Former Despot of the Desert Land

There is a saying in this part of the world, one that we suspect holds equally true in many other places – “be wary of the fat policeman”. The thinking is that the chubbier the official, the more corrupt he is likely to be. With this in mind, you can imagine the sense of trepidation as we entered the inner sanctum of the customs and immigration terminal at Saraghs, our first port of call in Turkmenistan and caught sight of a Jabba The Hut squished into the one seat of prominence in the airless hall – sweat already (at 8am) collecting in pools on his military shirt. Our buoyant mood, after the ceremonial tearing-off-of –the–headscarf after we had wheeled past our first Turkmen soldier in no-man’s land between Iran and Turkmenistan, was momentarily stayed.

A golden local

But the anticipated patter that invariably precedes the demand for a “facilitation fee” never came. Do not, however, misunderstand the daily workings of this border post. Corruption is alive and well and was very much in full-swing. We were in fact treated to front-row seats as long-distance truck drivers pressed clammy wads of Turkmen Manat resignedly into the awaiting over-sized palms of Jabba. Those same packets of cash then, without ceremony or even the barest coy turn-of-the-back, were enveloped into the folds of flesh and uniform. Ah yes, sweet Soviet corruption is still greasing the wheels of this bizarre former USSR republic.

After two hours of needless bureaucracy we were finally unleashed on the wilds of Turkmenistan.  Our requisite mad sprint across the interminable sands of the Karakum desert in Turkmenistan was not by choice. A result of the wacky bureaucratic constraints imposed on all impoverished tourers through this former Soviet republic that is so deeply wary of foreigners rumbling about. So much so that the only financially feasible visa to traverse this ‘stan was the transit visa. This allows for a whole 5 days (actually 4 days and 9 hours, when you take into account the lackadaisical openings hours of the border posts) to cross the 500km desolate stretch of desert to the border with Uzbekistan.

Pesky desert winds

Turkmenistan, the next country on our route eastwards must surely be one of the most despotically dotty places on planet earth, a veritable Disneyland dictatorship that one can barely struggle to imagine. Awash with oil and gas riches (the price of fuel hovers around a mighty 10 cents a litre, with gas actually given away free – resulting in the ludicrous situation of locals leaving lamps burning 24/7 to save on the cost of matchsticks!), the basics of life are provided to the populace at a minimal cost by the state but “social mobility” is not a phrase that holds much, if any, traction here and indeed the country and people we met were permeated with a depressing sense of stagnancy.

The current dictator (Mr Berdymukhamedov – “Birdy”) has followed a very similar tack to his predecessor, Turkmenbashi (Father of all the Turkmen) Niyazov, to whom he was apparently the personal dentist (and possibly the illegitimate love-child!), and continues to exert a suffocating grip on all things political. Such a state of affairs has resulted in a crushed population that understandably finds little room to laugh at the absurdity of a country where the ‘father of their nation’ went about re-naming the word for “bread” and “Monday” after his mum. This is also the country where mini-speakers are secreted in city parks so that their benign former leader could twitter to his people each evening and talk about his latest ridiculous creation, such as the Melon Holiday where Melons were annually purloined from the rural population to gift the city-dwellers.

Karakum Night Camp

Depressingly, vast natural resource wealth has been absorbed by rampant corruption and funnelled towards the insanity of building huge shiny new buildings in the capital, Ashgabat. They remain entirely empty and are simply there for show, alongside the golden statues of Turkmenbashi, which ludicrously rotate throughout the day to follow the sun. Ah, the joys of being an omnipotent dictator with too much time on your hands and with so many whims to indulge.

This was not, however, a country under whose skin we can claim to have crawled. Such limited time and a clammed up, fearful populace meant little opportunity to hear from the locals about life here, save for one taxi driver who fatalistically lamented the complete absence of democracy or even a glimpse of a progressive way forward. He wanted to get out, but without huge sums of cash or the right connections (or more likely both), it is not possible to leave.

Mad Turkmen keeping cool

What we can talk about in depth, however, is how we took on our second desert (having swatted aside the Sinai in Egypt during cool April days) and wrestled with the sticky melting asphalt (where there was asphalt!), which wilted in the face of daily temperatures nudging 50°C (in the shade). With each passing kilometre the landscape changed as little as did the head-on wind that infuriatingly, stubbornly and hotly persisted each day in slowing our progress and sucking on our energy reserves.

Evidence of the vapourising effects of the Karakum

But we had learnt our lessons from the heat of north–eastern Iran and we accordingly tinkered with our body clocks to rise two hours before sun-up (around 3:30am) each day, packing up our tent under sequined skies absolutely bulging with fulminating stars and kissing the thankfully cool highway that had generously chilled to around 30°C. By 9:30am the bulk of our day’s cycling was over and we would seek out shelter (a cow shed if we were lucky) from the relentless heat that desiccated our bones. Turkmenistan apparently has the lowest incidence rate of rheumatism as a result of this vertiginous dry heat. Now, there’s a perk! At each truck stop where we would grumble about the intolerable temperatures, we were often met with refrain of, “you should visit in December, its only 40°C then”.

The real insight we were given by the nature of our travel was into the long-distance trucking community; those ploughing their way from Turkey, Iran and further west, via our Turkmen transit track to the rest of Central Asia, Russia, China and beyond.  One comical Iranian who bought us food, bottles of cold coke and drowned us in more and more Iranian tea, told us tales of the heady profits to be gleaned from transporting Iranian watermelons to Vladivostok. He also showed us another side of Iranians, a side that we certainly hadn’t seen in Iran.  Iranian truckers, as you can imagine, tend to let their hair down as soon as they cross from the Islamic Republic into lands of beer and vodka and buxom, blond post-soviet beauties. So curious to observe after five weeks in Iran.

Beach Cruiser of sorts

Eventually after five painful days, the 50 degree heat and 500km of desert were behind us. We crossed triumphantly into the green plains of Uzbekistan knowing now that the fabled Silk Road cities of Samarkand and Bukhara lay not far to the North and East. Tales from the next in our line of former Soviet Republics will hopefully follow shortly.

In the meantime you can take a look at the latest rash of photos that we have painstakingly (maddening internet connection speeds in Dushanbe) uploaded on the blog for Turkey, Iran and Turkmenistan.

