (a Hitchcockian plot-device of convenience that propels the narrative), I suspect we longed for one or harboured something like it deep within our cultural subconscious. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Like many, we went to Mongolia for the remote and strange pleasures of yaks, yurts and friendly herders. So far from our own country and yet not dissimilar in many ways, we wanted an experience and an understanding of this vast place of which we had such a fragile idea before we left. Part of the search was for the objects and features that represented this foreignness, part of it was for personal connections that breached the chasm and rendered the country less strange.</div><br />
<table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/w6FgXHTj6xuMWL6Sr55uIQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPkmxsXx_GI/AAAAAAAABqg/7i1gwDhVkTM/s288/PB094235.jpg" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Istanbul?feat=embedwebsite">Istanbul</a></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Or maybe our McGuffin was Istanbul, the mythical city and our chosen end point. Any substitute would have worked, but as so many historical, literary and cultural narratives have concluded on the shores of the Bosphorous there was a certain ring to it. We adjusted our itinerary at various concrete and existential forks in the road and ultimately arrived. Maybe we rode merely to reach the other side, to have travelled.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Perhaps the object of our search became a common thread amongst peoples and landscapes, something with which to weave a narrative of our travels. Central Asia was a region I had wanted to explore in order to fill in the black hole in my mental geographical map that existed between China, Russia and the Middle East. We had chosen no particular historical figure in whose footsteps we followed, rather picking up the crumbs and markers left by cycling bloggers that had been before us. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/0TmnOPUwt5KX10GeuSs9xw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPjh4dKfCYI/AAAAAAAABqM/dOM-MpM4FPA/s288/ocean%20chart%20blank.jpg" width="193" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Snarks?feat=embedwebsite">Snarks</a></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We journeyed between the far distant points of one axis of Chinggis Khan’s ancient domain, from the island of Jeju in the south of Korea to the far reaches of Anatolia. Traversing the outskirts of the former Soviet realm, we found its imprint in the scattering of its language, its Lenin statues and the displacement of peoples: Koreans in Almaty, Russians in Tashkent. The crumbling of that behemoth opened niches which have been filled by the more subtle, commercial empires of Korea and the US. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/6GWkdZ4Lu5HQcWtW5mtHCw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TCb40HZSyKI/AAAAAAAAAzM/gX8hif_CHmc/s288/P6202136.jpg" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/KoshAgachToBiysk?feat=embedwebsite">Kosh Agach to Biysk</a></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As we reached the region beyond the Altai Mountains, the Turkic culture insinuated itself into the tapestry of our journey and we followed this filament through the deserts and then into the heart of the former Ottoman empire. We only skirted the edges of the Persian domain, a strand of the overall picture that will have to be picked up during other travels. Had I been a more studied linguist, I could have picked out the threads of commonality within the Turkic and Farsi language families of the area. Instead I contented myself with the scattered moments of recognition amongst our phrase-book endeavours. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Now I have an image of this region in mind, and it is textured with roads and plains and hospitable people. It has a historical depth to it which tells of the changing fortunes of a land trapped between powerful and grasping kingdoms. Cycling around mountain ranges, across steppe-lands and devising routes that bypass waterless deserts, we could see a little of what ancient armies faced and what the modern inhabitants must contend with.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/zNSoquI4mZyTes-BiJIUzg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/S-kGWNR8vKI/AAAAAAAAAho/bwfpmJBPWRU/s400/P5021088.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/UBToLun?feat=embedwebsite">UB to Lun</a></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But our quest always had more of a self-indulgent tone to it than an attempt at scholarship and amateur anthropology. We sought ‘adventure’, that oddly ill-defined term that shifts the boundaries of someone’s ordinary life to a realm in which comfort and familiarity are put aside for a time. Perhaps this was our Questing Beast, that creature composed of many parts whom we are condemned to hunt through distant lands, gathering its fewmets along the way. We knew it when we met it, but did not always know how to recapture it. To describe it to someone else would be futile, as their Beast would surely be different to ours. And yet on a vast plateau in Mongolia, as we bid farewell to the herder who set off on horseback to gather his camels and we cycled off on a dusty, corrugated road beset by sudden rain and windstorms, I think we found it.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And now - if you have made it to the end of our last post - I would like to request input. By comment, guestbook or email (<a href="mailto:8bagsfull@gmail.com">8bagsfull@gmail.com</a>) I would love to hear about your questing objects. What do you seek when cycle touring or otherwise adventuring? And why seek adventure at all?</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And now that we reach the end of our quest we will softly and suddenly fade away. .</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">For the Snark <i>was </i>a Boojum, you see.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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</div>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13669407476394499212noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-31798865368541476092010-12-03T03:55:00.000-08:002010-12-03T04:04:11.760-08:00Turkey wrap-up<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/uMOZti71ZpocUhZ5ENlJXQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPjawU_KXfI/AAAAAAAABpQ/b8wlKrLUgj8/s400/PB184351.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Total Kilometres: 1052</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cycling days: 21</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Average kilometers per day: 50</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Camping days: 11</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Longest Cycling day: Mersin to Taşucu - 102km</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/5CnEsTi-SGt9wCqhfEpT_w?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPja6Z7C5tI/AAAAAAAABps/XCEjYWVzmwE/s400/PA073862.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Hardest section:</b> Amasra to Inebolu on the Black Sea coast. Steep, steep hills with equally vertiginous descents. Some pushing required, though with big, big rewards. Highly recommended.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Most enjoyable section:</b> See above. But also the almost empty roads around Camardi through a rocky mountain valley, alongside commercial apple farms (they won’t miss a few right?) and hence well-irrigated and lush.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/DZevuxcjVO2AH5pC_eee7g?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPja8g7otUI/AAAAAAAABpw/hmHUyVRMTCA/s400/PA063848.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Best downhill: </b>From the rainy heights of Anatolia, where the pine forests and the clouds were thick and visibility was less than 30m, down to the suddenly Mediterranean fields inland from Mersin, where goats roamed the olive groves and the warm air tasted of salt.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Number of different seas we cycled by the sea-shore:</b> 4. Black Sea (Karadeniz); Mediterranean (Akdeniz); Sea of Marmara; Bosphorous (if that counts).</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Number of crossings from Europe to Asia:</b> 4 (two by bus, two by ferry). Things get complicated when you consider Cyprus though (is it Asia or Europe? Or both?)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/JHTgwk-OqJC61kRFbHgRyA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPjazDJREwI/AAAAAAAABpU/9SX9d_rcWBo/s400/PB064221.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Best coffee:</b> The 75 kurus (50 cent) Turkish coffee in Kurucasile, a town almost entirely composed of boat-builders.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Hog3uPTdgsfCmjfxj8fC8A?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="217" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPja0ipwvlI/AAAAAAAABpY/q2wUvqZ8228/s288/PA113886.jpg" width="288" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Most puncture repairs in one sitting</b>: 11. Thank you tribulus terrestris.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b><br />
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<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/k7ShZqyoqHC5bFLL-xZyOw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPjbBX7PUYI/AAAAAAAABp4/VKfES8ugGCc/s400/PA043808.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Best convenience store snack:</b> Undoubtedly the delicious, cheap and widely available simit. A circular bread roll coated in sesame seeds that fills and delights.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/8yJ3uEwMEHiJ_8Kd54oOAA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPja2oU32oI/AAAAAAAABpc/CUfNS-Bh3X8/s288/PA103867.jpg" width="217" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Best kebab:</b> Iskender kebab, devoured heartily in Mersin.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Metres of cling-wrap used to envelope each bicycle before leaving Istanbul’s Atatruk Airport:</b> 66</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/1_iE2o4laACllftQN9S5wA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPjbDdtiv5I/AAAAAAAABp8/DlKDBDhzrJM/s400/P9273709.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Cycle Tourist Verdict:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As the gateway between East and West, Turkey is a regular feature on cycle tourist’s itineraries. We’ve noted that the majority of cyclists will make a bee-line from Istanbul to Ankara, take in some Kappadocian fairy chimneys before heading directly to Syria, Georgia or Iran. As these cyclists will probably state, Turkey deserves to be far more than a thoroughfare. It is varied country, ethnically, culturally and geographically. Provided you are prepared for Anatolia’s mountains (and the slightly higher than expected prices) it is difficult to be disappointed. The Black Sea Coast from Amasra to Sinop was superb. The bus system is brilliant and bike friendly, allowing one to jump between stretches of cycling. The food was very welcome after Central Asian fare. If Turkey is just a link between Europe and Asia, then we’d suggest choosing a less direct route and if needs be joining the dots with some buses.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Myfz0hbEQ2hD7K96PgxqFQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TPja-lz7VyI/AAAAAAAABp0/dG22YXcjitQ/s400/PA053838.jpg" width="400" /></a>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-57516180586069322902010-11-18T22:49:00.000-08:002010-11-18T22:49:53.644-08:00Istanbul<table style="width:auto;"><tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Ddb7L4DjEM4tRUbcZEkM8g?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TOYdOwkhyvI/AAAAAAAABns/I7rRNDst2u0/s400/PB114274.jpg" height="400" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family:arial,sans-serif; font-size:11px; text-align:right">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Istanbul?feat=embedwebsite">Istanbul</a></td></tr>
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Istanbul must surely be the most richly imagined city in existence. Layer upon layer of exoticised accounts by centuries of western traveler-writers lusting for something other than their staid and grey origins. It has been the aim and the end-point of many journeys, a natural full stop to traveling.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Probably the most overused descriptor for Istanbul – ‘East meets West’ – colours the background of our Istanbul, though has become somewhat abstract merely through repetition. For us, these antique notions of place and relation are a long way from our multiethnic home neighbourhoods, but have long drawn westerners to see the East and continue to inform the ‘western’ longings of this city.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><a name='more'></a> <br />
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Our own imaginings of Istanbul were heavily influenced by the writings of Orhan Pamuk, Nobel Prize winner and lifelong Istanbullu. From the medieval world of miniaturists (My name is Red) to the twentieth century melancholy of faded empires and crumbling buildings (Istanbul: memoirs of a City). If we have any insight into the Turkish Istanbul, it is him we must blame.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There is little we can add to the history of who come to see this chimera and return home to narrate the adventure. Indeed, the journey to Istanbul has been described as a literary genre in itself, with its own rules. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>‘When the city becomes the capital of the Muslims opposing Christianity the first shock is gradually overcome (between the 16th and 17th centuries), thus Constantinople turns into an object of desire and triggers the exotic imagination of the West. The city turns into an object on which literary essays are written.’ (Umberto Eco, ://www.wan-press.org/article3190.html).</i></div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Approaching the grand and mysterious city was for centuries done by sea, and descriptions of the clustered houses, mansions and minarets are plentiful. Our approach, by bus was far less glamorous but eminently practical, eliminating the need to find a path through the sprawling defensive suburbs by which to besiege this city by bicycle.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Arriving a few days after a bombing in busy Taksim square, perhaps we expected more disorder and disturbance. But the city seemed already to have absorbed this incident amongst its existing chaos, notwithstanding the very noticeable security measures in place everywhere. Every public venue we entered – including the venue hosting the short film festival, a known hide-out of radicals - had at least a security guard and a scanner, a sad necessity.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">From our cosy little nook in the suburb of Harbiye, we roamed and explored, living almost an expat life, though without having to work for it. We soaked up what modern Istanbul has to offer, though the past was always present within it. Shopping in Galata, the former home of Genoese sailors. Taking the bus to a basketball game (top ranked Fenerbahce playing Trabzon), via the 4<sup>th</sup> century city walls through which the Muslim armies captured Constantinople in 1453. Running along the waterfront at Kadikoy, where the early 13<sup>th</sup> century Crusaders landed. And returning home, we would exit the bustling thoroughfare of Cumhuriyet Caddesi and leave behind the modern city for the now-familiar neighbourhood where people still drop baskets from their apartment windows to the vendors below and gather outside the local lokantas and teahouses to discuss the news of the day.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<table style="width:auto;"><tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/dlBN-xqeQoSxxXAqZG4kmw?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TOYc6tNwdfI/AAAAAAAABnE/m1YE0DTkVew/s400/PB114275.jpg" height="301" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family:arial,sans-serif; font-size:11px; text-align:right">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/ApartmentViewHarbiye?feat=embedwebsite">Apartment view, Harbiye</a></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We were fortunate enough to arrive in a year in which Istanbul has been promoting itself as a city of arts and culture, and a series of free events kept up the cultural melange. A choral festival (in which Turkish choirs sang American gospel and Swedish choirs sang Turkish pop), a documentary film festival, a short film festival and modern art exhibitions were woven in between visits to the Hagia Sofia and the Bookseller’s market (Sahaflar Carsisi) outside the Grand Bazaar.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And in between our bike cleaning and general winding up activities we found some time and energy to revisit running. Pacing through falling leaves in Belgrade Forest on the city’s outskirts and along the edge of the Bosphorous we found an excellent excuse to see more of the city than we could have imagined. </div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In Istanbul we walked Pamuk’s streets and sat in his squares. We unknowingly borrowed views from Hemingway, Twain, Melville and probably even Agatha Christie. Perhaps we got a sense of Baudrillard’s city of historical depth, where ‘myriad dreams stroll in the hills and the branches of the river’. In walking and sitting, reading and eating, watching and experiencing, we found our Istanbul.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">And so we finish. No grand conclusions or final scenes. But a lot of good stories along the way.</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Running summary 34km</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Harbiye to Kabatas (return) 6km</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Harbiye to Sisle (return) 5km</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Belgrade Forest 9km</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Haribye to Kabatas, ferry to Kadikoy, Kadikoy waterfront 8km</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Haribye to Bebek 6km</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/ApartmentViewHarbiye?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TOYcuCA3HiE/AAAAAAAABng/7sNqxA54a1s/s160-c/ApartmentViewHarbiye.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/ApartmentViewHarbiye?feat=embedwebsite" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">Apartment view, Harbiye</a></td></tr>
