Mavi Guesthouse [website], Istanbul, 17-02-07
Alexandroupoli to Istanbul (4 cycle days; *259km; *1962+m)
* day before Istanbul our VDO-speedometer packed it in and so, we've estimated the mileage and only included three days altimetres.
There's nothing but farmland after we manoeuvre ourselves through the early morning traffic and out of Alexandroupoli. The side wind blowing from the north east is pretty strong and it's overcast, but every now and again the sun teasingly breaks through the clouds promising a beautiful day. There is roughly 45kms to the border and after a couple of hours of pushing, we can see the bridge over the River Evros, marking the boundary between Greece and Turkey. This is our first official border and from now on we know there's going to be a barrage of documents and control posts to contend with. At the same time it's all quite exciting; absorbing new cultures with customs, far from what we are used to.

Our cycling trip through Greece: click HERE to view larger map and more details

We pass through the Greek section effortlessly and enter no-mans land, heavily guarded by the military. It's goodbye to street signs that look like one of Newton's equations; ragged limestone mountains and in hindsight summer. After crossing the bridge, we are waved on through boom gates into an unattractive, oversized, concrete complex. There's a cash machine, a post office, place to change money, shops to spend your leftover euro coins in and the chance to buy duty free. We stop for lunch. The sun is now in full force, but the cold wind eats through the layers of clothing. There's plenty of police roaming around and most stop to ask us where we are going. After a bite to eat, we proceed to the gates. The French guys can enter free of charge, but Dutch citizens need to pay 10 euros, (Ozzies pay 15 and Canadians and Americans can pay up to 45 euros). Ali sprints off next door to purchase the colourful sticker which they inconveniently place on the last page of our passports. It's then stamped and we can move on to the next gate. The guard can't find the stamp and sticker of course, until we point out that it's in the back. We take our first steps into Turkey.

Not more than a hundred metres up the road, we are welcomed by two very savage dogs that sprint across the highway and bark wildly at and around our legs. A further kilometre or so and I hear that familiar ping sound that a spoke makes when it breaks and sure enough, it's snapped and it's on the cassette side. We initially try to put a temporary one in but it's broken at the nipple and we can't get the base pin head out. First suggestion is to cycle on without repairs and a whopping wobble, but as I pedal onto the road I immediately get a flat and so that puts and end to that plan. There's no solution, other than get the next best thing out and see if we can remember how to use the tool. We attract a couple of locals interest and they look on while Ali does his thing. Remarkably, it takes less than half an hour, runs smoothly, the two French guys are impressed, and once again, we praise the genius of the next best thing by M-gineering.

Another 20 kilometres on, we find a sheltered spot on the side of the highway to settle for the night, (near Kesan: 69km; 433m). It gets dark quickly and feels as if we are in for a very cold evening. Just as we are about to cook, a tractor hurriedly makes its way down to where we are camped. It's the farmer from the house on the hill and he almost falls out of the truck; he is in such a rush to get out, shake all our hands and welcome us. I get the impression he is thanking us for our presence on his land. After enquiring where we all come from, he proudly lets us us know that he is a former Yugoslav and offers us food and drink with hand signals, but having our own supplies, we politely refuse with the same sort of language. We bid one another good night and he zooms off in his tractor as quickly as he came. It's looks of belief all round. Such a greeting on our first night in Turkey is certainly a great sign and hopefully an indication of things to come.

Next day, we wake to our and our tent's first snow. It's only a light sprinkling and has disappeared before we leave. The road today is either up or down, absolutely no horizontal pieces at all. So, all those people that so knowledgeably told us the road into Istanbul is flat and easy, haven't ridden a bike there that's for sure. It's a lot of work and especially as we have winds hitting us from the front and side. People seem really friendly and beep and wave at us constantly. Around lunchtime my back derailler cable snaps and we stop to eat near Malkara and also fix the problem. A small mini market in the town has deliciously fresh bread and cheese and it goes down a treat after the morning's cycling. We move on as soon as we can. Pierre-Yves is finding the terrain difficult and the problem is heightened by troubles with his derailler system. We decide to try and make it to Inecik (70km; 889m), where we shop in a super little store that sells the bare minimum but at very cheap prices. we are all surprised that their is a plentiful supply of alcohol on sale as well. A kilometre out of town and next to a small creek, polluted by the service station 100m before it, we find a spot to camp. It's a little muddy and locating a dry spot is difficult.