And the other big news is that we are moving. We mean in cyberspace. In anticipation of wordpress being blocked in China we will hope that you will be able to find us at www.odycycle.com but give us a little time to get it set up. If we are not accessible there we should be at the old address of www.odycycle.wordpress.com

We start part two where we left off part one with another curious bit of ta’arof. Not content with the mundane language of “thank you” to express gratitude, Iranians smear far more colour onto their linguistic palette with the phrase, “Dast-e-shoma dard nakone” (Literally – “May your hand not hurt!”). Try it sometime, you’ll never go back to plain-old, “thanks”.

Camping with the wild boars

So we abandoned you last time approximately 1300km across Iran, somewhere on a Silk Road. We had hoped to avoid the grizzly pollution of Tehran, the smoggy trafficky belching heart of Iran, but this was not to be. Having visited twice before, we knew what the big place was mostly about. Or so we had been led to believe.

Another visa hunt, that would have made Marco Polo burn crimson with pride, ended up requiring three trips to the capital to tease those special sticky stamps from the avaricious hands of the various consular bureaucrats at the Turkmen, Uzbek, Tajik and Chinese Embassies. All this time spent shuttling around T-town could have left us bereft and potentially in need of a lung transplant but through the kindness of Mahnaz and Mustafa (mum and dad of our friend, Laleh, from London) we were cocooned in gentle north Tehran and happily close to Embassy-stan, which softened the daily commutes.

Spot the big hair and nose jobs, north Tehran style

During our daily pilgrimages to the embassies we explored Niyavaran Palace, former home to the Shah, which although full of fabulous Persian rugs, was surprisingly modest for the so-called king of kings. We later discovered that our friend Mr Funman had run around these grounds as a little boy in the late 1950’s, as the son of the Shah’s tailor. Our visit to the Iranian Film Museum was another highlight, with added relevance for us, given our enjoyable stay with a cinematic family dynasty of film-makers in Mashad.

But most importantly stalking the embassies meant something dearly beloved was in daily grasp. Glorious Havij Bastanti. Literally, carrot ice-cream.

Erggghh???

But wait!

This is what they do…… A glass is filled with traditional goopy Saffron flavoured ice-cream made with whole pistachios and a smidge of rose water. This already heavenly collaboration is taken to the final level (“Hasht behesht” – “Eighth heaven” – Iranians trump bog-standard old “Seventh heaven”) by drowning the ice-cream in oceans of freshly zuzzhed carrot juice. We swear that each time this concoction touches our lips world peace seems eminently feasible and right around the corner.

A pint of the good stuff

While we have both preferred cycling life far from the cities, the lure of Havij Bastanti seemed to bring us back repeatedly to urban centres, where the road-side galleries of glimmering fruit-blenders that we know and love would deliver our next hit of the good stuff. Or freshly squeezed melon, blackberry, strawberry, pomegranate or any other delicious fruit juice you care to mention. Iran is a truly blessed land! For the cyclist, food and drinks are the fuel that we obsess over, as you doubtlessly have noticed. But enough of this. We have spoken too long without mention of the other preoccupation of the cycle tourer: traffic.

You cannot cycle 2500km across the breadth of Iran without paying tribute to the lunacy that the average Iranian road-user displays with reckless abandon every time they get behind the wheel of a car. Of all the 16 countries we have passed through to date, the millions of licence-holding Iranians, who extraordinarily are permitted to drive, are categorically without question or a glimmer of a doubt the worst of the worst. We could continue to joke about the absurdity of their practices for page after page were it not for the real-life tragic consequences of their risk-taking on the roads.

Another chai break - sheltering from the traffic storm

In 2006 more than 28,000 people in Iran died (more than any other country per capita) as a result of road traffic “accidents” (This is surely the wrong word given the deliberately dangerous decisions that drivers take), a figure that President Ahmadinejad described as “below our nation’s dignity”. Of all people, you might think, Mr A has been best placed to do something about it considering his PhD in Traffic Management! How curious that a training in understanding the utter chaos on the roads could skill one for life at the top of the political tree. Hmmm…

Our knowledge of the above statistics was shockingly brought home to us with the tragic news that the father of one of our kind hosts, who days before our arrival had been hospitalised due to a car crash, had in fact died. Political pronouncements and the odd increased speeding fine have done little if anything to improve road safety here. The only glimmer of wisdom so far appears to be the cap (250cc) on the power of motorbikes (a very common form of transport which regularly and precariously carries a full family of 4!).

Hurdling the peaches

The consequence for us of all this was that, somewhat counter-intuitively, we began to seek out the motorways on which to cycle as these roads tended to have wide hard-shoulders and better asphalt. The secondary roads were at times frighteningly narrow and often busy. The roads in the wilderness were pleasant, however, and the lesson for us was simple: – the middle way is not the best way. It’s all or nothing.

One such small country road led us to the generous home of an English teacher and a day spent with him and his family not only afforded Francesca the chance to sup her favourite Iranian meal of Khoresht Fesenjun (a thick and rich chicken, pomegranate and walnut stew) but also provided us with many answers as to how Mr Ahmadinejad has retained his political power base and that of the forces of his brand of political conservatism.

Over the course of 5 hours feasting, we discovered how Mr A had ensured a stream of funds directly into the homes of certain supportive lower middle-class families (rather than putting it to use for public projects (health, education etc). And this appears to be where much of Iran’s current oil revenue has gone. Presidential mismanagement in many areas of government were simply overlooked (“He’s courageous…. Yes there have been mistakes, but he’s only human. Like us”). When we asked why the family thought there had been such strong opposition to Mr A when disputes arose about the legitimacy of his 2009 re-election, the response was swift and straight-faced, “yes, but it’s only the educated people in the country who do not like him and were protesting”.

As the meal continued, we also learnt that our host was a member of the Basij (known for their brutal treatment of those who transgress the rules of the Islamic Republic: – women’s head scarf too far back, singing in the street, vocal criticism of the government etc). The Basiji are the ‘moral’ enforcers on the street. They are also those who inform the authorities of potential trouble-makers or insurrectionary elements within the community. What also became apparent, however, is that this ‘volunteer’ group that belongs to (and reports to) the religious establishment (Sepah), often join up because obtaining employment or entrance to a university course is dependent upon so doing, and nigh-on impossible without. Membership also enables men to reduce the 24 months of compulsory military service down to 6. Interestingly throughout the entire meal, the men sat quietly while the women (all chadored inside the home) vociferously defended the regime and its strictures. Three minutes later they were whisking Francesca off into a bedroom to show her their wedding photo albums (all taken in a studio, by a female photographer and for female eyes only of course). My my, what make-up, what bouffants, what crevasse-like depths of cleavage on display!