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<table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Istanbul?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TOYdIACrU8E/AAAAAAAABoc/rMC56Dlafm0/s160-c/Istanbul.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Istanbul?feat=embedwebsite" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">Istanbul</a></td></tr>
</table>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13669407476394499212noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-87368683154261363662010-11-14T05:30:00.000-08:002010-11-14T05:35:29.464-08:00Last legs<table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/sClIwpgpv_RDFUa7-mzxZg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TN_iXt31BvI/AAAAAAAABmE/bX9x5z1OGBQ/s400/PB034188.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/AntalyaToIstanbul?feat=embedwebsite">Antalya to Istanbul</a></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We sorely needed a detox from our 4 days of shameful, resort-style indulgence (despite its being interspersed with some actual medicine and learning). Back to basics, we said. So we hightailed it down the road to Antalya and beyond, chasing reports of forested mountains rippling down into the sea. Only about 15km beyond the city though, we found the new daylight savings time bringing darkness upon us earlier than we would like and we turned off the road to the beachside.<br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/QgpR7yI7QUq8dGQ3oBMVig?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TN_icn0yecI/AAAAAAAABmE/spqvweZGI10/s400/PB034191.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/AntalyaToIstanbul?feat=embedwebsite">Antalya to Istanbul</a></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Like all the picnicking spots along here, you have to pay to swim at the beach. Australians chaff at this notion, our beaches being overwhelmingly public and free. However, they did let us camp here and we had the luxury of picnic tables on which to prepare our campstove meals. So we swallowed our cultural misgivings and relished being back in the tent where we belong.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/zAoRN4tDoZwUeTzskSHMFg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TN_iUovKjSI/AAAAAAAABmE/RSw0hJfIj5M/s400/PB024185.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/AntalyaToIstanbul?feat=embedwebsite">Antalya to Istanbul</a></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Two days of bathing in the temperate Mediterranean waters and reading books on the beach had us ready for the next adventure: Istanbul. Our last two sections of riding on this adventure across Asia would feature logistical rather than physical challenges. 1. Get bikes onto bus for Istanbul (easy, we’ve done that one before). 2. Get off bus in Istanbul and make it to our accommodation in Taksim. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/fctW_2ND-MJ1BSZZ7wgYPw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TN_ifphpiHI/AAAAAAAABmE/G6Xm1KxZLM8/s400/PB044194.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/AntalyaToIstanbul?feat=embedwebsite">Antalya to Istanbul</a></td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The first went without a hitch, discounting the pooled efforts and mutual charades of two cycle tourists and four employees of the bus company which resulted in an artful arrangement of our bikes around other people’s luggage. The second was a little more tricky and I have truly come to admire those who ride the whole way into this un-bike-friendly city. Non-existent bike lanes, footpaths that disappear or are colonized by multiple traders, bridges lined with fishermen who dangle their fishhooks blithely in front of your helmeted face. This city seems an appropriate book-end to the other burgeoning, second-world seat of empire in which we began our journey, Seoul. We arrived there in a chilly spring with the promise of cherry blossoms and now we enter an autumnal Istanbul in which we will begin the sad process of stripping our bikes, cleaning to quarantine standards and packing them up. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/IP_Zi1QCsYoqP26cn5dN4A?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TN_ii5SkpMI/AAAAAAAABmE/K5XxWOMq0Jw/s400/PB044195.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cycling Summary:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Berek to Topcam beach camp (out of Antalya) 65km </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Beach camp to Bus station 27km</div><br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/AW1-mHr1a_vmMqTszTXy8Q?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TN_kDFL3TeI/AAAAAAAABmM/Dau7p17z9UI/s400/PB054196.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/AntalyaToIstanbul?feat=embedwebsite">Antalya to Istanbul</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13669407476394499212noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-46014641308152147702010-11-13T10:32:00.000-08:002010-11-13T23:37:50.325-08:00A fully sick conference<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/VINrOZnKLsIMIULHv8v6pA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TN48fAElXcI/AAAAAAAABlc/ala0pC_ZHF8/s400/PA314182.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
After an uneventful (read: nauseating for Ali) hydrofoil trip back to the Turkish mainland we backtracked from Tasucu to Silifke. We had a date with an Eurasian Congress and needed to cover some quick kilometers by bus to make it in time. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We successfully killed 7 hours in Silifke with the following ingredients: One Internet cafe. Two books: News from Tartary and Kim. One heavily moustached barber and two delicious kebabs. In no time we were nestled in the bus, staring at our personal TV screens watching what we aptly named ‘bus-cam’. ‘Bus-Cam’ is only marginally better than watching Turkish sitcoms (in Turkish). Thankfully, our bus-driver harbours no desire to become a script-writer. We passed the night away with incredibly boring episodes.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We and our bikes were dislodged from our bus, literally on the verge of the highway at the turnoff to Berek. Berek is histrionic marsh-land whose beach front has been converted into 5 star resorts. It pains us to say that our 2nd Eurasian Congress of Emergency Medicine was taking place at one of the said resorts. It was sickeningly flash. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Here are our random thoughts on ED conferences in resorts:</div><ul style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><li>If you take one handful of figs from every buffet sitting you can leave with a mighty big bag of cycling snacks</li>
<li>Ultrasound is the bomb</li>
<li>All-you-can-eat buffets of damn fine food can rapidly undo 6000km of cycling touring</li>
<li>Sharing a wild Turkish dance floor with Judith Tintinalli, Joe Lex and Janet Alteveer is indeed an honour</li>
<li>You can’t hear the call to prayer when you’re deep within a golf-course resort</li>
<li>You can get away with wearing your only pair of pants, your only shirt and a pair of keens to a formal Gala Dinner when you’re a cycle tourist (at an Emergency Med conference)</li>
</ul><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cycling Summary 72km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Tasucu to Silifke 13km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Sirek to Berek conference resort 25km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In and around Berek 34km</div>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-57453034300390404672010-11-07T02:35:00.000-08:002010-11-07T03:00:21.731-08:00Cyprus Wrap Up<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/IcEj9aN6Ni2RPJ6DaYwgag?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMARc7sHO5I/AAAAAAAABb0/jbhL1xNwpkw/s400/PA184024.jpg" height="301" width="400" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Total distance: 441km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Distance on unsealed roads: 15km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Nights spent camping: 5</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Days spent cycling: 10</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Average distance per day: 44km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Longest day: 77km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Maximum speed: 56.3kph</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Highest altitude: 1850m</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Best stretch of cycling:</b> Stavros to Kykkos. Gently undulating smooth roads, cut into the sides of mountains, 1000m above the sea.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Least enjoyable section: </b>Turkish coastline near Girne, with kilometer after kilometer of British expat orientated advertising interspersed with casinos</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>UN Buffer Zone crossings: </b>4</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/OuKt9-GJ-aOPP7amAus6gw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNaCU6RHJOI/AAAAAAAABio/nekcqbwChz0/s288/PA254157.jpg" width="288" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Maximum of number of names for each town:</b> 3 (British, Greek, Turkish). Makes correlating road signs, maps and locals instructions all the more fun.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/r2p2Fcj91jgoVLTrNLVXzw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNaCYC0nvEI/AAAAAAAABis/H1oakL_YvNU/s288/PA214072.jpg" width="288" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Best Coffee:</b> With 85 years of experience it is difficult to beat the morning Cypriot coffee prepared by Andrew’s grandma’s cousin’s wife, a retired paediatrician</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/v8si7H4OsJnUBIPwvaM7Hg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNaCP_FFAnI/AAAAAAAABiU/ZK16FqvSDes/s288/PA224089.jpg" width="216" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Best Convenience Store Snack:</b> Petit-Beurre Biscuits. Bought on the Turkish side to cut down on random Euro purchases</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Best Local Food:</b> Cypriot Halloumi (from either side). Served in slabs of finely folded salty goodness. This island is home to one of life’s great pleasures: fried cheese. Also available in souvlaki form in Nicosia. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Fruit and nuts commandeered from the roadside:</b></div><ul style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><li>Almonds – donated</li>
<li>Chestnuts – gathered</li>
<li>Figs – pilfered</li>
<li>Mandarins, oranges, lemons – plucked</li>
<li>Pomegranates - twisted</li>
<li>Olives – not good in the raw state (Ali says ‘I told you so’)</li>
</ul><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Largest Item extracted from tyre:</b> 3cm long metal spike</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Number of ‘short-term stays’ at Tony’s B&B on a Sunday morning (observed only):</b> 3</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Ratio of genuine audience members to family and friends of film-makers at the Cyprus International Film Festival (short film screening):</b> 1:2</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Best Camp Site:</b> A tie between our terraced hillside amongst almond trees and the unexpected official campground that appeared at Stavros, cloaked by fruiting chestnut trees. In the evening, nut gatherers (including park rangers) took turns to comb the area and throw rather large branches into the trees to dislodge their prizes. Overnight we were lulled into a deep sleep by the calming melody of falling chestnuts bombs. Needless to say we left with our own collection.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/gGzgv9YKggHZ-CW_6UgXMQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNaCZuvdTWI/AAAAAAAABiw/j8EkgVMmasA/s288/PA204053.jpg" width="288" /></a><br />
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</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Cycling Tourist Verdict:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">If you can brave the coastline packed with villas, casinos and expats and the inflated European prices (Greek side > Turkish side) your bike is in for a treat. Gorgeous weather makes Cyprus a great locale when other parts are getting chilly. We suggest heading to the mountains. The climbs are tough, but you’ll be rewarded with hundreds of kilometers of asphalt roads (almost to yourself), plenty of stealth camping opportunities and handfuls of luscious roadside fruits.</div><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/ThFCKRJ9S6eXNGLpSWAs6A?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNaCbNcmg1I/AAAAAAAABi0/4SoGp-ixkK0/s400/PA194035.jpg" width="400" /></a>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-46915630377968376042010-11-07T02:30:00.000-08:002010-11-07T02:48:14.330-08:00Tips for travelers<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/GJzkeh5nABhXzSWd7nsfFw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNaCSnKyuUI/AAAAAAAABik/IBILcrHAhpg/s400/PA264180.jpg" width="400" /></a> <br />
