Next day off to Princes Island – Nick has already described out innocent old man who then robbed us blind.  I expect he lived in one of the Hollywood style sea front houses.  However it entertained us that evening.  We also had an encounter with our first celebrity lookalike – Hugh Jackman – but Turkish, a foot shorter, 20 yrs older and in flat cap with no smile.  After a tiring time walking the car free island gave us no choice but to grab Hugh, his 2 horses and tacky but colourful carriage. This was on our schedule at some point anyhow.  After much debate with 2 words and pointing to the tariff of street names we did not know, us pointing at a map – we think we got him to 30.  We had a 5 min journey through some woods – we decided to snuggle in and be romantic as that is what you must do when paying over the odds for a horse and carriage. The farting horse added to the romance.

The he stopped – pointed to the hill – he walked off without any facial expression and brought back his friend who could speak 5 words of English.  Much pointing of map – much pointing at hill – he told us we must walk up the hill as no horse, have a cup of tea and then carry on.  No – we just wanted to get back to “town” – after thinking we had agreed another price we set of again. We were clearly in the wrong as not acting like normal day trip tourists.

Prince’s island is a surreal place – playground of the rich in Istanbul when it got too hot – there are lots of wooden houses.  Some palatial and luxury to a Hollywood star standard, others have no roof and look like a house you would dare your mates to go in or be part of a film set for the Goonies or Addams family.  Lots of stray cats and dogs – all quite happy although some a little battle weary.  We were in the minority as everyone day tripping was Turkish; it was probably the equivalent of a trip to Blackpool.  The sea front cafes had old men playing cards, the girls all wore flower garlands in their hair bought by their young suitors.  I bought one as if felt I should although have no idea why.

Our second celebrity spot was David Banner – aka Incredible Hulk in the Ali Baba.  He was our chosen restaurateur for both evenings – on the boat over a chap had been given out free tea “from his heart” – he helpfully gave us a map with his restaurant name on – Ali Baba, it worked.  We had to battle through Turkish men hurling themselves out at us begging/complimenting and all had the best price and menu although these all seemed the same from our point of view.  David banner had a great toothy smile – mix of sincerity/insanity and charm – I would not make him angry though.  He pulled out all the stops – the second evening culminated in fresh flowers for our table and an amazing fruit display with a bowl of firelighters in the middle like a virgin fruit sacrifice. I wish we could have stayed just to see what he could produce the next evening.  Our several male waiters were inefficient but attentive – one UK woman could have replaced all of them.  One wore a fonz like leather jacket whilst serving, the only requirement is a sparkling white shirt & no smiling.  David the boss was allowed to smile and talk to the sacred guests. There was a portly man in a suit inside who seemed to deal with bills nut not approach any customer – money seemed to be a very serious male business.  An enlarged photo of Ataturk eating there was pride of place.  Each evening cost exactly the same – each evening the choice – fish or meat.  Our extra baklava and surprises were not requested or ordered but tasted better for it.

On our return our ferry arrived 10 mins after our Turkish Haman appointment had started.  Another true taste of Istanbul was our taxi ride across the main commercial centre, through the aqueduct and a few sharp turns down packed cobbled streets.  The method is to keep going –any hesitation would cause an accident.  A British driver in the one way cobbled streets packed with pedestrians & coaches would take 30 mins compared to his 4 1/2.

The Haman is one of the only mixed/family ones, but the oldest and built and used by Suleyman in the 15^th C, so hardly like your local rec centre. – more for the tourists rather than the full cavity search by a hairy Turk a real one offers.  We dressed in cloth and were scrubbed with lots of foam and a bath mitt with loads of cold water poured over our heads.  It was very much like being washed down by your mum after a day in the mud, – however your mum was a young man in his 20’s with a towel round his middle and he poured more cold water on himself as was working with bubbles and in a sauna – literally. The massage was quick, firm and routine.  You are then shuffled along toward the changing area and another young man wraps you in cloth and you hobble through in your authentic wooden sandals.  No mirrors – just as well as a red faced Nick looked not so much Lawrence of Arabia as he hoped but more Terry Jones from Life of Brian. I doubt I looked very Sophia Loren though.    www.suleymaniyehamami.com.tr

It was Ataturk’s birthday – although he would be over 100 if still alive.  The city was covered in Vivid red Turkish flags.  From all the pictures and banners – he did somehow resemble the evil brother in Thunderbirds, but I can only say that from the comfort of the UK, he was a big deal, and they love him.  The others witnessed a big white limousine in the city with lots of kerfuffle to attend something important.  The chap was clearly a Turkish Super star. He could have been anyone to us – but quite nice that the blanket of samey western Hollywood fascination has not reached Istanbul… yet.

Finally we braved a trip through the grand bazaar on a mission.  This is a great place – so long as you like certain things & walking ten yards in 10 minutes.  Every third shop was pashmina – even I could not keep them all in business, yet they were all socialising and chatting, blocking the view of the stock. In the shirt shop he literally dragged Nick in and started dressing him – Nick looked at me with panic saying he did not like the shirt.  Luckily he has an expert shopper on hand – it was my turn to point and say yes or no as the man unpacked different shirts – real and fake ones.

We asked one chap who wanted us to sit and eat in his cafe how to get to the tram – he pointed and said good luck my friend.  That 400m took a long time, on the outside there were still more shops but with glass fronts. Alex had been there for 40 yrs despite being in his 30’s.  Alex Tacyildiz is our new best friend – he shut the shop door and was interrupted several times as he tried to secure our sale. We declined tea, as we didn’t want any and had not even looked at the shoes yet – he showed us his holiday pictures from Kenya to prove he did international trade – he wants us to go back in 2 yrs and thank him. The shoes were bigged up so much they have magical powers.  I babbled away like a fish on a hook, Nick is not a great fan of any shopping so his silence & boredom made him look like a serious man weighing up if the shoes would change his life or not.  He did not make eye contact and then swooped in with a crazy price, Alex laughed and bargained a tiny bit (£6.72) – he then took the price of the undrunk tea that we did not want of. (£1.68)   Success by British standards.  We bought the shoes – result for all.   We will remember him but I doubt we made the same impact. He earnt every minute of his sale – just for his standard of English alone he should be rewarded compared to our complete lack of Turkish.  Lets see in 2 yrs when we return to see if the mythically blessed shoes are still bouncing Nick from the promised success to success.