Hanging out with the holiest of holys in Mashad

After almost 350km of Caspian capers we began slowly to ascend to the sashaying yellowy barley-esque (not actually sure what it was) fields of Iran’s north-eastern Turkmen tribal areas, with the Kopet Dag mountains fanning out as the perfect frontier between the Arians of Iran and the Turkmen of Turkmenistan. Here we did not dawdle, save for the usual libations of choice, as the sea-side cool winds – that had puffed irritatingly against us now for weeks – were beginning to fade and we could feel that summer days, pregnant with heat were near by.

The arrival of summer and the 45-degree temperatures left us desperately seeking ways to cool down during the heat of the day (10am – 6pm!) We found a 34^th use for our ortlieb sink  – a miniature paddling pool to soothe the feet – but one day in Minudasht there was nothing we could do to escape. We found shade but the shade sizzled over 45 degrees, the ground shimmered underfoot and the heat stroke struck.

Cool baby

Luckily the Iranian Red Crescent compound was just a few desperate cranks of the pedal away and a kind paramedic instantaneously had Francesca on a saline drip – trapped while he showed her photos of the Royal Wedding on his phone!

What happens on the day you forget your bike

As we sit typing deep in Central Asia, the delights of Iran are receding fast.  We are constantly nostalgic for the incredible people, the food, the tea (chai, chai, delicious black chai) and of course above all, the havij bastani. We wonder what the future holds for this country.

One wise Iranian theorised that Iran, over the last 30 years, has paid its debt to the religious establishment and its time to move on. People have come to realise that a mullah’s robes do not imbue him with super-natural powers to govern without the elitism, self-interest and incompetence that are familiar to civilian rule. We share the view expressed in the comments to Part 1 that while the root cause of a number of the problems facing Iran are due to external meddling, things will only improve here through the will of the Iranian people and not because of foreign intervention. In the meantime, we will watch on with interest as the manteaus get shorter and shorter and the headscarves slip further and further back….

Iran should be the country that, of all the places we will or have now visited, we know best and are most informed about (or should be, at any rate) and indeed there is much – so very much – to say. In fact, there is so much say that we cannot stick to our habitual format of one blog for each country. So here is Part One: roughly speaking from the Turkish border in the tip-top north west of the country (Azerbaijan province) to Tehran – A vaguish half-way point on our journey to the eastern border with Turkmenistan.

Cycling hejabi-style

At the outset we confess that the last 5 weeks here in Iran have polarised even further our real love, and serious distaste, for almost all aspects of life here in Iran. Our visits to Iran in 2005, 2006 and now, have effectively bookended much of Mr Ahmadinejad’s presidency and we have seen considerable changes in day-to-day life, not least the rocketing inflation that has had a deflating effect on absolutely everyone. (If only we were given a Rial for every time we heard the smoulderingly angry complaints of taxi-driver, baker and fruit seller alike, regarding the 500% hike in the cost of fuel, we could live handsomely indeed – irrespective of the fact there are almost 20,000 Rials to the British Pound).

Clandestine Camping on Lake Orumiyeh

On the eve of our departure from Iran – we presently sit in Serakhs, a scrawny border town, waiting for the commencement of our Turkmen visa – we are as conflicted as ever about Iran, its politics, its people and cultural identities. It remains, we suspect, one of the most misconstrued countries in the world, not least due to the meagre trickle of information that finds its way out of Iran and onto Western television sets. No, Iranians do not want (amazingly enough) to launch nuclear bombs all over the globe but DO want to ensure that this country is never again treated like a play-thing, or enormous piggy-bank, for imperial powers as was historically the case.

The British and Americans have a great deal to answer for here. Not least in terms of decades of oil theft (take a bow, Anglo Persian Oil Company) and the US orchestrated coup that brought the reviled Shah (and his secret police – Savak) to power, in place of the dignified and popular Prime Minister Mossadegh. It is no exaggeration to say that Iran’s politics and history are intensely rich and complicated. While the last 32 years have been dominated by the Islamic Revolution of Imam Khomeini and his crew of theocratic power-mongers, who have introduced savage restrictions on social and political life, it is important to remember that this is the country that was home to a highly sophisticated and civilised society 2,500 years ago (See Persepolis) and that drafted the first ever charter on Human Rights (Cyrus’ Cylinder) way before such a bill of rights was on the lips of revolutionaries elsewhere in the world.

The last 32 years have resulted in a truly schizophrenic society. Officially access to much of the internet is blocked (BBC, Guardian, NY Times, (even poor old “Odycycle”)…..forget about it) and yet people in their homes have filter-breakers routing them to the internet through remote, California-based servers, keeping them connected to each other through facebook and twitter. Television is completely controlled and censors pour over every film, play and museum exhibition, ensuring all remain “on message”, but umpteen farsi (including BBC Persia, Man-o-To from London) and international satellite channels are beamed in through the dishes hidden in the nooks and crannies of north Tehrani rooftops and backyards all over the country.

The demands of ‘hejab’, that women are covered from head to toe, make cycling for Francesca in 45 degree heat all the more trying. But as rural and urban chador-clad women (a cross between Darth Vader and a crow) bite at their black fabric to keep it from straying too far from their faces, the women of north Tehran, in their tight manteaux, high-heels and nose jobs, show off more bouffant hair-do’s, under their very loose and pushed-back head-scarves, than you’d see at a 1960’s beehive convention.

Darth Vader and her brother

Men and women are separated at every turn –buses, taxis, mosques etc etc etc; women are prohibited from singing or dancing and, not least, excluded from any position of political power – and while they are incredibly strong and educated, definitely wearing the household trousers and at the same time managing to  hold down high-powered jobs, they are not allowed to run for the presidency and no high government position is held by a woman. And yet…….And yet……

We are drawn back time and time again to the hugely generous and kind world of Iranian life, full of mighty gastro-feasts (always prepared by women), peaceful gardens – with their sophisticated balance harmonising all things human and eco. This is truly a nation blessed with some of the most pleasurable natural beauty. No Iranian, tumescent with pride, is shy to speak of the lush green ‘JANGAL’ of the north, the snow-capped Alborz peaks – their skirts brimming with carpets of poppies, verdant river valleys and glorious waterfalls, to name but a few.

Caspian frollicks

And so we have peddled. From those first few early days across the seemingly endless shimmering wetlands of Lake Orumiyeh onto the surprisingly tranquil (yet bustling) city of Tabriz, notorious on the Silk Road (which we had joined up with), for its bazaar, full of Astrakhan-style ‘papakh’ hats and sumptuous Persian carpets (all depressingly leagues beyond our means. Instead we just ogled).