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Some tips on ferries, border crossings and passport stamping. </div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When passing through the Turkish crossing ask for a piece of paper to be stamped rather than your passport. The border guards are very familiar with this practice. Allegedly, the Greek side won’t allow you to pass if your passport has a TRNC (Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus) stamp. In our own experience, the Greek border guards barely looked at our passports (once they knew we were Australian), but we got a slip of paper stamped just to be safe. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There are five points at which you can cross the green line (the name given the Turkish-Greek Cypriot border, owing to the colour pen used by the British general drawing up the partition on his map). We used three (marked *) without any issues or delays.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Ledra palace*: bicycles and pedestrians</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Zohdia (Güzelyurt)*: also known as Astromeritis, Morpho, Morfu, Güzelyurt, Omorfo, or Morfou</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Agios Dometios* (Nicosia): within the old city</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Black Knight (British Eastern Sovereign Base Area): Or also known as the Azios Nikolaos, Strovilia, or Akyar</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Pergamos: also known as, Beyarmudu, or Dhekelia</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Ferry Crossings:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">At the time of our travel you could access Girne (in Northern Cyprus) via Tasucu (Turkey). You can also get a ferry to famagusta (Cyprus) from Mersin (Turkey)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">From Mersin:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Tix 80TL each way. Overnight ferry 2 or 3 times a week (we didn’t catch this one)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">From Tasucu:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Tix 68TL return (special deal at the time of writing – no additional charge for bikes). Overnight ferry takes cars and trucks. Length of trip is unpredictable. A frequent passenger said is launch is often delayed for 4-5 hours. Ours was delayed 1 hour. Every day.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Also a hydrofoil which takes 3 hours or so and leaves everyday.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">You allegedly cannot enter from Turkey and then leave from the Greek side. Issues with recognizing passport stamping and borders, etc. We didn’t try. But you should enquire in advance if you plan to try this. </div>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-18015290773640192352010-11-06T13:24:00.000-07:002010-11-06T14:32:27.458-07:00GAStronomy: a campstove cooking tour - Cyprus<table style="width:auto;"><tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/sDjvBntOY-zYeNFjossElg?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNXFBr5YWsI/AAAAAAAABhM/Kpac8JXXKUI/s400/PA254166.jpg" height="400" width="301" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="font-family:arial,sans-serif; font-size:11px; text-align:right">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/GAStronomyCyprus?feat=embedwebsite">GAStronomy Cyprus</a></td></tr></table><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When it comes to nurturing, one of the fundamental elements of my grandma’s armory is food. Generous servings of lemon-soaked potatoes, fried eggplant and dolmades (rice wrapped with vine leaves) are a mandatory part of my visits. Not quite as frequent, but equally as delicious is yemista, vegetables stuffed with rice and mince. When we visited my grandma’s cousin in Nicosia we were greeted with Cypriot (Turkish) coffee and homemade orange short-bread biscuits. It was a style I was well acquainted with. For lunch we ate yemista accompanied with fresh white bread, olives and a simple salad of tomatoes and lettuce. The meal brought be right back to my grandma’s kitchen and when I was impored to pile more Greek Cypriot goodness onto my plate, my reminisce was capped off.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">For this episode of GAStronomy, we cooked yemista and we’ve shared the recipe below. First though, let me deliciously digress for an entrée of halloumi.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It’s the traditional cheese of Cyprus. It tastes amazing when fried and we felt it would be at the very least sacrilegious not to have some of this campside Cypriot delight. Halloumi usually contains simply goats and sheep milk, but commercially a bit of cows milk finds its way in as well. It is layered, like mozzarella and owing to its high melting point can be fried until a tasty brown. Traditionally it is served with mint and lemon, but we substituted parsely.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><u><b><br />
</b></u></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><u><b>Fried Cypriot Halloumi</b></u></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Ingredients</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Halloumi – 0.5cm thick slices</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Parsely</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Lemon</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Olive oil</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Sourcing ingredients</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Supermarket for halloumi, parsely and oil. You can swiftly acquire a lemon in almost all parts of Cyprus from the roadside.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Method:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1. Oil in pan, fry halloumi until golden brown on both sides</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">2. Serve with parsely a squeeze of lemon</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><u><b>Yemista</b></u></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Sourcing ingredients: As above</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Location: </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Due to a lack of supplies on the road, we were unable to cook this dish in the field. Instead we cooked it inside, on a stove top. However, with this exception, we used only our camping cooking equipment. The fact that we cooked in my grandma’s home village hopefully makes up for the gas stove replacing the MSR whisperlite.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<table style="width:auto;"><tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/BU38F7R1OjUXdCyRWYBQCQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNXFD91zZoI/AAAAAAAABhQ/tlhLJVxpq6Y/s288/PA254163.jpg" height="216" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family:arial,sans-serif; font-size:11px; text-align:right">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/GAStronomyCyprus?feat=embedwebsite">GAStronomy Cyprus</a></td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Ingredients</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Onion, 1, diced</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Garlic, 2 cloves</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Olive oil</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Salt, pepper</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Tomatoes, 4</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Capsicum, 2</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Zucchini, 2</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Beef mince, 300g</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• Bunch of coriander (can use other herbs instead or as well – mint, parsley)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• 2 cups water</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">• 1 cup rice</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><table style="width:auto;"><tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/K9qZEY_bz7fgFbacdhFejw?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNXFKL5CQ3I/AAAAAAAABhc/6dPwp2n8oc4/s288/PA264174.jpg" height="288" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family:arial,sans-serif; font-size:11px; text-align:right">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/GAStronomyCyprus?feat=embedwebsite">GAStronomy Cyprus</a></td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Method:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Rice-Mince stuffing</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1. Prepare vegetables</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">a. Using a spoon, scoop out the insides of 3 tomatoes, zucchinis and capsicums. Put the tomato and zucchini pulp aside.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">2. Brown the beef mince in a pan and then put aside</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">3. Saute onion and garlic in olive oil, with salt and pepper (use the same unwashed pan)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">4. Add the tomato and zucchini pulp, add an additional diced tomato</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">5. Add the browned mince with a generous handful of fresh herbs (mint, parsley, coriander) – we just had coriander</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">6. Add 2 cups of water and one cup of rice</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">7. Bring to the boil and then simmer until rice has cooked and water has absorbed</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">8. Let the rice-mince mix cool a little before stuffing it into the scooped vegetables</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Baking</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Traditionally you would sprinkle some breadcrumbs and cheese over the vegetables before baking them in the oven until tender. We don’t have an oven, but you can make do with two cooking pots.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1. Arrange the stuffed vegetables in the smaller cooking pot</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">2. Place the larger pot on the stovetop/camp stove with a small about of water</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">3. Put the smaller pot inside the larger pot so it is kept afloat by the water</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">4. Apply heat so the water boils/simmers and conducts heat to the smaller pot</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">5. Cover with a lid and cook until the vegetables are tender (vegetables like tomato and zucchini will cook a quicker and are probably better suited to this camping approach)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">6. You may have to add additional water during the ‘baking’</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<table style="width:auto;"><tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/GayVSsFxlnZCaKutDOGheg?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNXFIdxZ8hI/AAAAAAAABhY/7DqxRaSghYY/s400/PA264173.jpg" height="301" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="font-family:arial,sans-serif; font-size:11px; text-align:right">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/GAStronomyCyprus?feat=embedwebsite">GAStronomy Cyprus</a></td></tr></table>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-48923430276137236042010-11-06T13:21:00.000-07:002010-11-06T14:24:09.689-07:00Imeroessa<table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/WMPGd3qGL94jAvnISZc6tw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNXE9UmIcLI/AAAAAAAABhE/vxZ7cmdaqhs/s400/PA133923.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/ReturnToLapithos?feat=embedwebsite">Return to Lapithos</a></td></tr>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When you travel by bicycle there is a drive to keep traveling. You’re defined by your exploration on two wheels. Finding new places, new paths and campsites is part of the excitement. Joining up those uncertain dots by bike is the adventure. It is quite a luxury to come back to a place we know. To recognize the turns, the people and the final resting place is a comfort. This is not strictly the adventure, but its effect on us is strengthened by all the dots we join to get there. </div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Upon farewelling Lapithos for the Greek side, I didn’t plan on seeing it again and I definitely didn’t think we would be riding so eagerly towards the same hotel. After crossing the dry tail of the Pentadaktylos range, 10 days after we left, we dropped into the lush north-west edge of Cyprus. Rows of lemon trees and olive groves began lining the road. The eyesore of villas and casinos were far off in the east. After three nights in the tent we were looking forward to a shower and a bed and it was nice knowing exactly where one was. As we returned to the foothills I could see with a bit more clarity that Lapithos is actually quite a pretty place. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The ground has always been good to the locals. The Kefalovryso headspring ensures a rich water supply and owing to this, Lapithos has been able to become renowned for its fruits and flowers. At one stage, it was home to Cyprus’ largest source of lemons and had a local variety Lemonia Lapithiotiki. It even has a native orchid, Melissoula, meaning small bee. Unfortunately the buzz evaded us. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In Nicosia, we met Dr Ari Lapithis, my grandma’s first cousin. He grew up alongside my grandma in Lapithos. After settling in Nicosia, he and his wife used to take weekend trips back to Lapithos. Dr Lapithis told us that Lapithos means appealing and beautiful. Yet after 1974 partition, this abruptly ended. Now, following the opening of the border they don’t like to go back. It was a similar story, told with a dismissive wave of the hand, amongst several of the older Greek Cypriots we met along our mountainous trek – home was now on the south side. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Lapithos would have been a pleasant place for my grandma to call home. Bounded by jagged peaks on one side and a tepid Mediterranean on the other. Citrus, fig and pomegranants thriving in every backyard. Snaking stone walled streets with flowering overhanging plants. 60 years is not long in the life of this island.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The ancient philosopher ‘Alexander from Ephesus’ called my grandma’s village Imeroessa. It means passion-arousing. I think I’ll tell her that it still is. </div><br />
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<tr><td align="center" style="background: url("http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif") no-repeat scroll left center transparent; height: 194px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/ReturnToLapithos?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="160" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNXEo7BpLUE/AAAAAAAABhE/96uj6-ZWkzY/s160-c/ReturnToLapithos.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/ReturnToLapithos?feat=embedwebsite" style="color: #4d4d4d; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Return to Lapithos</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-77441805819720043142010-11-06T13:16:00.000-07:002010-11-06T14:21:11.343-07:00Climb every mountain: an amateur’s guide to hills<table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/VWhSNcsV3a6s6GGyJL3xWA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNXEgycu3DI/AAAAAAAABgI/cpqlS1MNy7w/s400/PA194040.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/MountainsOfCyprus?feat=embedwebsite">Mountains of Cyprus</a></td></tr>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cyprus is what you make of it. Or so the sanguine Latvian waitress in Nicosia told us of her 6 year stay. Not planning to be there for such an extensive residency, we decided to make it short, sweet and steep. Our route away from the fleshpots and gambling dens of the coast and capital would lead us to the central mountains of Troodos and the Pafos forest, where conifers carpet the slopes and mouflon (a wild species of sheep) scatter rocks into your path as they scurry away. Despite the general feeling in Nicosia that we would need a rental car, as the roads were too narrow, steep and dangerous, we felt we were up to the challenge.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Having left behind our camp amongst the almond groves, we continued wending our way upwards, as terraced farmland gave way to forests. Though incredibly tempted by the prospect of an official bike path (Cyprus is very accommodating to the cycle tourist, particularly on mountain bikes), we chose to take the major road that led to the ‘town’ of Troodos and the highest peak, Mt Olympus. After a gentle climb to 1950m, we found the peak cloud-covered and a far cry from the steamy temperatures of sea-level. From here, we descended and followed roads to Stavros tis Psokas and the monastery at Kykkos that wound along the edge of steep hillsides at an approximately continuous altitude. After the steep ups and downs of Turkey I could only intone mentally: Oh, road builders of Cyprus, I salute thee.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/P21IqqrrsIA_ImhTLZC0EA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNXESMkcBSI/AAAAAAAABf4/o2yXfKHgItM/s400/PA234140.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/MountainsOfCyprus?feat=embedwebsite">Mountains of Cyprus</a></td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">An official campsite at Stavros yielded flat grounds, facilities and an abundance of chestnuts that fell around us throughout the night. Observing the many locals and park rangers who were encouraging these fruits from the elderly trees, we gathered our own while we could and continued on our sweet descent to the western coastline. At this time of year there were very few cars on the road, wonderful views with autumnal foliage and sweeping curves that gave us the impression that we had reached a cycle-tourist’s playground in the off-season and they had opened it especially for us.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Almost as soon as we had reached the coast, however, we found that the Greeks had been just as effective in encouraging the business of the British expat as the Turkish Cypriots. We longed for the glorious hills again and turned back at Pamos to find another route inland. Just 5km along and we were back in almost deserted farmland looking for a patch of dirt in which to camp. Back where we belong. We also discovered here that choice of road could make a significant difference to your hill-climbing experience. The E-road we had descended on was many magnitudes of road quality greater than the F-road we attempted to ascend on. Dirt and gravel reduced me to pushing the bike, as my tired legs did not have the reserve to compensate for the sudden changes of direction enforced by larger rocks. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Our choice of route was mildly limited by the necessity of reaching an official border crossing, Astromerites being the only available point west of Nicosia. Deciding we weren’t going to gamble on reaching yet another dirt road at lower altitude, we changed tack and followed an asphalt road to ascend back towards Stavros to repeat the lovely section between it and Kykkos. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">To give an impression of our Cypriot undulations, here is an image from the incredibly useful website Map My Ride (though it does underestimate the altitude by about 600m):</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/12k93sMla1fljd49QdDssw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="234" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNW_wbhisNI/AAAAAAAABe4/ExVen6vNDEU/s400/Fullscreen%20capture%201162010%20101110%20PM.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/ScreenCaptures?feat=embedwebsite">Screen Captures</a></td></tr>
