Dog-Biscuit and Far Eastern Turkey

Dog-Biscuit and Far Eastern Turkey

We arrived in Doǧubayazit situated in far eastern Turkey, to find it's a fair resemblance of it's Lonely Planet travel guide description. If I recall correctly, it goes something like; 'a dusty little frontier town' ... Riding to town was a not-so welcoming sight. The first thing I saw was ...nothing. Well, when I say nothing, it was because I couldn't see a thing due to the real live full-on dust-storm, which had quickly blown up. How did they know?

Star Wars ....It put me in mind of that scary frontier town on Tatuin, in the very first Star Wars film. You know the one ... where the heroes walk into town, and all the inhabitants look as though they'd cut your throat for a fiver. The band are playing in a seedy looking bar, and only stop when someone gets their arm cut-off by Sir Alec Guiness, AKA Obe Wan Kenobi (nobody's called me that for years) after whipping out his light sabre. The band resume playing, and the background chatter filters back ...

Just before entering town I'd pulled over to wait for Bjorn, who'd stopped to take photo's a few Km's back. The wind was still making travel conditions difficult. I watched the fairly spectacular, if somewhat purturbing sight of a huge reddy brown cloud of dust that created an opaque curtain, and which obsured everything apart for Mount Arrarat looming high above. I knew that this lofty peak was close, but didn't expect it to be so imposing. There were cars coming and going along the main route in, but the point of focus came and went in the hazy gloom. Across the road a small band of people, mostly women and youngsters were digging and filling wheel-barrows with something. Tatty looking buildings could occassionally been seen a short way beyond the activity, and depending on the density of the dust came and went from view. The 'something' remains to this day unidentified, but whatever it was, it was being transported across to this ramshackle township. The thought occurred, of what life could be like for these people. And went on to wonder if weather conditions like this were a regular event for them? If so, then I couldn't imagine this would be a nice place to live ...

First impression's then weren't too good, and were confirmed shortly after entering the town with my travel buddy, who'd caught up a few minutes later. Shortly after riding in, we pulled up to confer, and were instantly accosted by a handful of predatory boys aged around 10 or so. “Money!” came the demand in clear conscise English. Yeah, right? ... As if we were going hand over a big wad of dosh upon casual request? Largely we ignored them, and after a brief parley, rode towards the centre. Again, the image of Star Wars came to mind. Small densely packed streets with people busy about their business, though shouts and whistles in our direction meant we were'nt going to blend in unnoticed. Bjorn's assumption that we were going to find a really cheap hotel, were dashed by the first place on the main drag who asked for 60 Turkish Lire. Crikey, that was steeper than the last place in Erczinum, which definitley had more going for it. Second attempt at haggling with Hotel Arrarat was pretty much the same, but we eventually found a small and accomodating, and more importantly with my dwindling funds, a cheap hotel.

But as it turned out, it wasn't as dodgy as it's first tawrdy impressions hinted at. Though it most definitely had an 'edge' that we'd not detected during our stay in other parts of the country. A conversation over beer and kebap during the latter part of the evening, found us agreeing that we'd crossed an invisible barrier over the course of the day. A barrier where conventions we were used to existed one side, and something else on the other. It had to be somewhere before Agri, because a short fuelling pit-stop earleir that day saw a crowd of guys surround me while I was filling up.

They seemed pretty animated, as I must have been quite an unsusual sight in their quiet unassuming servo'. One of their number tried for all his worth to flog me an aging and well-used pair of Zeiss binoculars. ????? Now, did I honestly look as if I was the kind of person who's sole purpose for coming to Turkey, was to find a good pair of binoculars? Or perhaps I was being unkind, and this was the holy grail of the binocular world, with magical powers to see into the future ... or distant galaxies maybe? Or maybe looking into them was akin to seeing god? The prospective salesman actually called over one of the local police, who'd been sat minding-his-own. I guessed he was summoned to add weight to the negotations, but I'd already picked up on the fact he was a kind of mate of theirs, and therefore not in attendance in his official capacity. Some minutes whizzed by, as this somewhat bizzarre scene unfolded, which had all the hallmarks of going on for hours if I let it. Guessing this was simply some kind of entertainment to break up a dull afternoon for the gas-pump gang, decided to terminate matters. And so I said to the 'Arfur Daley of Agris' that 'I had to be off', and knowing he wouldn't understand, told him I just 'didn't have room for his wonderful bino's, no matter how much of a bargain they were'. Hitting the start button, bid them all adieu and rolled out back onto the road again.