Mad hatter (on the left)

As the kilometres ticked by we hopped (2 days of cycling over a mountain range) from one of those strands of Silk that represented a primary trading route for centuries on end (ferrying spices and – you guessed it – silk westwards and European treasure eastwards), to the muggy and populous southern Caspian coast route. A sadly and unfortunately tiresome 300km strip of tarmac, depressingly awash with sea-side tat and concrete crap.

We say unfortunate due to the tantalising beauty that lies off to either side of this highway. An expansive (though unhappily somewhat polluted) Caspian sea that abruptly ends with the precipitously green-jungled slopes of the Alborz mountains, speckled with the opulent villas of goodly north Tehrani folk who periodically grit their teeth to crawl through the hours of traffic to find their bit of cool paradise at their second homes. In complete contrast to us Brits, Iranians seek out rain, cloud-cover and greenery for their dream holiday destination!

Beware the shrinking effects of too much cycling

Our time at the coast coincided with Iranian holidays. We contentedly bustled along with the multitudes of holiday-makers ‘gardeshing’ their hearts out. ‘Gardesh’ – so hard to translate. ‘To picnic’ does not even come close. ‘Gardesh’ is a quintessentially Iranian pass-time, indeed a life-style choice, not just something you do with some provisions from Sainsbury’s on a Saturday afternoon. It involves packing up the car to bursting with the 5 litre chai thermos, glass mugs, the entire kitchen in fact, 4 picnic rugs, ten tonnes of food and the standard issue luminous tent to pick a spot in the mountains, along the coast, even in a town park to pitch and eat and enjoy being out of the urban smoke. We fitted right in (sort of!).

Iranians "mourning" the death of Imam Khomeini

With our blogs we have deliberated tended not to single out any one person that we have met, as it would be invidious to do so given the armies of wonderful and interesting people we have met along the way, of whom we have only been able to make the briefest of mentions. But we must make exception for Mohamed and Mahboubeh. Self-styled “Funman” and his wife. Two gentle and kind-hearted retired souls who swept us off the fume-filled sea-side highway and into their own little lusciously overgrown garden of Eden, and filled our days with hiking in the hills, bat-chasing nonsense, and heavenly rejuvenation. If in old age, we end up like these two young-at-hearts, we will have done something right.

Funman having Caspian fun

And that about brings us to the mid-point of Iran. We have Tehran, the North-East, Havij Bastani, Plastic coverings, Women’s fashion, Traffic, and more and more politics – both internal and external – all to discuss.

But we end with mention of the weird and wonderful world of Ta’arof. One of the endlessly charming aspects of Persian culture that invariably brings smiles to our faces. While Ta’arof is a cultural linguistic code to adhere to, the primary feature of Ta’arof is essentially a set of pleasantries used in day-to-day life to express in paragraphs when often a word or two would suffice. And so for us it has been the thousand-upon-thousand encouraging shouts of, “Khaste naboshid!” (“Don’t be tired” – A phrase simply used to greet anyone mildly exerting themselves) from road-side fields, tea-houses, honey-sellers, school yards and any other place for that matter from where the people of Iran have watched us roll on by.

"Khaste Naboshid, little chick"

So we say to all of you, now undoubtedly flagging from reading a lengthy blog, “Khaste naboshid!” to which you might sweetly reply, “Salamat boshid!”  – “Be healthy!”.

Visa hunting had admittedly left us dazed and confused. For those with knowledge of Futurama, “confused and aroused” may be more apposite, given the heady anticipation that began to swell as our goodly bikes shuttled us along the Anatolian pastures towards the towering and brooding mounts of south eastern Turkey.

A plane ride from Amman had dropped us (and our excruciatingly beautifully bandaged bikes) in the broad sweep of a swaying green valley 60+km long, cradled on both sides by the aforementioned peaks. Although officially we had landed at Muş airport, the word “airy-strip” might even have been generous on our parts. As our mini plane trotted to a standstill, blustered airport staff stood by in flapping uniforms bemused at the Dead Sea tourists who were equally bemused, and anxious to know whether their babies had survived the flight. For more than two hours, smiling Kurds gathered in the limited shade and gawped at our flat-pack boxes that gradually unfolded and once more took the form of lean touring machines. We smiled back. The air was fresh, the valley floor carpeted green, green, green and not a stone-hurling little runt in sight.

Tea with the Boys

Heading through the would-be secessionist region of Kurdistan, we were confronted by not only the ever-rising mountains that have semi-shielded the locals from rogue government intervention for centuries but also the notorious hospitality of a “people” who have weighty footholds in SE Turkey, NE Syria, Northern Iraq and Western Iran (and a whole litany of other places if you believe the locals’ tall claims about the extent of the Kurdish diaspora). By conservative estimates there are around 40m Kurds residing in the aforementioned areas.

Historically, and persistently, squeezed and marginalised by the various regional powers, the numerous Kurds we met – supped chay with, ate mounds of food with, and upon whose beds, sofas, carpets and couches we slept – exhibited towards us unfathomable kindness and curiosity. Wishing us well and encouraging us up their mountainous climbs with every turn of the crank.

The grin of a girl yet to start the climb...

Our limited (read “crap”) conversational farsi, learnt years ago in Iran, was a bonus, however, as apparently a crap farsi-speaker sounds very much like a passable Kurmanji polyglot. We got on famously with the Kurds and felt humbled by the extent to which they continually subjugated their own needs to allow for the needy needs of the cyclists. Whether it was the last egg in the box, the only bed in the house or the willingness to lay down their tools and lead us to the right road, it was always done and with a gentle nodding grace that spoke of the mindset: “this is just what we do for guests to our lands.”

With such warmth along the road, the progress to Tatvan (with its gentle lake) and remarkably liberal Van – with the best bicyclists breakfast on earth, tell me how you can beat clotted cream, local lavender honey and ground walnuts – was joyful, if not entirely a doddle.

Bullets from above. A vengeful deity, of course, could not allow for such benign free-flowing passage through rugged terrain. No, there has been at least one reminder that all these smiles, baffling (and usually hilarious) conversations over chay about the size of the Kurdish diaspora, and bottomless hospitality, comes at a price. A painful price from above. Not truly bullets but cousins thereof, surely. As we reached to within 50m of the Kurubaş pass, a lively 3-hour trot uphill, the heavens went sooty (not the childrens’ program) black. And angry too.