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Having started our entire journey complaining about hill-climbing in Korea, I was surprised how much I eagerly anticipated the hill-climbs here. And it got me reflecting, as seems common towards the end of journeys, about my own adventure with hills. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I am not a born climber. I have never trained, or been instructed by anyone, in the art of bikes, gearing or even a structured approach to individual exertions as part of sporting pursuits. To contemplate this journey, particularly with 50kg bikes, 5 or even 2 years ago would have seemed ludicrous to me. Before our first trip to a mountainous country (we seem to make a habit of this), I would fling myself at inclines with gusto, hoping to make it at least some distance up the slope and then falling back on what little reserve I had for the remainder. This, I learnt quickly, was not a strategy for long term success.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, for those people who have asked us about whether we needed to train for this journey, and how on earth we make it up those hills, I offer a few uneducated thoughts about the approach I have developed along the way. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Hill-climbing is as much if not more mental than physical, so I will list tips in two categories. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Physical</b></div><ul style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><li>Although it helps to be moderately fit before departure, with persistence you will get fit along the way.</li>
<li>Get to know your gears well, and use the full range up to the highest (to remember: the one that makes it easy to go high!).</li>
<li>Try to keep your legs moving at about the same pace (roughly 1.5-2 revolutions per second) as you change gears, remembering to change down for descents so you don’t spin too fast and exhaust your legs.</li>
<li>Go as slow as you need to, and pace yourself.</li>
<li>You can rest you legs a little by changing the muscles you use. Imagine a string attached to your quads picking them up as you ride along. A little extra oomph can also be gained by bracing your arms a little with a forward grasp and activating your core muscles.</li>
<li>As you approach an ascent from a downhill run, learn to time your change up the gears so that you are not left spinning uselessly or stuck on too large a chain ring (the big cogs at the front).</li>
<li>Day 3 of hill-climbing feels much better than the previous 2 days.</li>
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Mental</b></div><ul style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><li>You can.</li>
<li>Go as slow as you need to, not as fast as the person in front. You will both get there in the end.</li>
<li>You can always walk the bike. This is acceptable. But not until you have used your highest gear.</li>
<li>You only have to ride the section just in front of you, not the whole mountain. Don’t aim for the summit but pick a point a few metres in front of you, ride for that and then pick another one and reward yourself each time you reach a marker. </li>
<li>The summit you can see may not be the top of the mountain.</li>
<li>Music with a ‘f***-you attitude’ helps enormously.</li>
<li>Enjoy descents – you earned them.</li>
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Cycling Summary: 375km</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Nicosia to stealth camp out from Agia Georgios 47km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stealth camp to Stealth camp amongst almond trees 21km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Almond trees to Pedoulas (via Mt Troodos summit) 35km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Pedoulas to Stavros campsite 47km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stavros campsite to Pafos forest stealth camp (via Chrysochou Bay) 60km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Pafos forest camp to stealth camp past Oikos (via Stavros and Kykkos again) 77km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stealth camp to Lapithos (via Astromeritis border crossing) 71km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Lapithos to Girne harbor 17km</div><br />
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<tr><td align="center" style="background: url("http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif") no-repeat scroll left center transparent; height: 194px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/MountainsOfCyprus?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="160" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TNXDaEVHO6E/AAAAAAAABhk/X52mOmm0GGw/s160-c/MountainsOfCyprus.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/MountainsOfCyprus?feat=embedwebsite" style="color: #4d4d4d; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Mountains of Cyprus</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13669407476394499212noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-55445896686347091032010-10-27T05:53:00.000-07:002010-10-27T09:00:10.070-07:00Cypriot almonds: a beginner’s field guide<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/LQNWSKwvkuh2V0Loe0lz4w?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMggRmh7L0I/AAAAAAAABd4/ltUyoPTB2ng/s400/PA204047.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Fresh almonds are a commodity to be seized upon. Thus after establishing a surefire way to be in possession a healthy bag of these appetizing kernels we felt it only fair to share the knowledge.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Step One:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As a balmy Mediterranean night takes grasp, find a campsite upon the mountain side. A friendly agriculturist will have converted a steep hill into a terraced orchard perfect for the stealth camping cyclist. Such an abode carries multiple benefits; it’s hidden, flat, allows a delightful view of the preceding valley and bears fruit. Note the piles of shriveled skins on the ground and wonder if you have stumbled across a plum crop.</div><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/CnubbzMtla7Bs0UtQLCIwA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMggKb5MStI/AAAAAAAABdw/xYMGd7ApS-A/s288/PA194045.jpg" width="288" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/wbfs5d6zQ4Qev0doyw1UJg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMggQlZAeAI/AAAAAAAABd0/aYxb947PgEo/s400/PA194043.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Step Two:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Time your morning pack-up so that you are caught by the affable owner of the foliage. Your Greek Cypriot farmer should at this stage display how happy his is that you chose his patch. It is not everyday he is graced with cycle tourists. He will show you that inside the outer shell of the nut growing upon the trees is in fact an almond. Watch as he shakes down the trees causing a rain of fruit. Be gracious as he offers you a bag full of uncracked nuts.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/xLoMlwBvBWofZ04YDJ31-g?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMggUzSyQbI/AAAAAAAABd8/B4CB_3vDPGY/s288/PA204048.jpg" width="216" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><b>An interlude for some botanical nomenclature: </b></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>The almond fruit is not actually a nut, but is called a drupe. The outer ‘exocarp’ covering is thick and leathery. In other members of the family (plums and cherries) it is more fleshy, this is what we saw desecrating the ground. The ‘endocarp’ is the hard woody shell which imprisons the edible almond seed, commonly referred to as the nut.</i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Step Three:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Attempt to break the hard almond casing with a leatherman mutli-tool, pedal wrench, spanner and a barrage of other bicycle tools on hand. Fail with all the above.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Step Four:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Get two rocks. Place almond shell carefully on the first. With the aid of gravity bring the second towards the first until contact with the almond shell is made. Repeat until the outer almond casing is undermined, but your seed remains unblemished. Retrieve your fresh nutty prize. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/-iJzhk27C2xkf_kh40nQLQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMggdGSBH5I/AAAAAAAABeE/uTpo8nqJrLI/s288/PA224120.jpg" width="216" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Step Five:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Discover that 1.5kg of whole almond shells houses a disappointing quantity of almonds. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Step Six:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Indulge with a new found appreciation for a handful of almonds.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/vIkvWn0w3fwc5OmlXWYzNQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMggYvibINI/AAAAAAAABeA/T2ed9CxwPzs/s400/PA224124.jpg" width="400" /></a>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-71309681388425340632010-10-21T03:49:00.000-07:002010-10-21T03:50:41.318-07:00Bitches, pricks and ho's: recurring themes on a long-distance cycle tour<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/DEiRO5LDlg4NYuhwjhMLdQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMARNy1E21I/AAAAAAAABbg/H74JuFeuVb8/s400/PA174015.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">You know you’ve been cycle touring for a while when barks, barbs and brothels become a little mundane. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Avid followers of the blog (thanks, Dad) will remember our various entanglements with canines along the way. We gathered Mongolian rocks and harsh words to throw at the beasts that would launch from their gers towards us at a blistering pace. We learnt that stopping to square-off with a defensive dog was more effective than flight, unless you can hit about 35-40kph pretty quickly. Some cyclists have reported using water pistols with an ammonia or pepper component, but we found that barking back (we still do it in Mongolian) and keeping a rock in reserve was pretty effective. That is, until we got to Turkey.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Turkish dogs, deservedly, have a fearsome reputation amongst cycle tourists. It’s not just that they are larger, or that they team up with rock-throwing kids in the eastern provinces. From our experience, they tend to hurtle silently and viciously up to the bike, where a snarl suddenly alerts you to their presence. They are also persistent, often unleashed and they ignore rocks. That’s one weapon neutralized. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The roaming dog is usually not a threat, having no property to defend. But there is definitely more than one Turkish villager who has been entertained by the sight of two cycle tourists barking furiously back at their feisty home-guarding pooch.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As we hit Cyprus, my defences were still on high alert when assailed by a flurry of barking. Stopping with a screech of brakes I turned to face the source of this challenge and found a trio of white fluffy faces tumbling and yapping all over each other behind a gate. Ah, British-style lap dogs. Annoying, but no threat. Welcome to island life.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Having escaped the thorny burrs of central Anatolia, inner tubes now more patch than original rubber, we cautiously felt our way along the narrow verges of Cyprus checking our tyres frequently for any offending prickles. As we crested the Pentadaktylos (five fingers) mountain range that separates Lapithos and the coast from the central plains of Cyprus we began to feel safe. The tribulus terrestris does not reside here, we thought.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">An easy ride to the capital Nicosia was followed by an even easier passage through the UN buffer zone that separates the North from the South. We began our city accommodation search, winding through the narrow paved streets and souvenir stalls, noticing along the way a slow leak declaring itself in Andrew’s back tyre. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Amazingly, it was not until the next day that we seriously looked for and quickly found the source of this leak. A 3cm long metal spike plunged deep into the tread. I don’t think the Kevlar-lined tyres could be criticized for letting that one through.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Fgg7kftOZtkMOBumF-ePnQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMARnO5XF2I/AAAAAAAABcA/dbcY0y9Gga0/s288/PA164003.jpg" width="216" /></a><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/-ZAecewCbpsymCQ4UeRM7w?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMARodQBWmI/AAAAAAAABcE/e9HTHl0NqEo/s288/PA164004.jpg" width="288" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Of course, now we were in Europe, the price for accommodation had risen accordingly. Not for the first time, we found that the market for cycle-tourist accommodation overlapped with those that offer an hourly rate. In Korea, we had love-motels, in Rubstovsk, all accommodation roads led to houses of ill-repute, and in Nicosia we had Tony’s Bed & Breakfast. Not so raunchy at first glance, and we weren’t the only budget travelers in town. But there was a distinctly high turnover in the mornings, particularly on Sunday. Whether this meant there was time to make it to church afterwards to repent, I never worked out. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Still, our second floor foliage-draped balcony offered a homely blue-shuttered respite from the crowds below, a place to repair the latest puncture and a blissfully dog-free zone. What more could you want?<br />
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Cycling:<br />
Lapithos to Nicosia: 47km, 2 border crossings and one UN buffer zone</div><br />
<table style="width: 194px;"><tbody>