Our final evening in a fancy place for the tourists in the old town had lots of choice – such as chicken curry. We were grateful to be away from traditional cuisine – our waiters were dressed in matching “turkish” looking silk shirts.  The piano player & violin girl were playing various versions of Andrew Lloyd Webber mixed in with snippets of “ Those were the days”.  The chairs and table were chunky wood armchair style – it meant that with the background noise and distance you could hot near anything anyone said.  It was an old roman cistern, they had large iron “Errol Flynn” style chandeliers and go with the theme the tables had candelabras. Our waiter was a bit of a Turkish stud – the sort you don’t want your daughter to meet on holiday – however the other waiter who was lighting the candles bore an uncanny resemble to Egor.  Being so tall as well he had developed a sort of hump to add to the effect as he bent to light the candles.  All in all a good meal but twice the price, I missed being told what to eat and the simplicity of Princes Island. www.sarnicrestaurant.com

The Crew brothers debated for about a week on this blog about essence and the point of travel – Istanbul is all about colours, smells, banter and people, lots of them.  Impressive buildings are full of sounds and vibrancy, old men in a questionable variety of hats, old ladies with headscarves sat still watching wisely.  It certainly had lots of essence and therefore i feel travelled, even for only 5 days.

Al and I flew over to see the boys on Turkish Airlines, a surprise for me used to recently doing easyjet and Ryan air was the allocated seat, free drinks and palatable dinner.  Alot had happened in 4 weeks – but I spotted the motorbike jacket & “tanned” nose in the massive crowd at arrivals, hugs and kisses and a crazy night taxi ride in the torrential rain.  I hoped this was not the Istanbul feel for the next 5 days.  Rain had been predicted so I chose not to wear Bermuda shorts and flip flops like any true brit on a plane – I had jeans and a cardy, plus a jacket and pashmina.  I had in my case rather hopefully packed a bikini and floaty tops to aid with hot and sticky days ahead.  Alas my cardy/jacket/pashmina combo saw more use than I would have liked.

Our hotel was right in the tourist district but the guidebook said this meant it was quiet at night… maybe relatively compared to other parts of the city.  All mod cons – after reading marks recent blog about toilets I should think it was Nirvana. Istanbul seems to have gone for western charm but there always seems to be an element of eastern crazy – our room overlooked a rather stunning railway, a few abandoned land plots and looking into some poorer residential verandas and flats.  However if u looked beyond there was indeed a view of the Sea of mamara and its romantic oil tankers.

Buffet breakfast –I could eat via buffet every meal forever. This one looked fab but maybe on closer inspection there were about 6 plates of the same cheese in different formations. Lots of plates of coriander, olives (not for breakfast I am british), gloopy  jams and assorted breads etc.  Some fried breakfast items including chips, however I am not that british.

Shades firmly attached to my head out of principle: first day was spent getting our bearings and mooching about holding hands. We went up to the Blue mosque where I was very charmingly asked to put my tits away, my cardy had parted & my womanly disgrace was visible.   Before we went in there were the ladies WC – translated as “Place for woman” – I did comment I should know my place and there it was – signposted.  A note on carpets here – bare footed I walked sinking into the lush endless red carpets – I did have an urge to run beyond the barrier and roll around.  I sensed though maybe this would not be particularly seen as a good laugh.

Whilst sat in the open yard, there was a husband posing for pictures with his wife – in full Black burka.  Somehow this seemed really bizarre – it could have been a body double and no-one would know looking at the picture.  Imagine the slide show – oh that’s a lovely one of you Sandra, really brings out your eyes.

I am rambling and only on the first afternoon.  Each evening the 6 of us met at 7 for dinner.  The first evening we strolled just up the road and were typically ambushed with charming men jumping out with compliments and politely enquiring whether we liked carpets. Why yes, thank you I do – oh you want me to buy one. Well I guess so as I did not realise before what they were; I wondered why my feet bled every time I walked across my living room floor.  I love rugs and could easily browse for hours just looking at the fabulous patterns, or indeed roll about on them – but window shopping is not really an option in Istanbul – as indeed it seems free will and having an opinion.  But I should know my place.  It was signposted after all.

A roof top terrace meal overlooking an abandoned roof terrace in front of us, a roof top water tank and a distant glimpse of the sea and its oil tankers.

One more full day on mainland – just about got our bearings which is tricky until you study a map for a few hours.  My Istanbul moment came as we caught the tram up to the port just to check out any riverside restaurants – we found the cheaper Del boy style market in the subway and coming up into the sunshine a man offered – or Istanbul style told us to – take a ferry up the Bosphorus for 10 Lira ( £3.36 each).  Spotting a bargain we hopped on.  I realised I was without a coat and about to go out on a boat with rain threatening.   Nick had bought me under instruction to get a pashmina from the home of pashmina:  Kathmandu which he done so obediently without question.  For all readers who are pashmina aware – the real ones are of course made of pashmina wool – hence warm and worn by those Himalayan ladies for a purpose rather than accessory – to keep warm. Before I educated Nick in the ways of pashmina – he had thought I carried a comfort blanket.  Cut a long story short – you are grateful for a real one when at sea.

After we sat there for 40 mins – the helpful chap did not point out the boat would not leave until full, the call for prayer in the mosque opposite began.  Hence my real Istanbul moment – we could hear it reverberate and mimicked through the city.  It was spiritual, it is – and me being an atheist sounds a bit stupid too, but it was so beautiful & spell binding: to see everyone heading of to the mosque I suddenly found myself agreeing momentarily for organised oppressive religion.  I rather like the way you can gather several times and have a “slice” of silent personal worship rather than sitting through hours of sermon, boredom & guilt.

The houses on the banks of the Bosphorus are very Hollywood – the whole prosperous city seems to be stretched on river/sea fronts.  When it started to rain torrentially we headed downstairs and met an enthusiast Chicago man with a happy glint in his eye and his sour faced wife who had once been pretty – and their two guides.  He was fascinated with the bike trip & travel, he had circum-navigated all of Wales coastline in his by car back as a young man.  He was so knowledgeable about Istanbul and the culture/art I felt we had seen all the things by the way he described them with relish.

Coming off from the boat we docked/crashed into the more functional part of the port beyond the bridge and then stepped/dodged through a chaotic bus station and boats selling fresh fish kebabs.  As it started to rain we were surrounded by boys selling umbrellas – an offer of 1 lira then became 5 when I produced my purse.  Our hard bargaining brought us down to 4 lira (33p of but a victory).  The boys gathered together but did not fight or compete – all vendors I have noticed sell the same things in a group but help each other – it is all good natured and makes it a pleasure.  Some are mixed with sadness as a granny sits on concrete steps with piles of tissues next to her – not hassling you, but also not begging so with dignity.  Road side stands had come out at snack time selling home cooked pretzels, grilled sweetcorn, peeled apples etc.  I wish the uk could have this healthy fast food culture – cheap, fresh and delicious. But more – enterprising & hard working.  Alan Sugar would love it.