Bullets from above a mere 20 mins to the left

The first hail-stones to fall upon us were frozen peas, sailing down from god’s kitchen counter. There was no harm at this stage, just a couple of girly squeals from Sam’s blue lips, as ping-ping the peas bounced ever more energetically off gore-tex threads. What followed, however, was nigh-on sadistic. 3 layers of tech clothing melted away in the face of a barrage of now ice-rocks crashing down from above. No more ping-ping. Hail stones the size of a small child’s head (limited hyperbole) brought bruises rushing to our skins’ surfaces. Pain, yes. Memorable, yes. Will definitely try to avoid such freaky weather again. Er, yes.

But we survived to write this blog. Clouds parted and multi-kilometre descents re-kindled our love of the road, and particularly our love for the road that hugs the Iranian border for miles and miles southward before ducking eastward through a gap (please read “another high pass”) in the mountains. Eventually, we arrived at a dust-bowl of congested truck-jam, assorted competitively fluttering flags, and numerous audible chatted dialects being tossed about, and it all meant the obvious….another border crossing and one we had been very much looking forward to.

Iran: Just over the "hill"

The over-sized and placarded beneficent faces of Messrs Khomeini and Khameini stared down suspiciously from high up on a barb-wired hill over-looking all things humdrum below, including the two cyclists tucked behind a disused tea-house, preparing themselves for the next 2500km. Trousers for the boy; and trousers, long monteau, long shirt and head scarf for the girl. Not the most ideal cycle-wear but the four-eyes that gazed steadily downwards appeared mostly untroubled by the unordorthodox nature of our new garb. All the battling in Amman for an Iranian visa had boiled down to this crossing into the Islamic Republic: “Khosh Amadid”. Stamp Stamp. And on we went through jostling money changers, attempting to pull various fast-ones, and into the open spaces of Azerbijan province and Iran’s northwest.

We write to you from behind closed doors. This is going to be a very short and sweet blog. We speak in hushed tones on the back row of a backstreet alleyway internet café with the nervous assistance of the owner. We are online but only just. Odycycle with its insurrectionary spirit coursing through every word is a threat to the regime here and we are BANNNED. Hence the use of a remote server and our friendly geek.

We are now in an undisclosed location in Iran and having a wonderful time. Shhhhhh, don’t tell the Mullahs. We will probably write more via our home team in the next week or two as we can not bear the tension of committing illegal acts in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

We look forward to communicating uncensored again soon (probably from the bastion of free speech that is Turkmenistan!!) Keep posting the comments. We promise they will appear on the blog eventually.

Peace from the Republic…….

Please now quietly hum to yourselves, the following (or click on the lyrics):

“Duh, Duhhh……………… Der, Der Der, der, duhh, duhhh, Duhhhhh” -

Of course, you recognise it. It no doubt immediately evokes the spirit of the First World War in Arabia with Omar Sharif and Peter O’Toole and, lest we forget, the swirling sands that live a short distance to the north of Aqaba. For we have arrived and explored and revelled in the glorious territory that Al-Awrens (Lawrence) of Arabia stomped through all those years ago.

Wadi Rum-inators

Having disembarked the ferry at Aqaba late one night, instead of heading north, we turned right and camped only a stone’s throw (a fitting irony, you will see) from the Saudi Arabian border. It was peaceful and remained so for the next three days as we then began to head northward (and upward, puff puff) and inland to explore the lands that Lawrence left behind.

For mountain goats such as us, the climbing/scrambling/bouldering of Wadi Rum was delicious in the extreme. The canyons and rock formations appear to change shape, size and form throughout the day. The colours of scrubby sands underfoot splay out in the way that chromatograms once did in the classrooms of our childhoods. And sitting up on high at sunset with a kind breeze seeping tranquilly past our ears allows the mind to roam. To Rum-inate. To be entranced by the dancing colours. And with the sun sunk, the temperatures dropped and the warmth of Bedouin fires awaited below, just as they would have done back in those days of Lawrence. We liked Wadi Rum.

Mountain Goatee

With such an entry to Jordan, the sense of anticipation for the jewel in the Jordanian crown, Petra, you may understand, was intense. But as Mr Obama might tell you, expectation can be a bummer. And so it was. Don’t get us wrong, Petra is an impressive place and the Siq and Treasury are amazing, but thereafter the hoards of tourists, pestering touts and diminishing quality of the site (not to mention the £100 entry fees (!!!) for the two of us) led to a dribbling sense of disappointment. There are no doubt some of you screaming “cultural heathens”. Maybe. But Petra did not get into our bones, despite its additionally beautiful position along the King’s Highway.

Knockout Petra

We headed on northwards towards Amman, taking in crumbling crusader castles, the incredibly scenic Dana nature reserve, steep valley (wadi) descents (yippee) and gnawing (grrrrr!!!!) 3-hour steamy climbs (punctuated only by a puncture).

15 minutes down..3 hours up - another bloody wadi!

By the title of this blog, the suspicious-minded among you may have envisaged an indulgent descent into a hedonistic drug-fuelled week-long Jordanian binge, opening our minds and souls to the delights of this land. Such thinking is misguided. What has propelled us along the mountainous King’s Highway and as swiftly off the roads as humanly possible has been the deeply unpleasant reception we have had at the hands (another fitting simile) of Jordanian children. We emphasise “children” because almost without exception, Jordanians over the age of 18 have been kind, friendly and always wanting to welcome and assist us. Our gripe is firmly focussed on the kids.

Before arrival, we had read reports from fellow cycletourers who had also passed through these places and been subjected to the same treatment we ultimately received. We simply thought it could not be THAT bad. But it was.

As we pedalled through town after town, while some kids would smile and wave, others simply crouched ground-wards to clutch the biggest throwable stone and then launched it at us with real venom.  This was invariably accompanied by shreeks of “fuck you, fuck you”, kids spitting in our faces, trying to knock us off our bikes, or chucking their satchels between our wheels. The first time this happened we tried to rationalise it and put it down to a couple of “bad apples”, but by the eighth attack, we were deeply pissed off and itching to leave the roads of Jordan. Irritatingly, community elders simply shrugged when we asked why this was happening, or requested their intervention. [According to the cycletouring community Jordan, along with Ethiopia, is notorious for such treatment of cyclists]. We should add that our experience was not similar to that of other travellers who made their way by bus or car and we would recommend a visit to Jordan, just not on a bike, or at least not without the cycling equivalent of a pope-mobile.