<tr><td align="center" style="background: url("http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif") no-repeat scroll left center transparent; height: 194px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Nicosia?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="160" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMARIG1nLzE/AAAAAAAABcE/bAAXmddkSbw/s160-c/Nicosia.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Nicosia?feat=embedwebsite" style="color: #4d4d4d; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Nicosia</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13669407476394499212noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-13897459163782694632010-10-21T03:28:00.002-07:002010-11-06T13:31:52.812-07:00Lapithos<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/0bBt4qAPt1_tpUVDYx_dKg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMAPxqzpqYI/AAAAAAAABaE/fUUNRAbkNg0/s400/PA133926.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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See above post<br />
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<table style="width: 194px;"><tbody>
<tr><td align="center" style="background: url("http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif") no-repeat scroll left center transparent; height: 194px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Lapithos?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="160" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMAPMDpmxvE/AAAAAAAABbU/Zx6vp-4S8sA/s160-c/Lapithos.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Lapithos?feat=embedwebsite" style="color: #4d4d4d; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Lapithos</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-48141979512096054222010-10-21T03:28:00.000-07:002010-10-21T03:45:20.535-07:00The Road to Lapta<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/iJWXFemv726lNU6UO3vD6A?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMAVUe-RQJI/AAAAAAAABcg/EOk7HN6kAWw/s400/PA153981.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cute little seaside cafes serving robust Turkish coffees to elderly gents. Winding ancient village streets giving way to isolated Mediterranean coastlines. A climb through orchards of lemon trees before reaching the quaint well-preserved town of my grandmother. Markets of ripe fruit, warm bread and fresh haloumi. Sounds a little too lovely? It was. Seems my idyllic version of my bike ride to Lapta was quite off the mark. </div><a name='more'></a><br />
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<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/QWHjdNTO__s3A6FKi-1gfw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMAYEWNbzPI/AAAAAAAABdI/uO0qpla9rkA/s400/PA123902.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The port city of Girne (Kyrenia in Greek) where we docked was full to the brim with pink British retirees walking hand in pasty hand. Luxury cars jammed the ancient streets. Betting parlours and seaside casinos beckoned in the mainland Turks basking in the lax gambling laws. After an expensive Turkish coffee, the price inflated by the expats, we made a hurried getaway. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’m afraid the road towards Lapithos would now be a foreign land to my grandma. Three things become quite clear. This is Turkish land, British retirees are plentiful and gambling is rife. Tacky casinos with their expected cringe-worthy names have planted themselves prominently on the coastline. It is a subtle hint that Northern Cyprus is much more secular than Turkey. Interspersed are several large soviet-realist style monuments complete with retired tanks and jeeps that pay homage to the 1974 ‘Turkish Peace Operation’. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/cPxitnLxDivVpUn640acyA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMAVYKLEadI/AAAAAAAABck/MlKPz1kNfuo/s400/PA153983.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There is obviously big money to be made from the English in this island tax haven. Real estate and construction agents have offices littering the roadside. Every few hundred metres we were struck with another placard advertising ‘English Breakfast’, ‘Steak and Chips’, ‘English V Montenegro @ 2200’, ‘Bingo’, ‘Trivia Night - 730 Start’, ‘Karaoke with Pete’. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I allowed myself a moment of hopeful excitement as we cycled upwards towards Lapta. The winding cobbled streets lined with stone walls was of my grandma’s time. Aging houses and the steeples of Greek Orthodox churches gave glimpses of ye olde Lapithos. Yet my mental bank of first impressions was soon overwhelmed by Turkish restaurants flaunting expensive doner kebab deals and the ubiquitous ‘Efes’ advertisements (Turkish beer). The central Greek church was now a Turkish art gallery, the bread we bought was imported and the fruit far from local. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As we continued our cycling through Lapithos’ snaking alleys, a head emerged over a fence and asked if we were in need of help. Fahri was staying with his sister and her children in Lapta. He was eager to aid some Australian travelers and invited us in for coffee and a tour of his prized cock-fighters. They lived in what used to be a bank. I didn’t ask when it was last a bank or how they got their hands on a bank building. Likely abandoned after occupation. After learning we were looking for lodging he was soon on the phone attempting to find us a room, “I like to help” he repeated. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/fZ0rrI4vnUxwM5TiDXQ1IQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMAVO6pXfFI/AAAAAAAABcY/sTfkFiry7LY/s400/PA123909.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/vIpXQKbsJrpahZZIbs9avw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMAVcqZhuNI/AAAAAAAABcs/kAqcmbjpAko/s288/PA153984.jpg" width="288" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Coming across an English speaking Turk eager to assist seemed very useful. I told him my connection to Lapithos and that I wanted to find out more information. ‘I can’t help you with that. People don’t want to talk. People will be scared you’re looking for your family’s property. Just tell people you are a tourist’, he cautioned, though with a friendly smile. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/xDmmvb4sHJ14DrkYFu9dJg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMAVSqeuuDI/AAAAAAAABcc/W6hyiXN3llc/s288/PA123910.jpg" width="216" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Fahri did come through with the lodgings though. His cousin owns a hotel set amongst fig trees and brightly coloured flowers. After settling in, I flicked through some downloaded notes on Lapithos (pre-1974). ‘It was unthinkable that there could be a house without a fig tree…Lapithos was renowned for its flowers, cultivated and wild alike.’ Pieces of my Grandma’s village were out there. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Disclaimer:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>I apologise if some of this writing appears to have a slight anti-Turkish bent. As our previous posts should convey, our time in Turkey has taught us that it is a lovely country with very generous, helpful, genuine people. </i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>I came to Cyprus to get a taste of the place my Grandmother grew up in as a Greek Cypriot. Her old village is now officially occupied by Turkey. Her place is now historical. My first impressions unfortunately contrasted with what I ambitiously and ignorantly hoped to find. As a result I may have painted the Northern Cypriots in an unaffectionate light. </i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><br />
</i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>I have also been anti pasty British expats. That was my intention. </i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><br />
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</div>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-18512871234094473022010-10-21T03:27:00.000-07:002010-10-21T03:33:07.164-07:00Cypriot History Lesson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kypros.org/Occupied_Cyprus/cyprus1974/images/church_monasteries/Lapithos_700_bg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="http://www.kypros.org/Occupied_Cyprus/cyprus1974/images/church_monasteries/Lapithos_700_bg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In 1925, Angeliki was born in the humid Cypriot month of September. Sitting several hundred metres above the sea and perched at the foot of the Pentadhaktylos range, Lapithos gave some refuge from the thick Mediterranean heat patrolling the coastline. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Angeliki was born into a family of Greek heritage. Her father worked as a builder and her mother at home as a seamstress. Angeliki soon had 3 younger sisters and as the oldest helped her mother at home. It was in the family kitchen where she completed her mother’s apprenticeship in Greek Cypriot cooking. She was essentially responsible for preparing the family’s meals, and despite the workload from home completed her secondary schooling.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Angeliki’s Lapithos roots are thousands of years old. Her Greek ancestors settled in Cyprus in 750BC and Lapithos was one of their first established kingdoms. Since her village’s original inhabitants it has seen a long and complicated list of residents. Yet three players alone have clearly had the greatest impact in Cyprus’ modern history.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In 1571 the Ottoman juggernaut rolled into Cyprus bringing with it 20,000 new Turkish settlers. The 300 years of Ottoman rule came to an end as the Russo-Anglo battle for empires took prominence on the world stage. In 1878 Turkey and Britain signed an agreement allowing sovereignty to reside with the Ottoman Sultan while giving administrative rights to the British. The English were eager to utilize Cyprus for its strategic position in relation to Russia. Yet in 1914 as Ottomans and British became WWI enemies the agreement was disbanded and London annexed Cyprus. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Soon after WWI the Greek Cypriot desire for a union with Greece (enosis) steadily gathered importance. This was something the British were seen as standing in the way of. The enthusiasm for unity manifested itself in growing dissent towards the English. Pro-enosis riots broke out in 1931 during which the Government House was torched in Nicosia. At this stage, the Turks constituted a 20% minority of the island and were calling for partition (Taksim) fearful of being Hellenised.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The British Governor turned to a tactic of suppression in the 1930’s. In an endeavour to prevent local interest in politics, limitations were introduced on the administration of Greek schools and unionization was prohibited. These measures continued until the second world war when over 30,000 Cypriots joined the British forces.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A 1951 referendum showed 97% support amongst Greek Cypriots for enosis. The UN accepted the petition and brought the demands to an international level. Yet given the strong Turkish community, union with Greece was repeatedly rejected by London. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As anti-British sentiment bubbled away, a guerrilla group, EOKA (Ethniki Organosis Kyprion Agoniston - National Organisation of Cypriot Fighters) materialized and with it the next chapter of unrest. From 1955 to 1959 the EOKA launched attacks on British administration and military. Many young Lapithotes were trained in guerrilla tactics and participated in what was seen as a struggle for liberation. 371 British servicemen lost their lives over these four years.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It was in this climate of unrest that Angeliki took leave from her Cypriot homeland. Her sister Sophia had already migrated to Australia with Angeliki’s new brother-in-law as a sponsor she left Lapithos behind her.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">History after leaving Lapithos</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The 1950’s saw the Turkish community gradually drawn into the violence. An enosis was an alarming prospect for the Turkish Cypriots, something the Turkish government was well aware of. Turkish-Greek hostility evolved into a new phase as Greece recognized that Turkey was a serious player in Cyprus, and also that enosis was unrealistic. In 1959, Turkish, Greek and British representatives met in Zurich and agreed upon a Cypriot constitution giving administrative rights to both parties. 1960 saw the birth of the Republic of Cyprus and a brief calm before the storm. The leader of the EOKA became the country’s first president. The constitution clearly ruled against enosis or taksim, union or partition.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Greeks argued that the constitution gave Turks parliamentary rights that disrupted efficient government. There were moves to force out the Turkish representation in parliament. With these developments came the next wave of unrest. In 1964, with violence erupting and all Turkish members out of government, most Turkish Cypriots had fled to enclaves making up 3% of the country. At this point a UN peacekeeping force was deployed to maintain law and order.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In July 1974, the President was overthrown by a coup sponsored by Athens, citing the reasons as the ‘President’s alleged communist leanings and abandonment of enosis’. Turkey claimed that the constitution was now void and in a bid to protect the Turkish Cypriot population invaded Northern Cyprus.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Turkish military took control of 38% of the island. 200,000 Greek Cypriots fled to the south and 60,000 Turkish Cypriots were transferred to the North. Turkey relocated at least 40,000 people from the mainland to equal the Cypriot demographics.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In 1983 Northern Cyprus declared itself the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, an entity which is recognized only by Turkey. The UN rejects the declaration calling it ‘legally invalid’ and has enforced an international embargo. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In 2003 the ‘Green Line’ which separates North and South was opened with conditions. This allowed Cypriots to cross and see their land and family for the first time in almost 30 years. In 2004 Cyprus was accepted into the EU. UN peacekeepers are still stationed along the border. Northern Cyprus is essentially Turkish and the south Greek.</div>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-77016954398511427342010-10-21T03:26:00.000-07:002010-10-21T03:30:14.252-07:00Finding Angeliki’s Cyprus<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Vz7XubTzNHxr-zPVpUSZTA?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TMAVNXARsoI/AAAAAAAABcU/GPGb7uorKF4/s400/PA123899.jpg" height="301" width="400" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It was surprisingly easy to get to Lapithos. Especially when I think back to the planned border crossings, letters of invitations and visa applications required for the many countries we’ve passed through to get to this point.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It all fell together rather nicely. We pedaled south out of Cappadocia to the Turkish Mediterranean coast. Purchased a ferry ticket to Northern Cyprus. Cycled 100km to the port town of Tasucu and rolled our bikes directly onto the overnight ship. Border control was a non event. Then 16km and a few thick Turkish coffees later and there was Lapithos. The search is over.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In it 3000 years of history, Lapithos has had many caretakers, Assyrian, Egyptian, Persian, Greek, Roman, Venetian, Ottoman. And from 1925 to 1956 it had Angeliki Kontou, my grandma.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I arrived at Lapithos with a purpose. I came to seek out the place in which my grandma first learned about the world. We had only been in Lapithos, or Lapta (Turkish), for mere hours, when despite the Mediterranean coast and lemon trees I realized that this was a long way from my Grandma’s village. I was going to have to look a lot harder to find Angeliki’s Cyprus. </div>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-17772884109581784182010-10-13T08:31:00.000-07:002010-10-13T08:53:14.554-07:00Ç is for Çay<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">If there has been one constant in our cycle through the changing landscapes of Turkey it must surely be tea, or<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> ç</span>ay (<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">ç is pronounced 'ch')</span>. Throughout the villages and towns of Turkey are scattered tea salons and gardens (<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">ç</span>ay bah<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">ç</span>esi) where people gather to sip this strong beverage and natter about daily life. Old men play cards, chain-smoking is the order of the day and <span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">ç</span>ay may be the only item on the menu. In towns, tea-waiters (<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">ç</span>ayc<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">ı</span>) ferry trays of small tea-glasses around the neighbourhood of their shop when they are called. For us, these tea houses were a welcome refuge, where we could sit under grape vines or watch the passing street life and give the Surlys a tea break of their own.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/lXKVpWcC_PkNLzukzsjGlA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLXPYjanQaI/AAAAAAAABY0/ZZygjkEU_Ws/s400/P9193556.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/TurkishTea?feat=embedwebsite">Turkish tea</a></td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a>The national drink has international origins, deriving its name from the Chinese – we have also met it as ‘tsai’ in Mongolia and ‘chai’ in Central Asia - and borrowing its brewing style from that of the Russian samovar. The double kettle allows a strong brew to be made on top, later diluted to taste with the remaining water from below. A surprisingly recent phenomenon in Turkey, tea was encouraged as a healthy alternative to coffee in the late 19th century and then a cheaper alternative when the Ottoman Empire collapsed, losing its coffee holdings in Yemen. With imported seeds from Georgia tea plantations were founded around Rize on the Black Sea coast which today supports the habit of one of the highest per capita consumers in the world.<br />