Temperatures reach below zero quickly tonight and I have every piece of clean clothing on I can find in my bag. Simon and Pierre-Yves come and huddle in our tent and we chat and sip away on our recently purchased beer and wine; hoping to warm up a little. We mention to the guys that we would like to get to Istanbul (150km) in two days; I've got an appointment with a periodontist. We all decide to see how it is tomorrow and there's the possibility that we may go our separate ways. Hunger soon gets the better of us and once the cookers have finished doing their thing, goodnights are said and tents are very firmly zipped up.

Around 3am, I wake to the sound of snow falling. It's ever so dainty in comparison to it's wetter weather companion: rain. Sounds like fluffy feathered wings lightly flapping against the tent wall. When we venture outside, we are surrounded by 5 cm's of pure white snowfall. It's a beautiful sight but damned cold. I've got four layers plus a jacket, short and long bike pants, cutoffs and winter gloves, shoes and rain covers, my beanie and helmet on and I'm still cold. Definitely not the fashion statement of the year but not the reason that Simon and Pierre-Yves don't join us. They have decided to take longer over the trip into Istanbul. It's a little sad leaving without them, but that's how it is travelling. You meet great people and then you have to leave; besides we've planned to meet up in Istanbul on Thursday, next to the tourist office in Sultanahmet at 12 noon.

Snow awakening in a roadside field in Turkey

It's goodbyes, kisses and hugs as we brave today's elements and leave in light snowfall. While we climb to about 400m, it falls harder and I'm forever wiping greasy sludge from my glasses. The roads are relatively free of traffic, as it is Sunday, but there's still a couple of dogs that make it unpleasant for us. We reach the top and then almost freewheel into Tekirdag. Have to take it pretty slow though as we've both got hardly any brakes and the roads become progressively worse. Tekirdag is not a particularly beautiful place and there's a pungent odour of burning fuel strong in your nostrils. At a guess it's the oil heating. Town itself is quite big and takes us a while to get out of the suburban sprawl. Once out, we stop at a petrol station cafe for a well earned double turkish coffee. It's delectable and so is the warm seating area. Always difficult to leave these environments and venture out into the cold. Still, on the bike you warm up pretty quick and after a quick lunch stop up the road in an unfinished housed, we just pedal on until late afternoon. It's highway the complete stretch but it does contain a shoulder for most of it. Since Tekirdag, it's been built-up and we wonder where we'll find a spot to camp tonight. We stop just before Silivri and turn off to a group of guarded complexes in Kinali (80km;640m). There's a vacant plot of land that would suit as a camping spot for us and we ask a man close by. He speaks German, which makes it easy and before we know it we not only have permission to camp, but alternative arrangements are made and we are ushered off to the beachfront cafeteria. It's closed for the winter, but the lights and gas burner work, there's plenty of tables and chairs and even better, a stack of sturdy deck chairs perfect for sleeping on. We thank Recep and Ali for their generosity and begin immediately to set up beds, peel off our mud-covered clothing and cook a hot meal to prepare ourselves for the icy cold night. We both sleep comfortably and like logs.

Braced for the trip into Istanbul (±35km truck; ±40km cycling)), we leave our overnight haven just as it starts snowing. More mud is added to our filthy bike gear as we slosh through the waterlogged dirt tracks surrounding the village. It's nothing though, compared to the grimey spray we receive, once on the highway. I find myself praying to whoever might be listening that, I'll make it into Istanbul alive. Monday morning traffic is not at all forgiving and they whizz past in dangerously close proximity to us. What little shoulder exists, is piled with snow and gravel and we have no other alternative than to ride on the white line. One van stops and the driver signals that the road ahead is blocked due to the overnight snowfall. It's confirmed as we turn around and watch the ploughs head further down the highway. Consequently, we need no persuading to jump into the back of a small van when offered a ride into Istanbul, a kilometre or so up the road. It's not what you would call comfortable, but it's a damned sight better than riding the road. I'm so relieved, I can't stop smiling and we joke about being let out right in front of the Aya Sofya, close to today's destination. But that would be the ending to a fairytale story and this account couldn't be further away from such simplicity. Although grateful for knocking 35 kilometres or so off our wintery journey, we are a little bewildered when left at the edge of a ten plus laned highway, not knowing the dickens where we are. We decide going with the flow is the only option, especially, if we want to stay alive. It proves to be the right choice and we cause a bit of a stir as we traverse our way into Istanbul. Some drivers are kind and some are down right bastards. At one stage, basic instinct takes over and I follow one of the latter types into a petrol station after he almost knocks Ali from his bike by cutting in front. He might not have been able to speak English but I'm pretty sure he got my message and will look at cyclists in a completely different light now.