Shadows of their former selves

The culmination of our time in Jordan was spent patiently awaiting our Iranian visa (one week, four trips to the embassy, fifteen phone calls, seven emails and a princely sum). We feel we have now reached a new zen plateau of tolerance to adversity. The travails of visa-hunting were well compensated, however, by the huge luck that we had in finding Elodie and Isabelle on couchsurfing. The unexpectedly prolonged (for hosts and surfers alike) time in Amman allowed us a glimpse of city-life at its best in the (much maligned) capital (including nightly white russians and home-made sushi). We even managed, between bandaging and boxing our bicycles like mummies for their impending flight, to drop down – and we mean really down, to 400m below sea level – to the super-saline Dead Sea, wade in Wadi Mujib and visit the impressive ruins of Jerash.

Can't sink, won't sink

Yes, you heard us right. Another flight. This time one most certainly not of our choosing. The plan had been simple, to cycle from Cairo to Iran and re-join our old route in Turkey but the tragic events in Syria, not to mention the closed border with Jordan, have left us with no alternative but to hop over the top. We did briefly look at rolling through Iraq……

So the Arab Spring continues but our Arabian adventures are over for now. A flight from Amman to Muş (pronounced Moosh) it is. What, why, where Muş all to come next time.

As ever there are updated photos viewable through the blog site here.

“Hosni, you haven’t called for more than a week, is everything ok?”

So ran the humour daubed on Cairene walls in early February 2011, days after the seemingly immovable feature of the Egyptian political landscape, Hosni Mubarak, had fled to a bolt-hole in Sharm El Sheikh (before being detained for questioning on allegations of corruption, which immediately brought about his rushed hospitalisation. Nothing quite like having to account for upwards of 35 Billion Dollars, allegedly stolen from the Egyptian people, to unsettle the heart beat of an ageing former president).

Walls of the Revolution - Cairo

To be honest, we may have been somewhat rash in our spur of the moment decision to deviate off course and re-route through the Middle East from Cairo to Tehran, rather than opt for the “safer” option of sliding through the diagonal of Turkey (NW-SE). The Arab Spring would surely still allow for the passage of two discreet cyclists, or so we thought.

Our second ever blog, which we are still trying to locate as it has apparently been wiped, spoke of our excitement at setting out from the deserted and desolate flat that we had packed up in London and heading for the places where history was being forged as we typed. We were thinking of Egypt. From our empty flat we were thinking of the swell of people-power surging through the streets of Cairo that had hours before removed Mubarak from office. Events that even those who had attended the crucible of Tahrir Square moments before Mubarak’s slinking away into the shadows, could barely dream possible and scarcely believe true even when they had happened.

But what of our cycling? Well, while Thessaloniki had its fair share of ridiculous drivers, nothing could quite prepare us for the experience of cycling through the mulching dust and thundering pollution of Cairo. This is what happens when you wedge 20-30 million people between the Nile Delta and the desert. We had to try it. To work out if we were up to it. Wisely, we sailed out to Giza and the monumentally magical Pyramids, 15km from our central Cairo accommodation. An email from Francesca from a wifi connection on a beach in Greece just days before to an old friend, Nina, from bygone times in Kazakhstan, ignited days of kind hospitality and the chance to meet, not just a few, but literally dozens of truly wonderful Egyptians. Sailing out to Giza, ah yes. Sailing is quite possible at 5:45am as the mighty city, the biggest in Africa, begins to wake with just a few souls out on the streets ramping up for the day ahead with heavy caffeine doses. Too early for the ticket office, but we can be patient, if it’s required.

Pyramid Cruiser

We pedalled around the pyramids unburdened by weighty bags and flittered as light as butterflies. We were impressed. Really, really impressed. 4500 years old and with a mathematical beauty that so appeals. We were in the presence of greatness. We could not, however, contain our laughter when a corpulent Brit with camera equipment from another galaxy waddled past us laden with food, snorting,

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Where’s the “wow factor”?”.

Fool.

By late morning, the time eventually came to return. Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus – those quiet streets and dusty 6am highways (a mere 11 lines ago) had converted into a swarming, humming, vibrating, squashed, swaying mass of human activity (almost all gasoline-fuelled). Our lungs blackened. Rapidly. The 40-minute outward journey metamorphosised into a quasi-Lawrence of Arabia epic of 3 hours. We entered Nina’s flat completely smeared with the city, knowing fully what it was like to almost die time and time again within a single morning. But now we were primed for the our journey to continue.

With the help of the lovely Mo, the single warmshowers.org person registered in Egypt, we began to plot our onward journey through to Suez (the very same channel that Sam’s dad and Francesca’s mum had squeezed through at important times in their lives in 1946 and 1949 respectively), and across the Sinai desert. We took details of friendly Bedouin settlements and the areas to avoid. We hummed extra loud when wild tales of highway blockade-robbery-killings were mentioned. There was a suspicion that such stories had surfaced through the former regime to tell the people that “an enforcer” was needed to keep them safe. No one was readily buying such a thesis.

Hard to get lost

For four days the sands of the Sinai unfurled in front of us, with only kindness and warmth at the roadside and from the numerous truckers who honked on their way to and fro, and who offered us tea and Pepsi. On one of the nights in the desert, we stayed with a cheery Bedouin from the village of Abu Rosasa (literal translation: “Mr Bullet”), but we were not put off. This was a man only armed with a large bag of marijuana that he chuffed contentedly all evening as we chatted and mimed for hours, not sharing more than a handful of words between us.

After days of traversing the Sinai expanse, the seemingly artificial inks of the Red Sea suddenly splurted before us. After the at-times interminable rolling eastward through the bubbling heat we tell you it is hard to visualise a more alluring sight. See below for details!

Sinai Sands no more

What is now apparent to both of us is that sore bums and exacted muscles take to salty seas like, well, very harmonious things. Over the course of almost a week, we slunk into (and slept profusely in) hammocks in beach-hut communities and talked political-shop endlessly with an ever expanding host of newly made friends. It was our great fortune that our journey to the eastern coast of Sinai had happened to coincide with holidays in Egypt and throughout day and night our lazy lives crossed the paths of Nina’s and Mo’s friends and those of Mo’s brother, Amr. We can think of few times in our lives when we have socialised so happily and plentifully than during these days. Usually, our only reminder to take rest was the rising of the sun over the mountains of Saudi Arabia that quietly stared back at us each morning over the Gulf of Aqaba with its changing colours.