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<table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Isw3WPXcJcV3rKD45f5HgA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLXPeTtcxYI/AAAAAAAABY8/X2aX-CWagAw/s400/Turkish%20outdoor%20tea%20samever.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/TurkishTea?feat=embedwebsite">Turkish tea</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We moved on from Cappadocia and punctureville, holding our breath and our PSI, and headed out through villages wrapped around Byzantine caves and perched on top of ancient subterranean cities. In these parts the main crops seemed to be grapes and pumpkins left long on the vines until they are shelled for their seeds, a sought-after snack here. In the agricultural lands beyond, we entered a land of low-slung baggy pants and numerous old men wandering between cay salons in the villages like slow-moving targets in a police-training exercise. A couple of women trudging on a long stretch between villages yelled out to us in passing – my interpretation involved a commentary on the upcoming hill-climb – and I realized that this was one of our few verbal interactions with women who were largely silent as we passed by. To this point I had only seen two females in tea salons thus far: one under 9 and one over 90. Had I been violating secret men’s business by brazenly sipping my cay, hair and lower legs uncovered?<br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/r_ni4vLPrHhgHhnOrwIq8w?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLXPO2dyb2I/AAAAAAAABYs/5rfC_jr3epw/s400/P9273705.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/TurkishTea?feat=embedwebsite">Turkish tea</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Our next few nights allowed me a chance to ponder this, along with a consideration of the relative merits of different types of land-use as it pertains to the camping cycle-tourist. Wheat farming land is flat, which is a bonus, but it is stubbly and lacking in geographical formations for visual protection from the road. Apple farms are much nicer. Groves of fruit-laden trees in a heavily irrigated grassy river valley amidst craggy mountains formed much of our scenery for a couple of days, and a pleasant spot for a night’s rest. The farmers seemed unperturbed by our brightly coloured presence, and we attributed this to the fact that they were probably workers rather than owners of these large commercial enterprises. It may just be a Turkish sense of hospitality at play again. The third night saw us enter steep pine-laden mountains with a bevy of thunderstorms on the way. Not to be put off, we stopped early and excavated ourselves a flat sleeping area in the soft soil, employing pine-needles to prevent seepage into the tent.<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/KCJ5dl8msaqbVKdS1Bwupg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLXO15JelaI/AAAAAAAABYM/aypLIh8YUyw/s400/PA073860.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/CappadociaToTheCoast?feat=embedwebsite">Cappadocia to the Coast</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Somewhere back between the wheat and apple farms we ran into a classic example of roadside hospitality. Tuna (really), the local proprietor of the grain warehouse, waved us over for some cay and conversation as we searched for a tap to replenish our water supplies. As we sipped tea and he sipped Coke, we performed the standard information exchange – name, country of origin, age, destination, marital status, children – and Tuna added in his vote for motorbikes being the superior way to travel. Well, differences can be smoothed over with <span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">ç</span>ay, I say.<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/kgO7ZY0WAIYFdLzSR3SfRg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLXOKM49q1I/AAAAAAAABXo/Z5tJMP3gQDo/s400/PA063842.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/CappadociaToTheCoast?feat=embedwebsite">Cappadocia to the Coast</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Our final hill climbs over misty, cold mountains led us on to a great set of winding fast descents until we passed through a gap in the rocks and all of a sudden things became Mediterranean. Olive groves, citrus farms, goat herders and eucalypts that smelt a lot like home. We hit the sprawling metropolis of the coast, and I found cafes and tea salons teeming with men, women and children of all ages. Here was cosmopolitan, chain-store Turkey. It seemed a world away from the villages, but around corners and down alleyways the old men still sat, smoked and dealt. Though the foreigner’s exception had probably applied to me in many places, here, though I could not quite blend in, I could comfortably mix it up with the city crowd in the <span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">ç</span>ay salons.<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><table style="width: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/y5OmPpDhASXQhkWhEiqnGg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLXPjpG2bHI/AAAAAAAABZE/UCTjehKBl7Q/s400/PA123896.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/TurkishTea?feat=embedwebsite">Turkish tea</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, I have become a fan of Turkish tea. It is a drink of friendship, of social interaction – though not always all-inclusive. And perhaps, with its 15 minute brew-time, a caffeine content that could rival my other Turkish delight, coffee.<br />
<br />
Lake Stealth Camp to Wheat Field Camp - 82km<br />
Wheat Field Camp to Apple Grove Camp - 62km<br />
Apple Grove Camp to Pine Tree Hill Camp - 62km<br />
Pine Tree Hill Camp to Tarsus - 77km<br />
Tarsus to Mersin - 31km<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Mersin to Taşucu - 102km<br />
<br />
Total - 416km </div></div></div><table style="width: 194px;"><tbody>
<tr><td align="center" style="background: url("http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif") no-repeat scroll left center transparent; height: 194px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/CappadociaToTheCoast?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="160" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLXNwdQ497E/AAAAAAAABYk/M1By0_usS5w/s160-c/CappadociaToTheCoast.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/CappadociaToTheCoast?feat=embedwebsite" style="color: #4d4d4d; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Cappadocia to the Coast</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13669407476394499212noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-22987926512549878142010-10-10T09:27:00.000-07:002010-10-10T09:33:58.432-07:00Puncture-rama<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Wmc3wK3sNvwAkgyk9rg1uw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLHdntkT3YI/AAAAAAAABVw/eRHazHT5wrY/s400/PA033794.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It was a cold 330am at the Kayseri bus station when the bikes were unloaded from our overnight bus. After farewelling the Black Sea Coast we had travelled by vehicle to the mystical land of Cappadocia. A couple of thick coffes saw us through to the dawn ezan, which marked the commencement of our morning’s cycling. Thankfully some kind tailwinds had us flying through terrain reminiscent of Mongolian Steppe. In no time 68km was behind us and a fine panorama of the pointy crimson Rose Valley was before us at our luxury camping ground.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, at least we were comfortable when they first declared themselves. As Ali spent some quality time with her Surly in its long-promised maintenance session it became painfully evident. Nestled in our allegedly ‘puncture-proof’ heavy duty tyres were tens of Cappadocian thorns. Ali took to them with forceps, surgically extracting what was left of the deep lying killers. While most slide out without a fight, countless spikes marked their removal with a sinister exhalation. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/BvB3PbgNMOzpp33x5hXTcw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLHdX6SWMWI/AAAAAAAABVY/CrthokkMg0Q/s400/PA043811.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">11 punctures. Many not detectable unless the tube was under high pressure under water. We felt it was reason enough to spend another day with some hardcore Grey Nomads, one classy Caravan Park and hundreds of Cappadocian fairy chimneys (peribacalar).</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/wnZaQvd23ojXd1OG5uVmHA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLHd5IGLxXI/AAAAAAAABWU/fLL87OS7dwY/s400/PA033788.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The leading architect of this peculiar landscape is the late Erciyes Dagi which erupted several thousand years ago. Erosion gradually removed the consolidated volcanic ash, leaving the pointy conical remnants that dot the terrain. From the 4th to 11th Centuries this region became a refuge for Byzantine Christians who carved whole cities into the rocks. Over the last 25 years the valleys have drawn increasing numbers of travelers. Yet now, the main tourist haunt of Goreme is a collage of overpriced cafes, quad-bike hire companies and cheesy cave pensions. We were therefore quite satisfied in our camping site on the hill out of town with some of the finest high powered hot showers going around. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The melodic blasts of burning gas fuelling countless hot air balloons woke us to a crisp morning. At 1200m in October, our year long Spring/Summer looked like it might be coming to a close. We finished off a few errands, namely fixing the remaining punctures that had declared themselves overnight and organizing Andrew’s contract signing (thanks mum), then hit the road. It would be a mere 20km before an almost out of place pristine lake beckoned us to camp. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/txfo3YIInFWm6CnN7gc1Dg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLHeAJtV2eI/AAAAAAAABWg/fUWSNubyNX0/s400/PA043804.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">This lakeshore would prove to be the campsite we have worked hardest for all year. Despite meticulous surveying on the dirt road down to the water we picked up several more thorns and with them 6 punctures. As three local Turks fished, a colourful sunset closed the day, Ali cooked up a tasty pasta and Andrew did his shift with the holes. Seven puncture repairs on a single tube isn’t too many, right?!</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/qRrQjrqzF8oUqWY8eV1ryQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLHeCLSe6zI/AAAAAAAABWk/a5l-G5AV3B0/s288/PA043814.jpg" width="288" /></a><br />
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</div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cycling Summary:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Kayseri to Goreme 68km</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Goreme to lakeside (7km from Mustapasa) 21km</span><br />
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<table style="width: 194px;"><tbody>
<tr><td align="center" style="background: url("http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif") no-repeat scroll left center transparent; height: 194px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/PunctureRama?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="160" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TLHdUcllrKE/AAAAAAAABW0/In9wzcP_vk0/s160-c/PunctureRama.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/PunctureRama?feat=embedwebsite" style="color: #4d4d4d; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Puncture-rama</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-2311864594692496822010-10-03T11:16:00.000-07:002010-10-03T11:30:29.888-07:00My Beard and I<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/5mTzobpKDJoy5tQgUhC0SQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjCq3ohasI/AAAAAAAABU0/43eoeKBEoKI/s400/P7292733.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Ustalik beckoned me in with open arms and a thick well groomed moustache. His two-chaired barber’s salon was a cosy affair. Ferrari red leather seats, ample mirrors and an adequately sharpened tool kit occupied his domain. Salons like this are numerous in the sea-side town of Inebolu. Pide vendors, pastry sellers, cafes and barbers make up most of the commercial side of downtown. There are so many male grooming houses that the local gent must rarely have to lift his own razor. This is Turkey: secular, but strongly Islamic and yet another chapter in my beard’s journey from Mongolia.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I flicked through the pages of my Turkish-English dictionary attempting to explain the shaved scalp and trimmed beard look I desired. I needn’t have bothered. With a warm, weighted nod of understanding Ustalik conveyed that he knew exactly what I was after. For the first time this trip my hair felt in safe hands. In a Mongolian bathhouse I left the hairdresser with a patchy scalp. At an Almaty bazaar, the female attendant clippered off the best part of my beard and during our Swiss sojourn I put two ultra short racing stripes into the back of my head by mistake on the morning of my best friend’s wedding.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/-_P4nd0nes_O8sXFUkBsZA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjCoypYnmI/AAAAAAAABUw/ZbT3FYA-AmQ/s288/P8132911.jpg" width="216" /></a><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In societies across the world, the hair on a man’s face is more an ideological than fashion statement. In Muslim communities, a thick beard with a shaved upper lip is a symbol of piety. The connotations with both strongly devoted Muslims and those of a more ‘fundamentalist’ nature are well recognized. In both Kazakhstan and Tajikistan my links to a sinister organization were alluded to, all due to my carefully cultivated whiskers, although in jest. As the Tajik mother put it “Are you a tourist or terrorist?”.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">However, where regimes are officially secular and Islam widespread, beards are sparse. Take Kazakhstan where a neat moustache seemed like the rule, yet I cannot remember spotting a hairy chin. In Uzbekistan, facial hair was banned for the military and police and strongly discouraged for other men owing to “matters of security”. Turkey embraces the moustache and the occasional older man can be found with a neat beard. However it is the younger generation, often sporting casual cool facial fuzz, that support the fact that Turkey is at both a cultural and geographical cross-roads.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">After shaving, dusting and re-shaving my scalp Ustalik took his comb and scissors to my beard. This gentleman seemed to know my follicles more intimately than I. He gently tilted my head back and forth using all forms of scissor holding techniques to cut to perfection.