The Road Ahead

I awoke at nine o’clock with the light streaming through the gaps in the door, through the window shutters and through the door frame where it didn’t quite fit the opening in the wall which had been formed to accommodate it. I felt fantastic, fully refreshed and ready for anything. I would normally comment on the hardness of the bed or otherwise. However, I have absolutely no recollection of the degree of comfort offered by the bed, had I tripped going through the door, landed starfish like on the floor, I’d have slept where I’d fallen and still be in no position to comment on the relative degree of comfort offered by the concrete – I’d slept soundly.

After my morning ablutions, which consisted of inserting my contact lenses into my eyes having first giving them the most cursory of swills from the remains of my small bottle of water, retained, with untypical forethought, for the purpose. A swift visit to the Gents, the swifter the better as a Tibetan toilet is not a place to linger.

Perhaps a word on Tibetan toilets here may clarify exactly what this fully entails. I do, of course, fully understand if anyone reading this wants to skip this next paragraph or two. You see, Tibetan toilets, the one attached to guest houses at any rate, are indescribable. However I shall try. Before entering such edifies, I usually take a few deep calming breaths, as I like to confine breathing to the absolute minimum once inside. This is particularly difficult at altitude where I find it impossible to hold my breath for more than a second or two in order to take a photograph, even this short a time results in panic breathing. Any more than that and I’m sure I’d collapse – and believe me there are very few places in the world where I would choose to collapse and a Tibetan toilet is somewhere near the bottom of the list.

Upon entering such a place, having ensured that it is both absolutely necessary to do so and it is a matter of the utmost urgency, and of course, there is absolutely no alternative available, one is faced with the hole-in-the-floor. They will always be of the-hole-in-the-floor type, the stand and deliver, the squat and drop type – western toilets are never used. I desperately attempt to avert my eye from falling on the hole-in-the-floor, but somehow this is never possible. For one thing, one has to locate the foot plates upon which to stand, and worse, there is a morbid fascination that inexorably draws you eye to the hole-in-the-floor.

In the particular case of this one in Pelbar, or new Tingre (Tibetan towns frequently seem to have two names), light was emanating from the hole-in-the-floor, that and a light breeze. It appeared that the entire toilet block was suspended over the communal rubbish tip. This did give me some degree of comfort, seeing the light so to speak, as I was once advised in Tanzania, when using the dark hole-in-the-floor-type, to take a large stick and bang heavily on the hole-in-the-floor to scare off any bats that may be roosting below. I can imagine that frightening bats into flight once proceedings had commenced, must be, on a personal level, one of the world’s most shocking moments.

Once you have, to use the airline phrase, adopted the brace position, it allows you to check that the door is firmly closed, there is no lock, but as the door was only half height, the necessity for a lock is rendered largely superfluous. Should I encounter someone else during my hopefully short visit, I thought a cheery ‘Good Morning!’ might be the best greeting – first impressions are after all lasting ones.

I’m hoping that I’ve not exhausted my supply of euphemisms before commencing the last paragraph, because here’s where delicacy is paramount. After completion of the act one will, quite naturally, look about the small concrete cubical. You will find a large vat of water and a small, hand held witches broom. I shall draw a veil over the implied usage of these two items; suffice to say that the broom bore testament to frequent usage.

I like to think of myself as a worldly wise traveller; however there are certain matters that do expose me as a squeamish westerner. However, how much greater must the culture shock be for Greg, one of the film crew, who enquired of me “if I knew where the bathroom was?”

This was to be our last ride in Tibet, from Pelbar to the border town of Zhangmu. How we covered the final 135 km or so into Tibet and on to Kathmandu was left open. We could ride it on our Changs, that’s assuming the Chinese Authorities would allow the bikes to be taken out of the country or by taxi, it that was the wish of the Chinese border guards. It was, I was going to say in the lap of the Buddha, however, and not to be too prosaic, it was quite frankly, in the lap of the Peoples’ Liberation Army.

……the sky Tibetan blue and the air cold and Himalayan fresh it was a lifetime away. This was a moment to be lived in.

That was all in the future though, something to be resolved later. It was a whole day away and on such a beautiful Tibetan day with the sun shining, the sky Tibetan blue and the air cold and Himalayan fresh it was a lifetime away. This was a moment to be lived in.

“This is your last ride in Tibet, so how do you feel Mark?”

Such questions from the film crew I’d become so accustomed to answering that I’d assumed flippancy was appropriate. “It’s a fabulous biking day, what can possibly go wrong?” I seemed to remember answering.

The road out of Pelbar was tarmac, and smooth – beautifully smooth. Crisp clear watery sun bathed us with high altitude brilliance. This is a perfect day for Chang riding – slow, steady and purposeful – riding toward Kathmandu; to warmth and a climate more suited to human physiology.

After about an hour of probably the best riding I’ve ever done we pause to take our last views of Everest and her eight thousander sisters. We stop to take a few photographs and say our goodbyes to the mountains. Our next stop will be Nyelam, a small town with a main road running through it, a few hotels for trekkers and some restaurants dotted about. A lunchtime stop, before we plunge off the Tibetan Plateau; a two kilometre free-fall in less than twenty as it snakes through a narrow twisting gorge, over the Friendship Bridge and into the Kathmandu valley.

About an hour outside Nyelam, the sky darkened, low clouds scudded in from the south west, the direction we were travelling, what’s a little rain? It’s hardly the first time I’ve ridden in rain.

The warm moist tropical air that blows in from India is forced over the Himalayas where it turns, not to rain, but snow. OK, still no problem, I’ve ridden in snow before, only this time I’ve got a third wheel, so hardly an issue.

This snow, I will admit, was impressive stuff, supercooled at high altitude over the Himalayas, but as it doesn’t have far to fall to reach the Tibetan plateau, it lands supercooled. It stuck with unimaginable tenacity to whatever surface it hit, sucking every last drop of residual heat out of every surface it made contact with, freezing instantly into a solid mass.

The snow piled up on my visor with such ferocity that I was riding one handed, the right one on the throttle, the left one continuously clawing at my visor

My headlight was on full, although you wouldn’t think so as no light could possibly penetrate the supercooled, super-dense, snowy substrate that formed on its surface. The dynamo on a Chang barely has the power to illuminate the bulb, let alone find enough surplus energy for excess heat to melt the snow.