Somehow, even though there was only the one main road, Bjorn and I lost each other. Looking in my mirror could no longer see the fuzzy reflection of a motorcyclist behind me, so slowed down to see if he appeared. He didn't, so decided to stop and wait for him to catch up. 10 minutes go by and assume he's stopped to take photographs again. I dawdle on doing 50/60Kms/hr for half and hour and then stop again. Another 20 minute wait and am starting to wonder if there's a problem and should go back. Not so, as he rocks-up some 10 minutes on, motoring at a rate of knots. He'd obviously been going some, to catch me. It turned out he'd followed the sign for one of the towns on our route, but the main road skirted it as a ring-road. So instead of the leisurly tour I'd had to get where we were, he'd found himself fighting the rush-hour madness of a local bazaar town.

Now I've been across a few poorly maintained roads during my many years of motorcycling, but to ride through road-works that went on for tens of kilometres was a novelty. There were a few slightly hairy moments as I had weave quickly around axle-deep deep pot-holes, as well as sudden changes in the road surface where it went from solid to loose and on occassions dangerously large chunks of gravel. Again, for those not familiar with some elements of motorcycling, dealing with loose surfaces ranges from something like fun and exciting on a Sunday afternoon's off-roading, to scary as hell at the end of a tiring days travel. One stretch was around 5K and was simply gravel spread rough-shod right across. And I do use the term 'road' with some prudence. To be honest, it wasn't so much road works to maintain the bloody highway, as road-building. Once more my western expectations had caught me out. What I was experiencing was the building of a motorway, while I was riding on it. Most novel!



Yeah, that's me in front of the wagon. I was fed up of eating his dust, so blatted past on a very loose surface!


Doǧubayazit was our last Turkish town. The migration eastwards continued, with the next country on our list being Iran. Potential owner of nuclear power, thorn in the side of the Yankee empirical war machine and with a leader that seemed to take great joy in baiting Bush & co. More importantly though, Ave'mydinnerjacket's eyes are too close together. Another border crossing beckoned.

Goreme valley and the land beyond

Garfield in Cappadocia (or is it Capadoccia?)

The ride from Bandirma to Capadoccia went without incident, though was both a warm ride and a long one yet again. As it was dusk and didn't want any night riding, it was decided to take a stopover in a small town just before Goreme. That way there was only a short stint the next morning, to get to the intended destination. Glorious sunshine and a clear blue sky heralded our arrival.

The spectacular scenery of Cappadocia hits fairly quickly, and after a 20 minute ascent past hilly scrub, the surrounding land gave way to something resembling a moonscape. The rocks appear to have been carved into the land or set in place by some gigantic hand, and to add to the effect, the shaping of the rocks had been added to by man. The term Fairy Chimney's had been coined to describe the style of building, in which people had made their homes. Research shows that Troglodytic living has been a tradition in this place, going back at least a couple of thousand years ...

We took a modern cave-room in one of the modest paynsion we'd short-listed, so air conditioning wasn't needed. It stayed a fairly even temperature night and day, and became a cool sanctuary after a day’s exploration. Bjorn booked a balloon flight, so an early start saw him disappear for an arial-photoshoot. Later that day we rode along to the open air museum. The museum it turned out, was a monastery who's history spanned a couple of millennia, and was evidently a place of Pilgrimage during much of it's time as a place of worship. While often primitive in style, the paintings inside many of the cave-churches were an evocative reminder of the lifestyle of earlier inhabitants. There was evidence too, that mealtimes were very important for these early inhabitants, as dining tables and benches had been painstakingly carved directly out of the rock inside several of the caves. Christianity was the influence, as there was a representation of the last supper painted onto one of the walls.

Cook-up at the paynsion

Goreme valley turned out to be another unexpectedly pleasant spot, and wouldn't hesitate to recommend anyone visiting it. There's enough to see and do to keep most visitors interested for the better part of a week. And although it's a touristy, didn't find it prohibitively expensive. Travelogue over, and back to the BLOG.

A 2-night stay, and we were once again on the road East ...

Two more towns, two more stopovers and our migration across the map of Turkey was nearly complete. There was a definite change somewhere after Erzincum. One of the hotels asked us not to bring our beer inside the building to drink, which was an indication that the mood of the country was becoming less moderate. The other more dramatic change was that we were shrinking into the landscape, as the scale of everything increased. The mountains were bigger and loomed ominously in the distance, across often windswept and desolate looking plains.