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/DtPtTuEpRC3dM9EzCQujtQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjCmfgz_uI/AAAAAAAABUs/A2tR7CKcRGw/s400/P9263683.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Orthodox Christian priests, like the Russian man leading the strange procession through a non-descript Siberian town we cycled through, sport beards in imitation of Jesus Christ. In Mongolia, a clean-shaved mug was the norm. As I watched a gent from Tariat, Mongolia, conduct his nightly pocket-knife shave I asked if he would consider growing a beard, it’s warm, easy to manage and looks great his English-speaking wife translated. He looked down on the scruffy traveler before him and shook his sleek face. No self respecting Mongolian nomad with Buddhist roots would sully himself with a beard. Buddhism traditionally supports a short hairdo, that should be shaved at least every two months or when the hair has grown to a length of two fingerbreadths. However, while beards are not to be grown long, they are not explicitly forbidden. I am yet to see a bearded Buddha.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/3R-AsPGx6nxtunaA6gFOhQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjCkUDQcTI/AAAAAAAABUo/uxVFqNq83hs/s288/P9263682.jpg" width="288" /></a><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A fresh blade was attached to the razor. A warm lather of soap dressed my neck. With surgical precision Ustalik gracefully cut down my stubble. It was a masterful display. As a call to prayer echoed through the Inebolu streets I exited the salon with a splash of aftershave and a large dollop of self-esteem. Ustalik hadn’t connected me any closer to any deities, but he had just given me the most pleasurable hair experience I’ve had to date.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Z9ufYGWYossjilv9iIjRtg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjChvlr9II/AAAAAAAABUk/EOuDG561BIY/s288/P9263681.jpg" width="288" /></a>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-90042525179565496522010-10-03T10:53:00.000-07:002010-10-03T11:26:38.333-07:00Black Sea Climbing<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/JgXwXrreiH4RRab2SqUGPw?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjAqH-gkoI/AAAAAAAABSI/E0dhY-Ee9nY/s400/P9233623.jpg" height="301" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It’s a good thing the Black Sea coast has a lot going for it, otherwise the arduous gradients would be near unbearable by bicycle. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The mountain belt running along the northernmost aspect of Turkey makes for an attractive patch of coast. Small coves and pockets of beach occasionally dot the landscape where fishing villages and petite harbours now reside. Infrequently a river will pierce the ranges and dive into the sea. Here road-makers have taken advantage of the topography to craft a road back into the centre of Turkey. Yet as waves crash on one side and rugged hills line the other, the Black Sea Coast is essentially separated from Central Anatolia (the big middle bit of Turkey). After the lapping sea and before the peaks get too rocky a narrow mountainous road laces its way across the coastline. </div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/cGqpLSkSGHmN1wKaKIuBGA?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjA-d9WCpI/AAAAAAAABSg/p8ZImPEGhZk/s400/P9203581.jpg" height="301" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Central Karadeniz (Black Sea) is the more rugged and remote of the Turkish northern coastline. It is also home to some very hilly terrain. Our first 150km was virtually one 150-200m climb after another. A slow ascent would be followed by a hard-braking downhill before we would cruise through another cute seaside village. Our longest straight section of road was 8km. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Once our lower limbs were reacquainted with the contours we were able to appreciate that we had landed in some fine cycle touring country. So let me now attempt to explain the ingredients that make this piece of road so delicious for a biker.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/fb6daZAWTrlVCF25dr-eUQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjBp7H9y6I/AAAAAAAABTI/p6nYfkuG_T8/s400/P9253651.jpg" height="301" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Road:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Narrow, winding and smooth were the hallmarks. Traffic was surprisingly light allowing us to not be banished to the (mostly non-existent) verge.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Topography:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Hilly enough to give great ocean views, fast descents, interesting technical cycling and that rewarding muscle soreness at the end of the day. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Scenery:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The big drawcard. Turquoise ocean waters, thick coastal forests and dramatic cliff faces. After the landlocked countries of Central Asia, it has been very soothing for us to cycle near large bodies of water. Aside from the natural, we’ve reveled in the chance to pass through some very authentic (read free from western tourists) fishing communities. The ideally located villages situated in a nook in the hillside or tucked into a quite bay have a European air about them. If it weren’t for the minarets piecing the town centre one could forget they are in Asia.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stealth Campability:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">With some superb views and a remoteness ideal for camping, the only issue has been finding flat land. However, after a bit of searching and often a degree of compromise (or 15) it hasn’t been hard to settle into a scenic abode. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/0TH49CXYM10uxQCacuCyFA?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjCS2QnB1I/AAAAAAAABUI/-aX7s_WsedA/s400/P9283715.jpg" height="301" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Water and food:</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">From small two person wooden boats to large trawlers the coastline is superficially well populated and implies a healthy sealife below (for now at least). Villages were alive with fisherman along the harbor and the day’s fresh catch in the waterside shops. To our delight, the fish are gutted before your eyes, therefore saving our pocketknives some hard labour. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It is the season for apples, pears, plums and figs. After restraining myself from essentially stealing from the trees weighed down with produce hanging over fence lines we jump at the chance to pick from wild fruit trees. Several generous locals have rewarded our hill climbs with an invitation to feast upon their apple trees and then of course there is always the village market.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/WM_KE1rCRi60orT5F36w7g?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjBnfpyWNI/AAAAAAAABTE/DxeaYiGcaC0/s400/P9253647.jpg" height="400" width="301" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Unlike the dry stretches of Mongolia, we’ve found ourselves never too far from a fresh water supply. Roadside taps and tiled basins along this remote coastline, many built as memorials to a lost loved one, seem out of proportion to the traffic. Private households often include one as part of their fenceline and mosques can be relied upon for an outdoor setup. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/1-QklwrEUlqVe1KyvnaWUg?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjB1ycftbI/AAAAAAAABTY/DEVSsCBlw78/s288/P9253663.jpg" height="216" width="288" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cycling Summary 383km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Bartin but station to Amasra 28km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Amasra to Cakraz 17km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cakraz to Kurucasile 32km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Kurucasile to stealth camp out of Cide 45km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stealth Camp to Doganyurt 52km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Doganyurt to Inebolu 33km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Inebolu to stealth camp out of Catalzeytin 51km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stealth Camp to Stealth camp out of Ayancik 52km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stealth Camp to Sinop 53km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In and around and out of Sinop 20km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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<table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/BlackSeaCoast?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKjAiabL84E/AAAAAAAABUc/9WrK_M5LZv8/s160-c/BlackSeaCoast.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/BlackSeaCoast?feat=embedwebsite" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">Black Sea Coast</a></td></tr></table>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-59187675563198722712010-10-03T10:50:00.000-07:002010-10-03T10:50:00.218-07:00Transit Town<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>Tashkent to the Turkish Black Sea in 34.5hours</i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">2300 Cycle to Airport. Pack up bikes. Have lively discussion with Uzbek air-baltic staff attempting to charge us a third and fourth fee for traveling with bikes. The long line of customers behind us eventually outweighs the benefits of continuing his discussion. We diligently witness the bikes being taken away. </div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">0250 Depart Tashkent.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">0620 Arrive in Riga, Latvia. 5 hour stopover. Coffee.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1120 Depart Riga. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1430 Arrive in Istanbul. Pick up our bikes! Put bikes together in record time.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1600 Take metro to Istanbul bus terminal and buy overnight ticket to Bartin.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1630 Drink tea, use internet, eat kebabs.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">0000 Board bus with bicycles (extra fee negotiated down to reasonable levels)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">0630 Arrive in outskirts of Bartin</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">0700 First Turkish coffee.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">0650 Cycle to Amasra on Black Sea Coast 30km away</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">0930 Arrive in Amasra</div>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-87962426350695223682010-09-30T00:28:00.001-07:002010-09-30T00:40:21.082-07:00Uzbek Wrap Up<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/kGiBTsktoaDANTaPUBjOyg?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKQ-IAC-J6I/AAAAAAAABQ0/491w1da0axE/s400/P9143541.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Km cycled: 228km</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Days spent cycling 3</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Hottest day whilst cycling: 41deg C</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Camping days: 1</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Days in Tajik family backyard: 1</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Number of bikes that arrived with us from Milan: 0</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Number of times we passed through Uzbek customs checkpoint: 4</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Number of times we expected to be stopped by police and asked for passports and money: at least daily</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Number of times we actually were: 0</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Number of friendly encounters with members of the police force: 3 out of 3</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Favourite convenience store snack: Non. Strictly not a snack, more like a meal. You can buy this delicious circular Uzbek bread laced with sesame seeds everywhere: just look for the lady pushing the pram full of non between home bakery and bazaar.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Approximate number of non baked daily: 10 million</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Volume of unpasturised milk Ali regrets drinking: all 250ml</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Best Coffee: The cardamom and coffee combination in old town Bukhara served with Uzbek halva and dried fruit</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Best tea: The celebratory chai at Igor’s house when we were reunited with our bikes</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/m4weTrbhIhzfxIetLQnZRw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TIE2xTCmC6I/AAAAAAAABJ0/tjOugNzO6E4/s400/P9033280.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Best breakfast: Close tie between i) Igor’s breakfast of market sourced muesli, chai and fresh local non, ii) B&B Antica’s spread of home made fig, apple and cherry jams, omelette and fresh fruit in Samarkand</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Favourite local dish: Plov</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cycle tourist verdict: </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We’re a little biased and influenced by a mid-country change in plans, but we would suggest catching the train. Like at least 3 other cyclists we met during our time here, the bike and train combination would be the way to go through this flat, hot country. Pick your season and revel in the fresh fruit and the genuine hospitality away from the more touristic areas. </div>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-40245726564993497142010-09-30T00:27:00.000-07:002010-09-30T00:33:20.089-07:00GAStronomy - a campstove cooking tour: Uzbekistan<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/6bl38PJqRa_Qt6EZ1IYePQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="400" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKQ6z31NyVI/AAAAAAAABQY/-Ge0Nk3w65w/s400/P9093357.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I thought I’d leave Uzbekistan with the words I most feared hearing being “can I see your passports”. Yet as the police presence proved to be more part of the architecture rather than an annoyance I learned to detest a new phrase, “sorry, plov finish”.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The national dish of Uzbekistan is ubiquitous across this double land-locked nation. The traditional ingredients lining up alongside rice are mutton and carrot. It is flavoured with onion and some of various spices sold by the handful in the colourful marketplaces. Yet this hearty meal, as we have noted first hand, can be found right across the Central Asian region and through to the Middle East where it becomes pilaf. (read below for Plov Recipe)</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Our first experience with plov however was a bit of red herring. Sitting in an Aktash (Russia) café, we ordered soup and were rewarded with a small cup of broth, meat and vegetables. Feeling our hunger still grumbling, our next dish was plov. This would be our first encounter. To our confusion, we were presented with a slightly larger bowl of the same broth, meat and vegetables. The waitress indignantly assured us, that ‘da’, this is plov.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">It was clearly not plov as the Uzbek’s know it. Here the cumin is strong, the rice oily and the vegetables fresh. Large servings are usually accompanied with non and ‘Uzbek salad’. The salad, generally consists of diced tomato, cucumber and raw onion, often ceremoniously draped over the plov. The non, is sacred. Soft round loaves are sold on each and every street corner. The etiquette of consuming non is simple; tear up the bread on a plate for all at the table, never place a piece upside down, eat with your right hand and don’t even think of throwing crumbs in the rubbish, place them outside for birds.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/HWst2vCoNFV_YFesvq6hkw?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="301" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TJNmN0ef1NI/AAAAAAAABL0/7KF-VSkzBMc/s400/P9093359.