To my relief, we survive swerving in and out of buses, cars, trucks, taxis and motorcycles and make it in one piece crossing the two laned, bumper to bumper filled highway entrances. The first sighting of a traffic light sets my mind at ease. It means we are out of the main artery road pandemonium and close to our target: Mavi Guesthouse. However, we first pull into a petrol station and to the amusement of the car cleaning guys, ask if they'll give us, our bikes and luggage a clean down with the high pressure hose. Of course, it's no problem at all, and they'll probably take great delight in talking about the incident with friends or family over dinner tonight. As cyclists, you tend to have that affect on people.

Mavi Guesthouse is open and rates are exceptionally good. Although it could do with a new lick of paint, better hot water system and a women's touch to brighten up the place in general, you can't overlook the fact that it's one of the friendliest, trustworthy atmospheres you'll ever experience in a guesthouse. Anything you want to know, want to see, need to find, they are more than happy to help you with.

Istanbul is just enormously huge and it begins way before we got out of the van, in what we later that afternoon work out is, Gürpinar. This sprawling metropolis is a mixture of everything you can possibly think of and on first sight there's no apparent order to it. Later in the week, we work out that the city is divided into quite definite sections: a place to buy kitchenware; adjacent streets brimming with textiles and all the appropriate accessories; an area with every conceivable electronic good on the market; handyman alley; sporting lane and just about any other subdivision of consumer goods you can think of. You might need to ask a local where to go, but I think you can find everything here. That is except for the adjustable screws on a back derailler cable; but then again you can purchase a whole derailler system for the meagre sum of five euros in Asli Bisiklet, a great little bike shop with plenty of spare parts. It is not the first shop we enter and we confirm the saying: it pays to shop around. These guys have very reasonable prices, are super friendly and enjoy a laugh, unlike the rip-off rates and standoffish attitudes of their neighbouring competitors.

The day after our arrival we embark on our mission of obtaining our Iranian visa. It is a process of enormous formality: get two pass photo's made; fill in the right form which the embassy will give you, photocopy this, your passport and page with Turkish visa; pay 50 euros into the bank directly across the road and add the copies of this transaction to the mounting paperwork which must be placed inside a newly purchased plastic sleeve. You then wait ten days for the outcome.

We fill in this time by visiting the usual tourist sights: Aya Sofya, The Blue Mosque, Taksim, The Egyptian and Grand Bazaars, Topkapi Palace, The Turkish and Islamic Art Museum and of course enjoying the ambience sipping on a beer and chatting with other travellers in the guesthouse common room. Time passes quick enough and the Monday, when we need to return, comes around. I find myself standing at the counter, heart racing, like I'm about to sit a make or break exam or have an important interview. The man thumbs through some documents in an overfull folder, checks one page with our passports and tells us to come back tomorrow. We are in; but we still don't know for how many days. Another surprise for us tomorrow I guess.

Mavi Guesthouse [website], Istanbul, 26-02-07
LATEST NEWS... LONGER BREAK IN ISTANBUL AS SONYA FRACTURES ANKLE ... FEBRUARY 26, 2007 ...
It is Monday the 26th of February and our package, containing a new bike rack, still hasn't arrived from the Netherlands. We'll have to stay in Istanbul a bit longer.
During one of our strolls through the streets of Sultanahmet, Sonya slips on the pavement. A loud scream follows and a visit to the local Eminönü hospital is inevitable. Conclusion is that Son has fractured her right ankle and it is put in a cast for two to three weeks...