Jordan to the left of her, Saudi to the right. Just can't stop peddling

Despite the sedate pace into which we had sunk, with the occasional guilty glance towards our tethered bicycles, the verve of positivity and political empowerment emanating from these friends was formidable to observe, and nothing like we had witnessed before. Friends who had marched to Tahrir Square in the face of state violence and brought about an inconceivable world. There was pragmatism too. A realisation that this revolution is very much ongoing and, in fact, these days are critical days that will shape what lies ahead for Egypt. Elections are set to take place in the autumn, and we will be watching.

As holidays ended, the camps emptied and packed cars drained back into Cairo leaving us alone to contemplate. We had come as far east (practically) as Egyptian soil could take us and the lands of Jordan to the North awaited.

Not wishing to be rude to our piscean neighbours who gently mozied off-shore, (while we chatted away above), we undertook a scuba diving course to pay a visit. Those beautiful shiny fish, which we had munched all week, nonchalantly swished past our goggled faces each day oblivious to the exciting times that were unfolding ashore.

Our parting memory of Egypt was that of a 30km downhill run to the ferry at Nuweiba that would whisk us to Aqaba in Jordan (yes, tales of Lawrence of Arabia await you on our next post). As pleasurable as our laziness had been, the itch for the open-road was once again beginning to surface.

If you are bored of the text, you can always just have a look at the photos which can be found here.

When last we left you the waft of the Mediterranean sea was entering our nostrils and impelling us onwards at speed to the Coast of Greece and in particular, Thessaloniki. Much in deed has happened since that time that merits a word or three and a picture or four. We will, as ever, do our best to placate the baying masses of family and friends (happily, this is an ever-expanding group as our peddling continues into new countries and continents). So, where were we? Ah yes, Greece. Ancient Land, phenomenally rich cultural heritage, wonderfully kind and friendly locals, and then there is the food…… You may get the impression that we two odycyclists do little else but seek out yummy morsels to ingratiate ourselves with our energy-sapped limbs. Again, you would not be far wrong. Be assured, the pleasure of food takes on ever-greater heights after 100km in the saddle and the heat.

Bathing in Blossom, Greek style

And what treats we have guzzled! And shared with Sam’s dad, Louis. Our quickened pace through Macedonia (we are now referring to the northern Greek province) past the former homestead of Alexander the Great in Pella and into the bustle and the nasty motorway entry to the great city of Thessaloniki. And I swear, the Med gave me a glinting wink in the sunshine when she first came into view. A stunning flirt.

Aside from the nose-peggedly necessary entry into the city what we found was a truly vibrant balmy coastal hub, prosperous to the deceptive extent that this was not a country in economic turmoil and genuflecting, cap-in-hand, before its Euro-Brethren in search of alms.

Time seemed different here. So different from our FYROM days. But we had done well, arriving almost a full hour (never had this happened before) before our scheduled rendez-vous with our (warmshowers.org) host, Kostas. 80′s loving, Salsa-dancing, bike-touring all-round man about town. We were, however, somewhat surprised to find Kostas already waiting in the pre-arranged down-town meeting spot an hour early. Francesca gently quizzed him as to why he had come so early to meet us. Kostas looked perplexed. “But I am 5 minutes late.” Francesca and Sam looked at each other. All those clocks we had seen over the past 2 days, on the facades of town halls, in bars, cafes, hostels and on the wrists of locals all over Greece were not, as we had believed, wrong. We had been living out of step (temporarily) with the world for some time. Symbolic, we think.

But what of this food that we shared with Sam’s Dad and that Francesca guzzled with such abandon? Fish (whose names we could never pronounce properly), Calamari, Ktopi (Octopus), all manner of Pasticcio and then of course there was Kostas’ mum’s home cooking which greeted us each evening on our return from a day of city cycling. Each dish coquettishly curled a forefinger in our direction and summoned us to the kitchen to plunge into the best home-cooking we have had. Georgia (Kostas’ mum’s) cooking, it was agreed by Sam and Francesca, would sit happily along side the dishes that our respective mums served up for us during our fortuitous childhoods. But maybe the zenith of epicurean delight came the night that Sam finally got around to fulfilling his duties by belatedly taking both birthday celebrants (Francesca and Louis were both born on 27 March) out to a Cretan restaurant tucked away in the back streets of Thessaloniki. Sam gazed on with bewildered admiration as Francesca and his dad tucked into a vast bowl of garlicky/buttery Cretan snails like it were their last supper. The following day rumour soon swept the island of Crete of a malacological genocide…

Snail Nemesis & son

But enough of food now. One might assume it is all Sam and Francesca ever think and dream about. Between the full diary of eating, drinking and chatting, we even managed to shed our bikes and hire a car (sssshhhh, don’t tell the cycling fraternity) for 2 days to circumnavigate the 3 tapping fingers of the Halkidiki peninsulars which slide out into the Aegean sea inquisitively.

For those of you who know us well, not only do we love to cycle but best of all we love to cycle with friends and Critical Mass is our absolute favourite thing to do in London and so you can imagine the glee when Kostas took us, along with his bike-shop owning friend (also Kostas, who gave our bikes a loving service), to pedal the streets of their fair city with other like-minded souls to raise the profile of cycling, which happily is already on an upward trajectory. The city has just opened its 2nd bike lane (ooooh!).

Kostas & Kostas, and some punter

Our final day/hours spent with Sam’s dad were dominated by our ultimately successful search for the Holy Grail of cyclo-touring tyres (the aptly named “Marathon Plus Tour” – those of you with decent historical knowledge will know that Marathon is a place just down the road, a mere 26 miles from Athens). And what a good thing we picked up those robust rubbers because something in the narcotic properties of the snails has now blown Sam and Francesca somewhat off course (our route on the website will be updated in due course)…. A night of deep dreaming brought Sam and Francesca to the realisation that the dusty glass-strewn roads of Egypt and not those of the south coast of Turkey were beckoning….

So, Leg 1 of this Odycycle concluded…. Old Europe disappearing behind us away to the north of our Olympic Airlines flight to Cairo at speeds not common to these two odycyclists… Revolutionary Egypt and the bubbling Middle East awaits.

As ever, we have tried to keep the photos up to date and can be viewed here.

It is hard being creative about the titles of each blog we post but this one truly touches upon the core identity of the next country our wheels have spun through: what you and I would probably – and lazily – call Macedonia. But our route up high into the Ohrid hills on the border with Albania took us once more back into the Balkan lands, to those of Macedonia. Oops, there I go again. I meant the Republic of Macedonia. And if you are a technocrat sitting in a lofty office block in the UN in New York, or if you are a Greek, then we are dealing with FYROM (the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia). So that’s settled then.