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There are numerous variations on the tested lamb and carrot combination. During our trip, seasonal pumpkin often accompanied carrot and chickpeas appeared mandatory. Another popular version is chicken with dried fruit.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Once one gains the taste for Uzbek plov it’s hard to shake. Remember, countering the oil with bread and fresh vegetables is almost as important as timing your trip to the local eatery. On countless occasions the large pot of lunchtime plov was devoured so quickly by the patrons that when we arrived our requests were met with an apologetic look and those painful words ‘sorry plov finish’.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Sourcing Ingredients:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We found all the necessary ingredients in the amazing markets of Tashkent. Traditionally it is cooked with the fat of a sheep tail (also easy to find at the market), but generally cooking oils now the substitute. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Ingredients:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Olive oil</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">200-300g Lamb – cut into 2cm pieces</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1 Carrot</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1 Onion</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">300g Pumpkin</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">½ cup Chickpeas</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1tsp Cumin, </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">½ tsp paprika</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Pinch of saffron and tumeric</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">2 clove Garlic</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">2 cups Rice – washed thoroughly before cooking</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Salt</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>Method:</b></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">1. Brown lamb pieces in generous amount of oil in a large pot</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">2. Add onions, carrots, pumpkin and stir regularly</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">3. Add spices, salt and ½ cup water</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">4. Bring to boil, then simmer until lamb is tender</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">5. Use a spoon to press the contents flat in the bottom of the pot</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">6. Gently add rice and chickpeas and garlic bulbs</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">7. Pour in boiling water so the rice is covered by about 3cm</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">8. Do Not Mix</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">9. Bring to the boil, then reduce to low simmer, cover with a lid and cook for about 15-20minutes until the water evaporates</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">10. Pierce the rice with a wooden spoon, creating several holes all the way to the bottom and cover again</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">11. Simmer until the moisture from the base of the mixture is absorbed through the rice…but do not mix/stir</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">12. When serving carefully put the rice on the bottom of the plate and the meat/vegetable mixture on top</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">13. Serve with tea, tomato, cucumber and raw onion salad and freshly baked bread (see above for details)</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
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</div>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-67698168064621432232010-09-17T07:47:00.000-07:002010-09-30T07:58:23.325-07:00Last stop, BYXOPO (Bukhara)<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/975PJQt2s1U4riFOWqgFWw?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TJN-gKjq-EI/AAAAAAAABPs/iIJOBZYt0iY/s400/P9123479.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>‘For lust of knowing what should not be known,</i><br />
<i>We take the Golden Road to Samarkand…</i><br />
<i>What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus.</i><br />
<i>Men are unwise and curiously planned’</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">James Elroy Flecker.</span><br />
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While Samarkand has its poetic place in the history of Empire, Bukhara– just down that golden road and a famous Silk Road trading post – has its own bloodthirsty tales of political intrigue. The language of colonial imaginings and tales of derring-do coloured distinctly my notions of this stretch of our cycling odyssey. My prereading (thankyou, Peter Hopkirk) did nothing to dispel the idea that traveling to Bukhara was best done in a caravan of camel traders, in the 19th century and incognito. <br />
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The 19th century marked out this region as a pitch to be conquered in the ‘Great Game’ between the Russian and British empires, the ultimate goals being control of India and access to the markets of the Khanates scattered in oases of inhospitable deserts. Skipping over several centuries of migration and conquest by various nomadic tribes, the powerful Khanates at this point were Khiva, Kokand and Bukhara. Documented visits by outsiders had been few and far between since the 16th century, when regular trade routes last flourished.<br />
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On this background, the exploits of a few daring individuals, both British and Russian, who took on the task of opening up trade and political links here seem outrageously romantic and dangerous. A plethora of disguises – merchant, holy man, beggar – and a facility for languages and knowledge of local customs and the arts of flattery seemed prerequisites for the job. As did a profound sense of destiny – whether it be the rightfulness of the ascendancy of the British/Russian Empire, the export of Christianity or even the realization of personal glory. <br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/aTFEICevbr92CyemJfh6tA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="288" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TKSf_UVE1-I/AAAAAAAABRo/lSvOdgrLu6c/s288/220px-Sir_Alexander_Burnes.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Travel2010Sub?feat=embedwebsite">Travel 2010 sub</a></td></tr>
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The Emir of Bukhara in the mid 19th century, Nasrullah Khan, was not known for tolerance and fair play, having ascending to the throne by means of murdering his brother. Upon reaching the walls of his citadel in 1839 in order to give assurances of neutral British intent following one of the occupations of Afghanistan, Colonel Charles Stoddart committed a bit of a faux pas. Not only did he arrive without a letter from Queen Vic herself, he changed from his disguise into military regalia and rode his horse inside the city walls. For a non-believer, this was definitely a no-no. <br />
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He may have had much time to ponder this in the three years or so that he spent in a nearby pit filled with all varieties of vermin. He was joined there in 1841 by Captain Arthur Conolly, who came to negotiate his release. Unfortunately, there was little political will at home to risk an incursion into the area and potential war with Russia in order to rescue the unfortunate pair. The following year saw the British thoroughly routed in Kabul, and perceiving a weak nation in these two, the Emir had them dragged into the forecourt (Registan) in front of the Ark and executed.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/ubTbYJQFWsa41qp4R-z8QA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TJN-eAv8WGI/AAAAAAAABPk/89Lxt_7O0LY/s288/P9123474.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Bukhara?feat=embedwebsite">Bukhara</a></td></tr>
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Another few decades and another Emir later, the Russians finally succeeded in making a vassal state of the Bukhara Khanate in 1868. Shortly after the Russian Revolution, reformists within Bukhara had sought support from the Bolsheviks. Being obliging types, they sent in the Red Army to bomb the place into submission and add to its dilapidated charm. The Soviets did add in other ways, though, for example vastly reducing rates of pestilence by draining the city's ancient and renowned canals and reservoir pools used for ritual bathing. <br />
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Though our own curious plans meant that we did not enter this city’s crumbling outer walls walking our trusty steeds, we did sample another of the historical realities of empire and conquest in these parts. The Trans-Caspian Railway which carried our travel-weary bodies to these distant parts was commenced at the watery end in 1879 and skirted hundreds of kilometers of desert and mountain ranges to reach Bukhara and Samarkand by 1888. It allowed the Russian Imperial Army to keep its military control in the region and sufficiently spooked the British. Mission accomplished. Eventually linking with European and Russian networks, it allowed massive exports of cotton from the area continuing into the 20th century.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/-zH9z7PM8xuBNtFZZNHbhA?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="216" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TJN99d8dSNI/AAAAAAAABOU/ciEHZo2nY7c/s288/P9133499.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Bukhara?feat=embedwebsite">Bukhara</a></td></tr>
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The historical charm of the city is these days somewhat packaged for the coach tours and the domed mosques have been restored to shining perfection, though it does retain its baked-brick charm in the winding back streets and courtyards. Foreigners are welcomed in a variety of languages – French appears to be the language of choice this year – and a disguise would only be necessary to protect you from the not-too persistent vendors of rugs, paintings and Soviet-era memorabilia. Times have changed, and for the casual tourist the ravages of history, Empire and a modern one-party state have brought some benefits.<br />
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<tr><td align="center" style="background: url("http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif") no-repeat scroll left center transparent; height: 194px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Bukhara?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="160" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TJN9zyNjTOE/AAAAAAAABQA/NtLVBXrjSko/s160-c/Bukhara.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Bukhara?feat=embedwebsite" style="color: #4d4d4d; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Bukhara</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Alihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13669407476394499212noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8263701999846235965.post-89735540011050168272010-09-17T06:35:00.000-07:002010-09-17T06:47:47.686-07:00A Silk Road Fantasy<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/iALQUiqJ2bnm3_jJ7vNMUA?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TJNmQr-m_NI/AAAAAAAABL4/gCa-Rx9VRgs/s400/P9093369.jpg" /></a><br />
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As a child my mum unfortunately felt I was forging a few unhealthy relationships. This resulted in the infamous early 90’s Neal Household Purges. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles…banned. Monkey Magic…banned. Simpsons…banned, albeit temporarily. To my delight (and amazement) Indiana Jones and Prince of Persia escaped the wrath of my mum’s stern maternal censorship committee. It is a stretch to say that these phenomena of my youth led to my current resting place being along the Silk Road in Uzbekistan. Yet they did foster some the romantic notions I keep for this corner of the world.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Prince of Persia was an awesome fun 2D computer game set in ancient Persia. As the Prince, your task was to creep through ancient medrasses, leap over spike covered pits and swordfight with the Persian guards in order to save your bride, locked away in a colourful towering minaret. Indiana Jones’ journeys were set in the 20th century. In one of his daring adventures to Cairo he finds himself in a bustling bazaar complete with snake charmers, carpet dealers, worldly spices and sword-wielding Arabs.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3x68VLyiR8ke4B23nJqg9mcdqhDrjZmSbYmFFOwU4wa7WRBxnMYESwfLLFBG0_ag4teNJiSlnxTJkp2nbKQRPX6TW1DuiNfhqjnuCzq-A75twDiyxzBY7t_jKe7t885o0idX42NPrTA/s1600/prince_of_persia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3x68VLyiR8ke4B23nJqg9mcdqhDrjZmSbYmFFOwU4wa7WRBxnMYESwfLLFBG0_ag4teNJiSlnxTJkp2nbKQRPX6TW1DuiNfhqjnuCzq-A75twDiyxzBY7t_jKe7t885o0idX42NPrTA/s200/prince_of_persia.jpg" width="160" /></a></div></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Before reaching the Silk Road and the dusty outskirts of what once was Persia, I could be forgiven for expecting a little of what the Prince and Indiana experienced: buzzing marketplaces, winding city streets, minarets and horse-drawn caravans. I was a handful of generations too late. The Soviets (and the subsequent fall of Communism), globalisation and tourism have messed with my Silk Road fantasy. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/LLJdFPcIbHVGFffpW0PG9w?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TJNmHHfQkiI/AAAAAAAABLo/nYK2bCgQUeI/s400/P9093319.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Like the several cyclists we’ve met in Uzbekistan, we bypassed hot desert cycling in order to take advantage of the excellent train service. No camels or caravans. The highly restored Samarkand glistened in the heat. We followed the neat pedestrian walkways to the stunning local sights. As we followed a path lined with bland new souvenir shops we saw the turquoise domes and medrasses that have aroused visitors for centuries.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/T7C9otZcbX3gwrQjhbT72A?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TJNm_bQ_-FI/AAAAAAAABM8/6t2mZeU5sfE/s288/P9113451.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We searched in vain for the State Museum of Art, one of the largest in Central Asia. Our map said it should be in the middle of a large park next to the spectacular Registan. Later that evening we ate dinner with other tourists from our guesthouse in a local 19th Century home. Here we learned, from our Uzbek host who once worked at the State Museum, that the government had abruptly dismantled the Museum to build a flat grassy park, as it was not appropriate to have it so close to the grand Registan. Sadly no replacement Museum has been built. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Bukhara has been spared the restoration committee’s scalpel to some degree. Yet, like Samarkand it is an important September destination for the hordes of grey-haired European tour-bus travelers. Armed with their tour guides and point-&-shoot cameras, they swarm over these cities. Local industry has cleverly adapted to the influx of wealthy tourists with a seemingly disproportionate number of ceramic bowel and carpet vendors. It took a few kilometers of strolling out of ‘Old Town’ before we reached the winding pre-Soviet streets with the odd unrestored mosque and countless mud and straw walled houses. </div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So mum, you can rest assured that I’ve sampled the ubiquitous Uzbek bread, wandered through colourful bazaars and seen towering stunning minarets without the dangers of sword-wielding locals. </div><br />
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<tr><td align="center" style="background: url("http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/transparent_album_background.gif") no-repeat scroll left center transparent; height: 194px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Samarkand?feat=embedwebsite"><img height="160" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_q_WMZwzNVQw/TJNl1ePK3DE/AAAAAAAABNE/SUbOnU5jUPk/s160-c/Samarkand.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/108645577169360680346/Samarkand?feat=embedwebsite" style="color: #4d4d4d; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Samarkand</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09980222304553161060noreply@blogger.com0