The snow piled up on my visor with such ferocity that I was riding one handed, the right one on the throttle, the left one continuously clawing at my visor to allow brief, fleeting glimpses of the road ahead.

Our first sign of Nyelam was a stationary queue of trucks stretching back several kilometres from the outskirts of the town. Overtaking them, we arrived at a military guard post; there was a barrier across the road. ‘There’s been a landslip’, we were told. ‘Road’s blocked you can’t go on’.

The guard only let us through as we were cold and very tired after riding through the snow. We could go into Nyelam, but only to find a hotel. We would not be permitted any further.

It was a relief to be allowed through. It was about four in the afternoon, the snow was still falling and it was getting colder, A hotel would be unbelievably welcome. With the road closed, it wouldn’t be long before all those people, who like us, thought they’d just be passing through Nyelam, on their way to the border, would also now be trapped here in Nyelam. It wouldn’t be long before the rather limited number of hotel beds would be used up.

As it turned out, finding a hotel wasn’t too difficult. What to do next was the harder decision to make. Information abut the road closure was in the true spirit of Chinese information dissemination; non-existent. In the absence of any official word on the subject, the rumour mill went into overdrive to fill the information vacuum.

‘It’s only a small landslide it’ll be cleared tomorrow’.

‘Thousands of tonnes of debris have fallen into the roadway, but heavy earth moving equipment will be brought in and the road will be open in a week’.

What was lacking in official promulgations was more than made up by unofficial pronouncements.

“I was there when the land slide happened, never seen anything like it. I was lucky to survive!” one Canadian told me.

Wherever the truth of the situation lay, a decision would have to be made. We were safe and comfortable in the hotel, but as is the case in the modern world, deadlines had to be kept, the world of work beckoned and our ordinary lives outside being intrepid motorcycle explorers lay there for us to return to, with increasing impatience.

The following morning a decision was made. We would check out of the hotel, ride through the barriers closing off the road and toward Tibet. Maybe a motorcycle would get through? The truck and its owner-driver were paid off. ‘We won’t be needing them any more’. We naively imagined.

The following morning, as planned, we checked out of the hotel. The bikes and the sidecars were loaded with our luggage, the cameras and the film crew for the attempt on the border. We left Nyelam discretely, that is as discretely as seven men on four vintage motorcycles, carrying film making equipment can be discrete. It appeared to us that the whole town had assembled, lining the main road to see us on our way. The interest in the success or failure of our mission suddenly became the focal point and the main conversation topic for every walker, hiker, trekker and mountaineer trapped in Nyelam. If we didn’t return then clearly there was a way through. However, should we return then the road was well and truly impassable. If a motorcycle couldn’t get through then there was certainly no hope of anything larger getting through. The implication of that would be obvious; unless you’re prepared to wait many weeks, even months for the road to be repaired. It’s a return to Lhasa, 1200 km along the only road. Our return would instigate a mass exodus from Nyelam. Every availed truck, taxi and Land cruiser would be commissioned for the retreat to Lhasa and the airport – the only remaining route out of Tibet.

Turkey began with a problem at the border and ended riding out in driving rain, but the intervening seven days were overwhelmingly good. The first problem was when reality dawned on me that you need to show your log book at borders. Mine was safely stored in Wales. This created a great deal of problems at the Greek/Turkish border, eventually resolved by peeling the chassis number from the bike to provide evidence for the mandatory green card insurance that you must buy at the frontier. The second problem to materialise shortly afterwards was that our Garmin GPS doesn’t work in Turkey. Whilst Istanbul is well sign-posted, finding a small hotel in Sultanahmad (the old city) would be more challenging.

The plan was well established. We would ride to Istanbul and then meet four people (respective girlfriends and a couple) who were flying out from the UK at the pre-booked hotel in Sultanahmad. Some frantic emailing and texting at the border ensured that my log book would be brought to Istanbul.

Turkish roads are at best variable, whilst the Turks themselves are invariably friendly and helpful. The ride to Istanbul was straightforward with two overnight stops, the second only a short-distance from the city. We had failed to buy a map of Istanbul so Mark planned a route into Sultanahmad using Google maps and using his GPS as a compass. The plan worked surprisingly well and we located the hotel with relative ease.

Three nights spent at the hotel were interspersed with two nights spent on Princes’ Island, an hour and a half on the ferry from Istanbul in the Sea of Marmara. Cars are essentially banned on the Island, so transport is by foot, or horse and buggy. There is also an elderly man at the port who will load your bags onto a trolley and push them uphill to your hotel for the price of a small dwelling on the Island. He doesn’t reveal the cost until he has completed the trip, with theatrical pauses to catch his breath and to take on water. It’s a great performance but not worth the money.

From Turkey we crossed the border into Bulgaria and then onto Romania. A night in Bucharest in a small hotel close to Ceausescu’s palace. It was close enough to stroll down the wide boulevards to get a good view of the enormous and imposing building. Apparently he bulldozed schools and hospitals to create the Bucharest that is a monument to his megalomania.

From Bucharest it was onwards north into Transylvania. Some great mountainous scenery and some fantastic twisty biking roads. A twenty mile backtrack to view “Dracula’s castle” – good to see the Romanian’s finally catching on to tourist opportunities.

One of the great things about this trip has been the kindness of  strangers. Two hotels in recent days have offered us parking for the bikes behind locked gates. On neither occasion did we ask for this. On each occasion the bikes have still been there next morning.

Shigadse really had potential, I mean, it even had beer garden… sort of. But certainly it had a nice place to sit and drink beer. It also had fries, excellent fries, probably the greatest fries in world, and in saying that I am only exaggerating a bit ! The hotel was simply breath-taking, it even had oxygen piped directly into the room. The purchase of a small credit card, which when inserted into the special bedside machine would provided hours of life giving gas, all with a comforting bubbling soundtrack as the o2 is filtered and diffused through a small bottle of some clear liquid. A healthy bong at 4100 meters above sea level! Oh yes, Shigadse really had potential, it also had a hospital.

We mostly saw the hospital.

The morning departure was as Mark described, his forgetting about the sidecar, and allowed it to achieve coitus with a dirt cart, briefly mounting the filthy machine before being left dented, paint scrapped, but happier and wiser in the street. Hell, we’ve all been there! I frankly found the whole affair comforting as it confirmed a prediction I had made, all Yoda like before we left Shanghai, “Sidecar you have! Forget it you will! ” referring to the early days of riding a Chang Jang, when I would merrily scoot down the street, not a care in the world, whilst dozens of Chinese people leaped salmon-like for their lives. Apparently “lǎo píao” does not mean “Onward my foreign friend.” Mark too had forgotten; my prediction had come true and I was feeling smug. I find feeling smug always lifts my day.