This wind was to add to the factor of difficulty on some rides, with us sometimes having to compensate by riding at an angle several degrees off of vertical. A truck goes by and we fall away, as it briefly blocks the incessant gale. Eventually we get to learn to judge the moment, and are able to make the necessary adjustment. So neither fall off the road, or depending on the direction of the blow, veer dangerously in towards the oncoming traffic.

With Turkish earth moving under our wheels eating up the map eastwards, the Iranian border beckoned. But before that was one more stoppover in demi-Asia. Dog-Biscuit!

Bandirma, Bora & Istanbul

Well Hi everyone ... Bout time I got in on the act. Here's a photo taken from on top of an Istanbul'ian tower. The name of which escapes me right now ... Please note the Sightsavers International T-shirt, so still 'plugging away' on their behalf. If you've got a spare fiver, then please bung it their way, as the donations have slowed to dribble since I've left the UK.

http://www.justgiving.com/lenz And here's the link again to make it easy for ya!

You'll be glad to know I'm finally getting my act together, and so there should be more piccy's appearing in most of the 'postings' from here on in.



Anyway .... on with the BLOG!

Bandirma, Bora & Istanbul

“I've been this way before” I think, as I stand on the deck of the ferry crossing the narrow strait towards the 'Asian' side of Turkey. God, it looks familiar ... maybe even the same ferry and the same spot on the boat, where I had a leg-stretching wander, on a long bus-ride to Istanbul from Dalaman airport. during a previous visit.

Ferry crossings are something that I generally enjoy. It's usually a break in any journey, to get out (or my case off) of whatever you're travelling in, whether bus, car or whatever and move legs and limbs that have been fixed in one sitting position for sometimes hours at a time. Most of my ferry crossings have been across La Manche, and were a welcome pause during the mad dash to visit my kids in France. This was different though as I was a long way from home, and a very long way from the final destination in Ozland.

Long tiring rides were beginning to become something of a routine, so once more would be glad to come into land. There was a prospect of stopping for a few days to catch up with myself and my emails, as well as a 'phone-home' sesh' on Skype. Coming off of the ferry I could've easily stopped, laid down and slept right there and then. I didn't want to go on, but forced tiredness and monotonous scenery into the background, in order to continue and finish the day's riding in Bandirma.

Two hours or so after getting off the boat, I arrived there. My first impressions weren't too promising and appeared to confirm Lonely Planet's downbeat description. Installing myself into a hotel on the main street, head off out for a nose-about and spotted Bjorn riding into town. After blatting our seperate ways across Europe, we'd met up at long last ...

With Bjorn in on the act, we renegotiated the double room discounted rate in the hotel. Accomodation organised, it was time for the serious business of finding beer and food as well as discussing plans for the next few days.

There was purpose in coming to this rather non-descript place. The reason being, because it was the home of local motorcycle enthusiast Bora Eris. During an episode of researching availability of spares and servicing a few months before leaving, it was found that Turkey could well be the final-frontier for a long time to come. Feedback from the Horizon's Unlimited website, by one of the Turkish members indicated that Bora's a good bet to organise not only tyre supply and fitting, but just about anything else for the bikes. In short was told “He's the Man!”.


Top-bloke Bora Eris

And here for all your help Bora, is a good plug ...

Contact Bora Eris (Bora ERÝÞ) on his website, or email: boraeris@eris.com.tr
or call: 00 90 532 291 20 50



As a keen biker and local entrepeneur with a thriving tyre business, he's a darned nice bloke too, and helped with much more than business ethics normally dictate. And with it being our first steps out of nice safe Europe, was a 'must' as a stopover. It was our last chance to take stock of all bike'ish things, before venturing further east. High on the list for me, was new rubber to replace the part-worn Conti's on my travel bike. With Bjorn getting some nice fresh oil in the engine of his own Beemer.

I've put this photo in of me as I've got an very odd expression. And no, I don't know what I was thinking or saying!


















We found that business with Bora was always a relaxed affair over endless cups of çay, and feel sure that anyone else on motorised two-wheels who found themselves in this part of the world, would do well to drop in and visit him. I've little doubt Bora would give them a good Turkish welcome, as well as helping with any bike servicing requirements. This is business with a personal touch almost unknown in the UK, and found that I liked it very much. Bora's leading-hand Hussein even washed the road-dirt off the Dakar too, making it nice and shiny once more. Though Garfield's appearance was already getting too grimy for retrieval. The marmalade puss with the Rochdale scarf, was doing his best impression of the Cheshire cat by slowly disappearing. But it wasn't into thin air, as in the famous fairy tale. Garfield was slowly being hidden under a layer of road-gunge.