Mavi Guesthouse [website], Istanbul, 04-03-07
Tomorrow never comes.
Well, the tomorrow from my last update is almost two weeks ago now and we are still here in Istanbul. In this time, we get a 30 day visa for Iran; the French guys get 21. Don't ask me why. Simon and Pierre-Yves leave for their journey along the Black Sea a couple days later and after a few celebratory drinks in a local pub the night before. It's quite an emotional goodbye as we have become really good friends. Not only the common cycling interest has strengthened this bond but the similarity in personality and temperament of Simon and Ali, and Pierre-Yves and me. It hit home, just how strong I really was, when Pierre-Yves was having trouble with the distances and terrain we were travelling. And this had a two-fold effect: Not only was my diminishing confidence boosted sky-high, but Ali saw my riding capabilities in a whole new light. Both effects were badly needed.

Needless to say, there are a few teary eyes and lumps in throats as they cycle away along the cobbled street and completely out of sight. We intend to keep in touch and maybe we'll meet at the Iranian border. Well, that's the plan in any case. Benjamin and Natalia, a Chilean couple returning home from their one year travel adventures, are also saying goodbye. Mavi Guesthouse will seem a little empty. That doesn't last too long though. As the week draws nearer the weekend, voyagers spill in from all corners of the globe and the common room is, once again, alive with the chatter of excited travellers, all with interesting stories and anecdotes. Only tiring thing about this, is your own tale; although new for the listener it echoes a resemblance to yesterday's dialogue.

We learn that the package we are waiting for is stuck in France; has been since the 14th. Nothing to do with the Turkish post at all and the most likely mistake of TNT, who nonchalantly proclaim that it could take three days or it could take three weeks to shift from it's "ermmm..., don't know what to do with this one" shelf. After several exasperating phone calls and search e-mails, we have no other option than to abandon mission. Money will be refunded, we are at square one again and need to begin obtaining the products from other sources. Sometimes the world seems so overly complicated and its occupants excessively unaccountable.

For better for worse
Still, we have a bit of time up our sleeves, as I have been summoned to inactivity for a few weeks. Cursed pavements in Istanbul! Only a few centimetres difference in levels, coupled with poor light and there I am: on the ground beating it with my fist, screaming and crying with an intensity that even shocks me. Having played quite a bit of basketball and squash, I've rolled my ankle plenty of times before, but this time something feels really different and after hobbling back to the guesthouse, I am all for going to the hospital to get it checked out. Seyfi, one of the guys working here, organises a van and accompanies us inside. A true godsend as no-one speaks English. In a very clean and spacious consultation room, the doctor pushes and prods responsively to my yelps, beckons me to the x-ray room where a medic twists and turns the ankle without any remorse what so ever. Ali says they are like that everywhere in the world.

Before I can fully recover from the pain he caused, he's scurrying (efficiently) out of the room to process the negative and I'm left to hop my way back to the consultation room. The x-ray arrives and there is a lot of Turkish flying backwards, forwards and completely over my head. Finally, it's explained: a hairline fracture on the fibula lateral malleolus and a plaster cast is the only option. The doctor apologises for the heavier, cheaper version of plaster, (the only one I'd ever known of) and through our interpreter, explains that the area we are in is very poor and no-one can afford the lighter model, so they don't stock it. So, in true Turkish form, Seyfi takes this information as an opportunity to barter the price of the cast. Instead of fourty Turkish lira, we pay twenty. Doesn't worry me what it costs or which type of cast it is; just as long as he puts it on correctly. He does and I must say executed in expertly fashion. In hindsight though, I'm sure he's had plenty of practice. The roads and footpaths in Istanbul are an accident just waiting to happen. We pay the grand sum of 65 lira for consultation, x-rays and cast. That's about 37 euros if you are wondering and nearly the equivalent of two days, well-paid work in Turkey!

The first few days are okay: especially seeing as the pain in my ankle immediately subsides, there is no swelling and Ali is waiting on me hand and foot. It's just downright frustrating not being able to go and do what you want to, when you want to do it. I will spare you the details of undertaking the trip upstairs to the shower and toilet. On March 3, I am to take my first walk outside, aided by my recently purchased crutches and Ali's jestful words: one small step for Son, one great step for our world tour. It is painfully tiring and I am not amused.