Rusty, the name of a brown and trusty CJ, was loaded onto the truck and I was demoted to sidecar, until with typical efficiency and clarity of thought we realised that why the hell was I in the sidecar when we had an extra bike? I was back on a bike and we rode in convoy out of Shigadse which I must say, really had potential!

The morning belonged to logistics, getting a new vehicle to speed Nick and I on our way, getting more footage, making some kilometres and refuelling the bikes by watering can, because apparently filling the bikes at the pump is too dangerous. So we drove, we filmed, we watered the bikes with highly flammable liquid, we visited a state sponsored monastery, rather clean and lacking the warm, thick incense, yak buttered atmosphere we had experienced previously, and then it was time to say goodbye.

In an inexcusably over-emotive moment of anthropomorphism I said goodbye to my bike, my Green Goblin, as Peter had named it, and there are many jokes here, but all inappropriate.

I photographed the little thing, looked longingly at the prayer flags I had carefully tired to the spare wheel and knelt in contemplative worship, giving an ancient warrior blessing to the God of bikers. Then I noticed that Greg had lost interest and had stopped filming me so I gave up. With a manly nod of the head to the rest of the chaps Nick and I climbed into the land cruiser. Not a tearful and soul-searching farewell to my companions of the past few days ( had it only been a few days?) not because I didn’t feel sad, or am an emotional homunculus, but because I was secure in the knowledge we were due to meet up again in few days in Kathmandu; swop stories, drink beer and reminisce about the fries of Shigadse.

Which just goes to show that however much experience you can muster, you can still be a damn naive fool. Something I have always prided myself upon!

The Green Goblin ( insert joke here)

The Road Down

The journey across the Tibetan plateau was speedy when compared to the Changs but still took hours upon hours, something like 9 in total. But I think, for every single minute of those hours I was captivated. Drawn to the unending stretch of enormous sweeping valleys, fringed with roadless hard-brown mountains that we sped past, all the vast geological forces were laid bare around us. It was wonderful, not as rewarding as on a bike, not as special as on a Chang, but the sights I greedily drank up were peerless. I was disappointed by not to be completing the trip, but the excitement of where I was, what I was looking at, beggared any negative thoughts, made them seem petty and ungracious.

Watching the people from the comfort of the land cruiser, cannot really be described by my weak-kneed and gasping eloquence. The Tibetans we passed were all busy, working the fields, and when I say fields it evokes, at least to my Welsh mind, green pastures. What I saw were mean, slender patches of the enormous brown, arid desert. They were churning it by hand or by yak plough, to grow God only knows what, barley, presumably, as it seems to be the only thing that can grow in such extremes.

Adjectives like resilient, tough, and hardy, spring to mind, but all are inadequate; I find it impossible to conjure any remote feeling of empathy for such a life. It isn’t humbling, it isn’t embarrassing to be whisked past in steel cocooned, air-conditioned machines, because it is all too alien. So alien there is no lingering feelings of some ill-defined guilt. You can, successfully forget what you saw, as you didn’t really understand it. What possibly remains, deep in whatever acts as a conscious is a profound sense of respect and awe.

We crossed later that afternoon into the Himalayan National Park and saw, across the rocky brown of the plateau the white and blue peaks of the tallest mountains in the world. It was intoxicating. I was imagining grabbing a tent, heading off road and rough camping, to see that sight in the clear of a morning. But we’re had a mission, we were to head to Zhammu, the boarder town on the Tibetan, Nepali frontier, where at 2000 meters Nick should start to recover. The mission was highlighted by Nick himself, who since the morning had started to become more and more sluggish and tired, as his blood, oxygen enriched from his over night stay at hospital had been depleted and now his lungs were failing to make up the short fall. I had bought many cans of oxygen from the hotel, and as we climbed a final time, the last major bit of altitude before diving off the Tibetan plateau and into the oxygen-rich tropical greenery of Nepal, Nick was devouring the bottles in the back of the land cruiser. The Himalayas in their mystical glory before me, and what sounded like Darth Vader on a scuba diving holiday behind me.

It feels like you literally drive off the plateau and free-fall, plunging into a twisting world of switchback roads, that drop you down, down, down. The road was under siege by the mountains, with frequent rockfalls that have whisked away the reinforced steel shuttering that had been placed along the roadside. It was geological time in fast forward, almost as if you perceive the grind and thrust of the millions upon millions of tonnes of rock, that now, as we were deeper in the valley began blocking out the fading sun.

As the sunlight finally began to fail, there was a sudden rush of crashing water, and green flowed back, bathing the roadside with thick growth. Far below, at the foot of the steeply shelving valley roared the river, white foaming past massive boulders that had been swept down in rages past.

Still the valley went on. Just when I’d think we’d reach the river, the road twisted again, the valley turned on its edge and the river dropped away again, crashing down a new gorge, the road had to tentatively pick its way around. As night fell the gorge grew steeper still as the vegetation loomed thicker and black outside our window. The sheer drop at the edge of the pitted road, seemed to leap, animal- like from one side of the car to the other as we wove ever lower following the lights of cars, that kept disappearing far below. Finally, Zhammu was before us, a town perched on one side of the spectacular gorge, hotel, restaurants and houses clinging to the walls, while water poured in a perpetual noisy roar all around.

We ate a late night curry at a restaurant, just down the steep road (all roads are steep in Zhammu) from our hotel. The faces of the staff already owed more to the Indian plains than the high plateau, and it struck me; we had left. We were still in Tibet, still under the jurisdiction of the Chinese, but we had left behind Tibet, what makes Tibet special, unique, the things we had come to see and experience. And now it was behind us, somewhere up there in the darkness, at the end of a twisty road.

Everest Base Camp (Part 3)

It’s never a good thing to retrace your steps, in motorcycling as in life. The return ride from Everest Base Camp took a different route to the way up, Peter, the owner of the motorcycles, believed that there was an ‘old’ road that run from Everest base camp to Pelbar. A road now seldom travelled, so it would be unlikely to be heavily washboarded and by the same token, unlikely to be easily followed.

The night spent at Everest Base Camp was not a restful one. We all retired early after toasting absent friends, or in my case absent siblings. We not only toasted them, but we also drank a toast to George Everest, a great unsung Welsh hero after whom the mountain is named. Jon, Nick and myself were given a bottle of whisky in Shanghai along with strict instructions that is was to be carried to the ‘roof of the world’ where it would be opened and drunk at Everest base camp. In the event it was only myself out of the three of us that got a taste of the whisky and that’s all it was – a taste. Drinking at altitude is not recommended and in my case not possible as the altitude had begun to reassert itself again, with nausea and joint pain.