Not the preferred nomenclature, Dude.

Name disputes aside, this is a wonderfully beautiful country in parts, not least the breath-catching views from high up in the mountains overlooking Lake Ohrid and Lake Prespes. And that’s not to mention lovely Ohrid itself. Followed by “buzzy” Bitola with its chilly town centre.

Blossoms in the winter wonderland.

But let us focus on Ohrid (and its name) for a moment. What my old french teacher would have labelled a “faux ami”, because it would be hard to imagine a more pleasant setting to construct an Ottoman town than on the gently lapping shores of this 60km long (and 30km wide) lake.

Snow-capped peaks, emerging pink-white-yellow blossom sifting through the cool atmosphere, and then the giddying descents married to bum-numbing climbs into the thin mountain air. Alright, not quite that high but putting matters into perspective is always good and on at least two occasions we peddled up to heights greater than anything the British Isles can muster. If you close your eyes and concentrate you can now probably hear a gentle rippling sound, (no, it’s not the feeble hum of your computer’s fan) but the faint echo of the self-congratulatory slapping ourselves on the back.

With all the winding roads, climbs and drops, delicious road-side fruit (Apples, boy, have we seen apples), we sadly deprived ourselves of much interaction with the local people, who watched us sail past quizzically with heads softly tilting backwards to acknowledge our apparent whim. “You can take the bus”, they say. But that is not our game.

Fortress of Tsar Samuil, Ohrid, Macedonia.

And before long the Via Egnatia, that ancient Roman trading-route slicing across the top of modern-day Greece and transporting all manner of goodies from Rome to Constantinople, spurted us out onto the the plains of Northern Greece. But more of that next time.

The final few kilometres near the Hellas border provided Francesca with her chart-topping top speed of 63.8km/hr! For those of you not bicyclely-inclined, be under no illusion. This is very fast indeed, particularly when fully loaded (a 45kg juggernaut no less). And Francesca’s face. It could not have been more memorable at the bottom of that hill. Suffused with adrenalin-joy and speckled with midges who simply had no time to take evasive action as she barrelled downwards. Sadly, there is no photo of this, but I hope you get the idea.

Not so Ohrible!

We are told that the even higher hills, deeper into FYROM, (ROM), or M, offer even greater opportunities to sample post-Yugo beauty (including skiing) and we do not doubt it. The brief (less than 3 days) time  we spent in Macedonia was fun indeed but we can sense the open seas of Mediterrean Greece are close and the end of Leg 1 of our journey is nearing…..

So much for those lily-livered promises of being attentive to our blog. This post has been slow in the making but we look like we may have managed to squeeze our time in Albania in to the following: so here goes….

Albanian How (We think)

What did we know about Albania before arrival? Barely anything. We had even (we confess) struggled to name the countries it borders. But here we were, entering the flats of the north. The flats, ho ho, not quite. There is indeed a strip of broad valley that runs from Shkoder (curiously cycle-central) in the north to Tirana in the middle but do not be misled. Albania is seriously mountainous.  The Albanian Alps lay just off to the east and looked dark and imposing, disappearing into the hazy heat-soaked clouds. Undoubtedly, if such peaks were located in central (old) Europe, there would be drooling and a pride of place in the pantheon of alpine greats and the permanent members (Switzerland, Austria, France etc) would have no credible quibble at Albania being part of the club…. but this is not a fashionable part of the world. Decades of strict communism and the iron hand of the paranoid dictator Hoxha have meant that there has been limited exposure for Albania to the rest of the world.

A concrete Brussel Sprout? No, just one of 700,000 bunkers nationwide

This is a new democracy (it ‘celebrates’ 20 years this year) and, from the residents we spoke to, democratic life very much remains in its nascent stages, yet there is a strong sense that acquiescence to despotic rule will not be a fact of Albanian political life. Indeed, during demonstrations in Tirana in January this year four demonstrators were shot by security forces in the heart of the capital, in fact spitting distance from the “buzzy” (we in fact loath Lonely Planet vocabulary) area where we stayed with our super-kind host, Allison.

While there is much to be heartened by, Albania remains impoverished and corruption is endemic (a core complaint of protesters) and very much forms a daily part of life here, from the 8 year-old schoolboy who must bribe his teacher to pass exams, to the super-educated elite working within international organisations who simply want a job that their skills and sacrifice clearly merit.

We entered Albania with some preconceptions (prejudices) and momentarily one of them was re-enforced when the bottle of coca-cola (our rocket-fuel) that was lashed to the back of Sam’s bike was brazenly swiped (mid-traffic) by a 10 year-old child. Cheeky blighter.

Our initial feelings about Albania, however, with its beautiful countryside depressingly smeared with rubbish tips at regular intervals, softened with each passing hour. The overriding response to us was one of friendly curiosity and warmth, not to mention the league-topping Albanian drivers who remain unsurpassed among the countries we have passed through for their courteous and considerate driving.

Beautiful and ancient Via Egnatia. Modern and ugly Junk.

But this blog is titled “At the Carwash yeah…”, and you may be puzzled so far. Well, the reference is this: For a country adorned with roadside crap, boy, do the Albanians love to have shiny spanking new cars. We ain’t talking your Ford Mondeo. This is the land where the latest high-end (and we mean seriously high-end) Mercedes, BMWs, Audi, Porsche and the rest of that gang of star motors come to die and live. For a country with a GDP per capita of around $7,400 per year, a number of questions spring to mind…anyway, ours is not to question why even if the minds of criminal defence lawyers whirr at the thought of such a motorised treasure trove.

Mercedes Heaven. Lovely jubbly motors

And maintaining your prized motor in such sparkling shape? Well that of course requires, in a dusty country, a lot of LAVAZH (Car-washes). In fact, millions. We would be surprised if a sizeable chunk of the national workforce did not have at least some link to the business and what appears to be a national pass-time.

Life in Tirana provided us with a moment to re-acquaint ourselves with some groovy 70′s tunes at one of the even groovier central bars. (They have even converted Old Hoxha’s former fancy down-town residence into a moody House-music bar/club uber-venue. Our days in Tirana were a pleasurable regenerative time before we were once more back on our metal camels and once more eastward. To the cooler (and altitudinuous) climes of the Albanian/Macedonia borderlands….

Check out the Albania pics here.