Some time before setting off from the UK, had chance to meet up with another HUBB member Graham. And while I knew he was coming this way, didn't really expect to see him, without making specific arrangments. So was pretty surprised when I spotted a familiar pair of bike-strides walking towards us, when returning to the hotel after an outing. And yup, you've guessed it, the trousers had Graham's legs inside, with Graham firmly attached. Taking the chance to catch up, it turned out that he'd met up with another long-distance biker on route here. That evening we were taken along to a resort town just along the coast by 'Top-Man' Bora. More beers and a chance to ava'chat and bore each other to death with our travel stories. It turned out that Graham's new travel buddy Andy, had rear-shock problems, and had recently had a brand new replacement fitted in Germany while riding through Europe. This is unusual on such a young bike, and gave some small concern that everything was not as robust on our chosen mounts as reputation suggests.



Graham ..... And Andy



















Stop Press: We're now in Khorag, Tajikistan, and guess what? There's hydraulic-fluid leaking from the rear-shock on Bjorn's bike. This gives us one major head-ache in sorting it out, as it's a specialist job to repair, and we're not going to get a replacement easily or cheaply.

Any BMW exec's out there who're reading this ... Then take it from me, that any bike with rear-shock problems that has less than 30K on the clock, is un-bloody-acceptable. Now come on, be honest! Can you imagine if this sort of thing happened to Range-rover or Land-cruiser owners? There would hell to play, and would get crucified in all the motoring journals. So get yer shit together, get your shock absorber specialists together, and kick their bloody arses till they get it right!!!!! Whinge over, but will keep you all posted on events as they unfold.

Meanwhile, back to our heroes in Bandirma ...

While in Bandirma we took the chance of visiting Istanbul. With Bora's help and direction left the bike's in a lock-up, so we were able to take the boat across the Sea of Marmera, for a 3 day Cook's tour. This was my 2nd visit to this thriving, teeming metropolis, and what a fantastic city it is too. It still retains much of it's West meets East character, that has made it a centre of trade and one of the most popular Silk-Route destinations for millenia ...

Bjorn taking photo's of our 2nd favourite beverage, çay (no guesses for 1st fave').

And here's the resultant piccy! (courtesy of http://www.panomoto.com/ )

Making our way directly to the Sultanahmet district with back-packs, found a decent hotel with ubiquitous roof-top terrace over-looking the Bosphorus. Personally I wasn't bothered about doing a great deal of sightseeing while I was there, as I'd been to most of the well-known places in that locale, on my first visit some years ago. But found I was still impressed by the outside of Aya Sofia, it's domed edifice simply oozing history. It's stones worn down by footsteps and time from the Crusades and earlier. Having witnessed the ebb and flow of Christondom versus Islam, the power struggle of religion was part of the fabric of this wonderful building. My best memory though, was the power struggle on the football fields of Vienna. The European cup was in full-swing, and at the time Turkey was doing quite well. It was a chance to have a couple of cold beers and sit in the streets shouting at the wide-screen TV, along with all the other drunks ...

The Bosphorus ... A lovely bit of waterway. Full of romantacism, history ...and other unidentifed floating 'things'.

Afor closing this chapter of the blog, will make mention of The Cistern. Having somehow missed it first time around, was glad to have made the effort to visit this oddity. Walking to the entrance in the oppressive heat of the afternoon, we failed to gain entrance on the first attempt, as the bus-load of people trying to get in buzzed like bees around the kiosk. Nothing's worth that much queuing, so we 'pulled the plug' and went elsewhere that afternoon. I'm so glad we went back though, as an early start next day meant there were'nt too many other people in there with us. The place most definitely had atmosphere. The silence of which was broken with some quirky synthesized music, that echoed it's way among the stone pillars, instilling the whole place with a rather spooky feel.

Justice done or not, here's a photo of the Istanbul Cistern (sorry, but there's no eery music for accompaniment)

Carp swam like ghosts in and out of the shadows formed by the support pillars and low coloured lighting. A description and photo's of what essentially is a simple area of underground water storage, will not do it justice. Particularly after wandering into one of the far corners, where the medusae were located. There you can see the faces of two Gorgons carved into seperate stone blocks, that are sat under a couple of pillars. But they remain as testament to the continuing superstitions of the builders, during the Roman period of the city. Their writhing serpent visage prevented from working any black magic, because they'd been set in place off of the upright (one on it's side, the other upside down). So much for Constantine's faith in a Christian god!