We followed the road that we used on the way up to Everest Base Camp for the first 20 km or so, and then swung to the left of our original track onto the western side of the Kama Valley. Col. Howard-Bury, during his reconnaissance of Everest in 1921, the first westerners to enter the Kama valley described it as “…..one of the most beautiful valleys in the world.”

Ninety odd years later I can fully concur with Colonel Bury, it has an astonishing beauty, but it’s far from the Wordworthian, Lake District beauty. The Kama valley has the most terrible, harsh, brutal beauty, a beauty with a complete indifference to human life. This part of the valley sees far less traffic that the route up. In over 100 km of riding we only encounter two other vehicles.

This is a very ‘new’ part of the world. The first western explorers came here less than 100 years ago, in fact humans only came here at all in the eighth century. I reflect upon the fact that my Chang was designed only 12 years after Mallory’s ill-fated attempt on Everest, indeed my Chang was already an old fashioned, 15 year old, design when Everest was eventually conquered in 1953.

Despite my tiredness – sleep at over 5 000m is at best fitful – I’m enjoying the ride immensely. I like the isolation, I’ve never been in such a landscape, it’s not just the stark beauty of the landscape that impresses, it’s the scale. The sheer vastness of everything, even the valley floor is over 4000 m above sea level. The snow covered mountains surrounding us are giants, the highest on Earth. Away to the south east I can glimpse Mount Makulu only 400 m lower than Everest making it the fifth highest peak in the world and with its four sided pyramid shape, it is in many people’s eyes, the most beautiful.

The first part of the road was easy to follow, it was rough, from the rock and stones that inevitably roll down from the valley sides, but, mercifully, it wasn’t washboarded. As we begin our first climb to around 5000 m, it starts to get colder, much colder, and the wind picks up to near gale force. The bike is pushed around by the wind, but this I find reasonably easy to control especially when the bike is on an un-cambered road.

The bike’s much harder to control when we’re riding along part of the route that’s been cut into a steep hillside. The valley sides are steep and with little or no vegetation to provide anchorage for the rocks and soil, they tend to be unstable.

Riding along the right hand side of the valley is where the problems begin to manifest themselves. A Chang has the sidecar on the right. To my left is a drop of around 100 m, not a vertical drop, just a very steep drop. A drop so steep that should you start to fall down it then stopping or steering would be rendered impossible, and sudden uncontrollable acceleration would be the only inevitable outcome.

Over many years the rocks, dust and soil from the top part of the mountain side have slowly percolated down to the road surface giving it a definite and quite pronounced camber to the left. Attempting to ride this road with the weight of the sidecar, now elevated slightly higher than the motorcycle, has the effect of wanting to turn the whole combination sharp left and over the bank. The only way to prevent this happening is to steer hard right. And to continue to steer hard right, for kilometre after kilometre. The bike will now (hopefully) plough straight on despite the bars being forced to the right. Changs are heavy bikes to steer on the finest tarmacadam, here on this loose, rough surface and at this altitude, it’s exhausting work.

At other times we ride across the valley bottom, where the track disappears and we can ride anywhere we choose. I ride through a small herd of Yak, who are widely dispersed over the valley floor as they seek out the sparse vegetation on which to browse. It’s one of those moments, a reality check moment. I go through my mental check list– yes this is me. I am riding a motorcycle in Tibet. That is Everest behind me and yes, those are Yaks.

Toward late afternoon after we’ve ridden around 70 km, we arrive at a small village. A village, but only in the only loosest sense of the term; it’s a collection of mud brick houses, surrounding a central compound. There’s no school, no shops, no village hall, no church, no temple and no doctor. In fact nothing that appeared to give it any sense of a place, a place that is, with a community identity. Nobody seems interested in us being there, this is unusual in China, as a more curious and friendly people you’ll be unlikely to find anywhere in the world.

Eventually a couple of children come to see us and to hold out their hands for money, they have beautiful smiles but precious little else. They’re dressed in rags. Rags which have years of dirt engrained in then. In exchange for 1 Yuan each I take their picture – in the shadow of Mount Everest.

As we ride away, it’s hard not to wonder what the future holds for those kids.

Years of grinding poverty?

No education? And certainly no prospect of them even knowing more that their ancestors did a thousand years ago?

A premature old age without medical care?

Cataracts from the UV?

I feel uneasy. Guilty even, that I only gave them 1 Yuan, but should you give them more? Should you give them, say, 10 Yuan? This is quite possibly as much as their parents will earn in a week?

Should I have given them food?

Should I even be here at all? A westerner on a motorcycling holiday, who moans because his motorcycle is a little bit old fashioned. Time for another reality check; yes, and this is hard to accept, yes this really is the 21^st century.

The following hours riding takes us back onto the friendship highway, the G318 linking Lhasa to Katmandu, just a few short kilometres brings us to Pelbar or New Tingre, same place, different name, not such a rare occurrence in Tibet, and to the guest house for the evening. A guest house that has forced me to reconsider my opinion about the first guest that we’d stayed in back in Nangadse. If I’d described that as primitive, it was in comparison, palatial. But frankly I was beyond caring; it had green tea in copious quantities and a bed. I could want for no more. I fell into my bed at 7:00, pausing only to remove my motorcycling kit; I’d removed my helmet earlier to assist with the tea drinking, and slept for 14 hours.

Everest Base Camp (Part 2)

The second half of the ride is harder than the first, not because the road itself has become harder or that the bike has suddenly become more recalcitrant. It’s tiredness creeping in, the lack of sleep over the past two nights is starting to take an effect, that and the wash boarding, the endless wash boarding is beginning to take its toll.

When large 4X4s continuously use a piece of dirt road, the road yields to the resonant frequency of the 4×4’s suspension, creating a uniform, rhythmic, corrugated wash boarded surface to the road. Further 4×4 use exacerbates this problem as the road is now feeding back the resonant frequency into the vehicles suspension, which has a further effect of the road…….

The result on my poor Chang was a medium frequency, uncontrollable shake, the suspension crashed around underneath me, completely unable to prevent any of the crashing and jarring being fed into me. I was becoming exhausted – we were steadily climbing to the 5250 m height of Everest Base Camp – show any weakness to the altitude and it is merciless.

In my tired and oxygen deprived brain, I began to long for a modern bike, a KTM or something similar, with huge suspension travel and the power to accelerate over the wash board, when the front wheel goes light and the bike begins to float over the ruts, I would get to my bed in about a third of the time the poor old Chang is taking. A more positive take on the Chang is that I was by now going so slowly that a crash would almost certainly just have me rolling off into the dirt – probably, the peace from the endless crashing would be a relief, allowing me to fall asleep exactly where I fell.