City of Intrigue
But hey, there are worse cities I could have picked to fracture my ankle and worse guesthouses to spend my time resting with an elevated foot. Luckily, we managed a few of the sights before this happened. Istanbul is a bizarre combination: liberal and islamic, rich and poor, colourful and mundane, modern and incredibly out of date, inspiring and annoying, western and Asian all rolled up in one of the endlessly persistent salesman's hand-woven carpets.

The best three euros I have ever spent (long version)

The best shoe shiner in Istanbul Turkey (one minute version)

Drinking tea is an integral part of everyday life and endlessly repeated throughout the day. Should the market price of this consumable ever sky rocket then the whole foundation of Turkish culture could collapse. Luckily, it hasn't and walking around Istanbul, you will be offered copious amounts of this delicious brew. While most offers are genuine, there are still a handful of tyrants waiting to rip you off, so just beware. As a lone woman, roaming the tourist areas will not be hassle-free. The moment you hesitate in step, you will be pounced on by men offering all sorts of unmentionable services and who can unnervingly follow you for hundreds of metres before giving up. Strangely enough, it just occurred to me that to this day, I have never seen a woman hassler in action, nor a carpet saleswoman, or a female spice seller. Mmmm food for thought.

And while on one of my favourite subjects: food. It cannot go by without mentioning some of the delicious goodies to get your teeth stuck into. Firstly Turkey is the king of all kings when it comes to biscuits. Just the scrummiest little morsels with crunchy covers filled with oozy chocolate, coffee, hazelnut or jam fillings. And they are cheap at 40 euro cents for the most expensive packet. Sticking to the sweet things: if you are one of those persons that always left the purple-pink wrapped turkish delight in the Roses Family Chocolates box for someone else, then this sugary confectionary, known in Turkey as lokum, is definitely going to take on a whole new meaning. So, follow temptation to check out all those brightly coloured little squares piled high in glass cases and walk into one of the shops. I recommend going for a freshly boxed assortment. Though, there won't be any left for anybody else this time.

The difference between here and there
One morning's adventures take us out of the guesthouse, up and then down the cobbles, past the Aya Sofya, along the tram line and downtown to Dogubank, a ginormous multi-levelled electronic store. I have been going through my most recent videos (since Delphi, Greece) and realise the 90% of the sound is completely ruined with noise. The lapel microphone needs re soldering and my disillusionment comforted. We first purchase a new battery for my camera, at a rock bottom price, from a really nice old man that I bought tapes from a couple of weeks back. I ask where I can fix my mike. Number 32 is punched into the calculator and a finger points further up the corridor. "Shop, shop" he says, and we work our way along until we find store number thirty-two. We are then led back towards the mac shop, two doors down. Here, a soldering iron is pulled out of a cupboard behind the counter and promptly plugged in. "Sit sit", we are told in sign language and offered a cup of çay (tea). This has to be ordered over the phone and doesn't arrive until the mending job is well and truly over. I test it and it works perfectly and we pass the time by showing the shop-owner our web site. This always causes a lot of admiring ooh's and aah's and it's not long before the customary tea arrives in small tulip-shaped glasses. We drink while the tea man is also called over to appreciate our web page. We gesture that we must leave and by rubbing my forefinger and thumb together, inquire how much the repair is. "Free free," replies the man. This is the second time this mike has had repairs done to it for nothing. First in Bordeaux and now in Istanbul. And each time, I can't help but think back to my experience in a very well known electronic shop in the city I used to live in: I was told that they don't bother with such menial tasks and without so much of a suggestion of where I could further try, I found myself staring at a turned back and listening to the continuation of the conversation, I had so inconveniently interrupted. "Tut tut" I say.

Still, that was months ago now; the actual time is absolutely not depictive of how long ago it really feels. We are both excited about opening a brand new chapter in our worldly tour. Unfortunately, heading through Turkey and towards the east of the country will be rushed more than we had planned. Which means a few bus trips have now been jotted down on our itinerary. Where exactly, we haven't yet decided. It all hangs on my ankle's performance and that's still a mystery at this stage. All that is certain is we need to reach the Iranian border by the end of April, before our Turkish visas run out. Central Asia has this mysterious charm about it and despite reading about it, my unfamiliarity with the life and customs, keeps this attraction well and truly aflame. It's going to be a whole different adventure and I'm sure as inspiring and as eye-opening as ever.

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