Beware the power of the Gorgon! She's gonna getcha!

A boat ride back to Bandirma, another night in the hotel, and we say our goodbye's and thanks to Bora, before heading further south east towards Capadoccia. The quest for Fairy Chimney's was on ...

Turkey ... The Border Crossing

A short while after the Sofia debacle, the border appeared. Riding gingerly towards the border post, past numerous wagons that were lined up waiting their turn to cross, sparked what for me was becoming something of an enigma while travelling in this part of the world. Why were there always heaps of trucks waiting at the border, when I along with the other cars and buses are able to go straight to the front? It often occured, that the last hour or so's riding before hitting the border, it was a rarity to pass few if any trucks. And so too, would it be the same on the other side. You'd expect that we could overtake some trucks at least. But again it was proving to be a real rarity. The only explanation I can find, is that they're allowed through in convoy, either really early or late. One other possibility was that they were checked more thoroughy because of the possibility of contraband. It didn't seem to make much difference what time I arrived at the borders, there were always loads of lorries. And none of them ever seemed to go through. Anyone out there who knows the real reason? Answers on a post-card to ...

After being 'hit' for the cost of a green card at the Serbian border, decided to open my mind to the possibilty of other nasty surprises at this crossing. We were after all now at the outer limits of Europe. While Turkey remained a would-be EEC member, there were no guarantees. The Serbian beuracracy that raided my wallet could be viewed as a wake-up call, so fully intended to question everything twice, to try and ensure I don't fall foul of any scams. Things didn't start out too bad, and began working my way past a couple of border-post offices without too much difficulty.

It all changed though, when at the 3rd guard box, one of their number made me wait to have my luggage searched. I was directed to the side away from the queues of cars. Making some effort to be pro-active, took off the lids to both pannier boxes, removed the waterproof roll, dumped it on the deck and waited to find out if they wanted that opened too. By this time the sun was drilling holes in my skull, and when a border official started barking orders at me from a shady spot, found I was having to work hard to keep my patience. He continued his harrying tactics, but with some effort somehow managed to find my sense of humour again. Summoning my best smile, direct eye contact demanded his attention. Again he barked something in Turkish, so just raised my eyebrows and laughed back at him. An impatient hand-wave ... He was evidently telling me to open the panniers. Which I'd already done... It didn't look like he was going to make any effort to move, so walked over and squatted down right by the side of him and said, “Nice day for it ... eh?” This illicited a mumbled reply and prompted him to wander over to the bike, to discover I had in fact already complied with his request. Going through a mental list of apt Anglo-Saxon descriptions for this burlish chappie, kept me entertained and distracted from the by now oppressive heat. I finally decided on a nice simple 'Pillock', as I watched him going about his nosy business. I even asked him in a pleasant tone 'if he knew what a pillock was?' He largely ignored me and gave a cursory glance into one of the boxes, but grumbled something back in my direction. I continued to squat and stare, projecting my ability to wait him out. “GO!” accompanied another wave of the arm, and told me he'd finished playing his cat & mouse game. Just to make sure there was no mistake, I double checked by asking in a firm voice, “Customs finished?” He turned and pointed back to the guards box. “Moto papers”, which I guessed, meant I had to show them the bike's rego' document, for the 2nd time.

Hunting out the necessary piece of paper, put the lids back onto the panniers to stop any light-fingers helping themselves. Then wandered back to the guard-box for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Earlier in the process I'd been sent back to the previous station, to get the green-card (20 odd Euro's), and had also paid for the visa (another 12 Euro's), at that time they'd checked the rego' document too, so from what I could see everything had been checked and paid already. Again I prepared for another patient wait, but made sure I was blocking the door, so they couldn't ignore me as various uniformed and non-uniformed bodies filtered in and out. My turn eventually came, but instead of the rego' they asked for the passport, which duly received a stamp. Aha! Could this be my cue to go? Once more, experience tells me to check and double check, so immediatly ask the question. “Customs finished?” A clear affirmative comes back as a reply. And to really get confirmation, went straight to to the double-check using a mime of putting my passport into my pocket. A curt wave of his hand dismissed me. Right! 'That's good enough for me'. I'm off!