This thought also put my KTM fantasy into perspective a crash at far higher speed could be more problematic – the nearest western hospital is probably Shanghai 5 000 km away. Kathmandu is much closer and has, by all account, a good hospital, being closer may not be much help though, the route is blocked by the Himalayas.

I wondered at the wisdom of building a monastery in such an inhospitable, one is tempted to say god forsaken, place.

At around 10 km from Base camp, we pass a monastery, claimed to be, and I have no argument with this, the highest monastery in the world. It was a crude mud brick building, which had once been painted white. The usual Tibetan prayer flags, frayed and faded by the sun, were flapping in the wind – now blowing at near gale force and cold, bitingly cold. The forecast was for -6C at night, but it felt colder, the wind cut into every part of exposed skin.

I wondered at the wisdom of building a monastery in such an inhospitable, one is tempted to say god forsaken, place. But, maybe that’s the point; to build one in a more conducive spot may have seemed less devout.

I would like to say much more about the last 10 km, my final approach to Everest, but all I remember is cold, tiredness also, but mostly cold. Everest base camp arrived suddenly I just remember riding in and lining my Chang up with the other three.

There was great whooping and cheering, high fives, handshakes and hugs. Actually there wasn’t. All I and everyone else wanted was to get out of the wind, and the cold, and the dust. I’ll be honest; I was disappointed with my reaction to being here as well!

Tibetan tents are the most homely, comforting and inviting places I have ever been in. You walk in and it’s instant peace, instant warmth and very possibly instant Karma.

Thick, heavy and made of closely knitted yaks’ wool, Tibetan tents are astonishing! They have the cossetting comfort and warmth of a well-loved duvet and they generate the same feelings of security, solidity and permanence that you expect of a room at the Savoy.

We were invited into this warm palatial tent, warm because the yak dung stove in the centre was working flat out. We were gestured to sit on carpet covered sofas and given copious amounts of tea. I was just allowing myself the thought of well that’s it were here, when our Chinese fixer, downed his tea and said “hurry last bus leaves soon!”

As a nation, China amazes, irritates and simply dumbfounds in equal measure, even to the point where you’re not sure exactly which emotion you’re experiencing or indeed should be.

“Micmar, I thought we were at Everest base camp”.

“Yes, yes we are. But the best views of the mountain are 4.5 km away at the very top of the valley – and there’s a bus!”

Mount Everest is a sensitive border region with Nepal, it’s a border therefore sensitive, goes the Chinese logic.

Mount Everest is a sensitive border region with Nepal, it’s a border therefore sensitive, goes the Chinese logic. The Chinese military won’t allow personal vehicles to be taken up to the head of the valley for that reason. However, they do lay on a fleet of small rugged busses for the sole purpose of ferrying all the visitors who wish to make the trip to the foot of the mountain.

“And bring your passport!” shouted Micmar.

This being China, you don’t question such requests. I really didn’t want to leave the warmth, and peace of the tent, but being stoic and dismissing such thought as unworthy, I put on my full motorcycling kit (apart from the helmet so as not to look too silly) and got on the bus.

The bus stopped at a military check point where we were ushered inside for passport and permit checks. This being China, and this being a military region, I was, as usual, unsure as to exactly what emotion I should be feeling at the overt stupidity of this pantomime.

“I appreciate that this is a border, but have you not noticed that it is arguably one of the world’s most secure borders, barred as it is by an 8000 m mountain, several in fact?”

Everybody thinks this, and everybody is wise enough not to say it.

The head of the valley is flat bottomed, no more than 600 m wide, its end is barred by Everest. I walk toward a small hillock in the centre of the valley; it’s only about 10 m high but takes most of my remaining strength to climb it.

When I get to the top I do as most visitors do, I take a few photographs of Everest.

Then I sit. Without really intending to we’d caught the last bus of the day so there were far fewer visitors than there usually would be on that hillock. It’s only now that it begins to filter through my brain, maybe it’s lack of oxygen, maybe tiredness, maybe I’m a bit slow on the uptake, whatever it is, I now suddenly become very aware of where I am and what I’m seeing. That is Mount Everest, this is me.

This is me, that is Mount Everest.

There’s no one in front of me. I have a completely uninterrupted view. And I sit. And I stare.

Everest Base Camp (Part 1)

I left Shigadse hospital with mixed emotions. The ride to Everest base camp was meant to be the highlight of the trip. In all honesty, I still expected it to be that, but the journey was not meant to start with Nick and Jon being driven off in a Land Cruiser, Nick through altitude sickness and Jon on sick duty. Not crashing my motorcycle into the back of an ash cart, would have also helped to give the big day a more auspicious feel as well.

Still, we were on our way to Everest. The first twenty kilometres were on tarmac and easy, it was a bright sunny day, a little cold, but the forecast predicated a high of 10 C, so excellent motorcycling weather. The rhythm of the ride arrived early; the absolute shock of riding in such a foreign place has disappeared, replaced by a pleasant familiarity with the alien landscape.

The entrance to Everest National Park, or Choumolounga National Park to use the Tibetan name is guarded by a military check point, it is after all a border region with Nepal, and China is sensitive over such matters, indeed the sensitivity of the Chinese over many such matters cannot be overstated.

Once through the barrier, the road turned to dirt, obviously well used, mostly by Land Cruisers – the 4 x 4 of choice, and by small, rugged tour buses. I’ve ridden off road before, although never anything like this distance and it was also on a modern moto-cross machine.

The scenery has become extreme, it’s dry, dusty, barren, oxygen starved and UV blasted, barely a living thing grows……..

The road narrowed and started to wind back on itself in a series of switch backs as it snaked its way to the top of our first 5 000 m pass, actually at around 5 300 m it was higher than Everest Base camp. The scenery has become extreme, it’s dry, dusty, barren, oxygen starved and UV blasted, barely a living thing grows here. I really don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere so harsh and unfriendly to life.

We stop on the top of the pass for photographs, interviews with the film crew and coffee. I really enjoyed that ride up to the pass, only about 20km or so, but it was fabulous. The Chang is a hard bike to ride, ordinarily on an off road bike one stands on the foot pegs, with your body held quite fluid. Your legs act in conjunction with the bikes suspension to absorb the bumps. Steering is accomplished, not by violently wresting the bars in the direction you want to go but by subtle shifts of body weight and smooth small movements of the bars. The much greater power output of a modern bike also assists the control by allowing the back wheel to be slid through a corner.

On the Chang, none of these techniques are available to you. You sit bolt upright on the seat, the bike crashes around underneath you as the pre-war suspension soon gives up the un-equal struggle of attempting to absorb the rocks, stones, ruts and pot holes of a Tibetan dirt road. The jarring and crashing is fed into your body through your arms, legs and through you poor bottom. A Chang needs to be steered through the turns, great sweeping movements are required, clearly leaning your body weight isn’t going to work as its got a third wheel. And its heavy work – the bars require a great deal of effort.

Achieving the top of the pass is, however, worth that effort. I park my bike in the full view of Mount Everest and several of her surrounding 8 000 m peaks. It is I that is view of them, to put it the other way around seems inappropriate, sacrilegious even. I sit on my Chang looking out over the view and attempt to take in what I’m looking at, it’s so alien that it takes a conscious thought process to evaluate exactly what I’m looking at – that or my brain is addled by the lack of oxygen. Micmar, our Chinese fixer, hands me a cup of coffee, it’s boiling but, bizarrely, not hot. At this altitude water boils at only around 83C. Coffee has always been part of my wake up routine; here it’s a more poignant ‘wake up’ – a wake-up to the reality of where I am.

I don’t want to leave this pass; I know I’ll probably never be as high again

I don’t want to leave this pass; I know I’ll probably never be as high again. I know I’ll never see such a view again and quite frankly, after riding such an inappropriate motorcycle to this height, to ride down to the valley floor seems so anticlimactic. The ride down is less dramatic than the ride up, taking about thirty kilometres to descend from the pass so there are fewer and less extreme switch backs. At ‘only’ about 4 000 m the valley bottom is more friendly to life, there is more greenery, if you look hard enough, and even the occasional yak. Our lunch time stop is in a small village, which appears to have no name.

It lies about halfway along the route to Everest base camp. Perhaps it has no name because; perhaps it’s not a real ‘official’ village. It seems to be desperately poor, a collection of mud brick houses, a litter strewn stream and a restaurant! A restaurant like no other I have ever been in. Mud brick built and Yak dung heated. The owner appears to be a wealthy man, wealthy that is in comparison to his fellow villages. It appears that it was he who realised the potential of selling food to the passing ‘big nose’ tourists as they ply their way to Everest Base Camp.

A short word on Chinese food may be helpful here. The Chinese, and please pardon my sweeping generalisations here, tend to make some very nice rice based dishes, egg fried rice being a particularly nourishing and readily available staple. Noodles too are popular, wholesome and plentiful, a ubiquitous staple that never fails to disappoint. I tend to favour the bowls of noodles that don’t contain the pork, because, well meat in China can be a little, inconsistent. It’s here with the meat that were come to the nub of Chinese cooking. Meat dishes, from my experience in China, tend to have some rather lovely sauces, however Chinese butchery skills tend to be, err how’s best to put this, rudimentary.

Chicken tends to get served in three forms; chicken that’s been hit with an axe, chicken that’s been run over with a truck and exploded chicken. And if like me, you’re not a fluent Chinese reader then there’s no way of knowing which form of chicken you will receive in your choice of dish.

Here in Tibet, where yak is popular and may I add, quite delicious, the butchery followS the same basic tenants as for the chicken, although obviously on a much larger scale. I once ordered a yak curry which the menu described as ‘yak that’s been hit by the Shanghai to Nanjing express, served in a light and creamy butter masala sauce’. Now I wouldn’t swear to that being an exact literal translation of the menu, but I feel I’ve caught the gist of it.

After my egg fried rice and several cups of Yak butter tea, I go outside to take some photographs before we re-commence the ride. I feel so sorry for the donkeys and mules that spend their working lives in harness, hauling improbable loads at impossible altitudes and doing so with extraordinary compliance and patience. I can’t help being reminded of ‘Boxer’ the cart horse in Animal Farm, who worked himself to death because he believed that it was the right thing to do. Orwell may have known the human condition, but he also knew animals as well.

It’s time to go, we have a further 50 kilometres to go horizontally, and one and a quarter vertically.

Mark arrived in Kathmandu on Tuesday (8th May) and we flew to Doha, Qatar the following evening. A five hour “overnight” stop in a swish hotel and we were off on the early morning flight to Athens on Thursday morning. We booked a hotel at the airport on arrival, received with the ever cheerful “it’s very easy to find from the station”. We lugged our bags into the  relevant bus and proceeded into town, sadly with no basis to identify the relevant station.  Sometime into the journey we randomly disembarked the bus and took a taxi to the hotel.

The next day we ordered a taxi to the offices of ITC, who we believe had shipment of our bikes. Fifteen kilometres or so in a taxi and we were dropped at an unlikely location – a sort of lorry park with loading bays. A lap around the building revealed some small offices inside, one of which turned out to be ITC. We arrived about 8.45 – there was no one there. Some girls in a neighbouring office ventured that maybe we could expect someone to be there by 9.15.

This proved to be near enough accurate and a helpful girl offered us coffee and water when she arrived. Friendly though she was it was little comfort to learn that the bikes were not here – they were about 30 kilometres away and the location was “complicated” to find. We ordered a taxi and were given the telephone of Nikos who would talk our taxi driver in. It was indeed complicated and there were long and occasionally incredulous exchanges between the taxi driver and Nikos. Eventually we arrived at the “NAF” warehouse and the two splendid crates that held our steeds were revealed. Two guys helped us unpack – essentially smashing the crate apart with a hammer. The bikes were largely intact – top boxes needed to be re-attached and some fuel located. Both bikes started and we headed back to the hotel to pack.

In honesty Mark’s packing is better than mine. My bike looks like someone has stacked two oversize bags on the back seat; ungainly at best, precarious at worst. We set off in the afternoon heading north east towards the Aegean sea. First impressions of Greece are favourable. It doesn’t look like a country on its arse. It has no Government and is in danger of defaulting on Government payments if it doesn’t negotiate a bailout and yet there is an everyday normality about everything. The Greek people are kind and friendly.

We spent 3 nights in Greece, gradually winding our way towards the Turkish border. Some lovely sea views, with picturesque hills inland to complete the vista. We reached the Turkish border on Sunday. There was an immediate problem – they wanted to see the log book for my bike. It was at home. You need to buy green card insurance at the border and for this you need to produce your log book. A standoff ensued. Eventually it was decided they could issue the green card if I produced the chassis number. This was eventually located on the frame, where it was unreadable. It was carefully peeled off and offered up.  The Green Card document was issued and we entered Turkey after some delay.