Something inside started to relax. The prospect of finally getting along my way, allowed the sensation of excessive heat to get through. I was glad to be packing up and would soon be moving, where the blessed wind could waft through the bike jacket vents and cool my by now over-heated body. With the thought that I'd soon get some relief, took my time to make sure all was packed securely. Just as I was mounting, another guy marched up with an officious manner. “Passport!” He demands. Big mistake mate, I thought. After playing their game for the past couple of hours, was in no mood to be delayed further. Not having any uniform or anything else obvious to identify him as an official, this guy was gonna wear it ... “Who are you?” I demanded, swinging my leg off of the bike to confront him. Two steps closer and I was in his face, right arm swivelling behind to get my passport out, and shove down his throat if necessary. He got the point as he was now back-peddling saying “Passport stamp?” in a weakening tone. By now have my document wallet in my hand in the act of extracting my passport with a flourish, ready to stick it under his nose. I go on and let-fly. “It's been stamped, checked, double-checked as have my bike papers, so before I let you have my passport, I want to know who the bloody hell you are?” The demand's firm enough for him to know I'm well p*ssed and mean business. Making off towards the guard's box, I beckoned him with a heavy-weight frown to follow. At which point he decides he's had enough. As I stare back with laser-like intensity, he veers off towards some nearby cars, saying “Okay ... You go!”, as his parting shot. Walking back to the bike I seem to have misplaced the relaxed approach, and ride off in a huff, explatatives about him being a 'Jumped up little Pr*ck' emenating from my helmet ...

I soon forget my annoyance and am glad to moving again. Air movement doing it's job and helping to bring my temper down, to be replaced by happy thoughts once more. A quick ETA calculation and the realisation hits me, that I can make Bandirma that night. It's not only expected that I'll meet up with my travel partner Bjorn there, but it also means a few days break and a chance to eat sleep and drink, as well as catch up with my emails. The thought cheers me further.

Serbia to Bulgaria

Serbia to Bulgaria ...

I'd made a mistake ... I knew it as I headed towards the Serbian border. That little fella who sits on my shoulder knew it too. He was kind of looking at me with a knowing gaze. Of course he didn't know what it was exactly, but kept looking at me, as a reminder I was gonna find out soon.

Pulling back the scale on the GPS, I surveyed the map of Europe to see which country sits where, in relation to each other. The Garmin showed me that it was a long ride back if I wanted to avoid Serbia, or if they wouldn't let me through for some reason. I scanned my memory banks for any recollection of anyone not being able to get in to Serbia, and felt pretty certain that if it was a no-go for any reason, I'd have surely remembered. Stopping the bike for a pee, pulled out the map and looked at it more thoroughly. According what I was seeing, the boundary run right alongside this road. I was stood in Hungary, but had just pee'd into Serbia. Vague thoughts of the atrocoties during the war that broke up former Yugoslavia, put me on a slight edge. I looked about to see if there were any machine gun turrets, but the coast was clear. It'd not yet reached midday. With the sun was out, the air was getting warmer. So far it was a nice day ...

Suddenly the road narrowed, and found myself being funneled into the border crossing. A barrier was barring my way compelling me with a bold red & white bar to 'STOP'. The first border crossing that wasn't a wave-through job. “Pazzport” the camaflouged guard demanded. He was a stocky sort who I'd guess wouldn't look good in ballet tights. His thin-lipped smile told me he was light on empathy too. “Green-cart” I looked at him blank.”Oh yeah, insurance” I said and went to dig out my UK insurance certificate. It was then it struck me ... the bloody green card. This was the first country that demanded it. And of course our stoopid UK insurance companies, no longer issue 'em, as they're redundant under EU reg's. The little fella on my shoulder was sniggering away with delight!

I tried to blag it using my UK insurance certificate, but they were insistent. Or should I say bore'dly persistent, as they'd no doubt seen it all before. I was taken along to a little hut, that'd been squeezed in amongst a dozen other little huts. Signs written in Cyrillic giving clues as to their possible purpose, which of course left me as much in the dark as I was before reading them. A young and not unattractive lady was sat behing a counter. She did her best to make sure she was as unattractive as possible, by growling and avoiding all eye-contact. She succeeded brilliantly. The same mono-syllabic demands for my Green-Cart, led to the discovery that I would have to fork out over 80 Euro's to get the necessary insurance coverage. The little fella had gone from sniggering to guffaws ...

Paperwork completed, I went along my way. But with a good chunk bitten into the wallet's Euro-stash. My thoughts wandered back to some of the earlier research of the previous year. There were a few fuzzy brain cells that could recall a HUBB posting, to the effect of being 'stung' for insurance if you chose to ride through Serbia. Oh well, I was going to make the most of it now that I was in, as the map showed a thick red line running most of the breadth of the country. Once installed on what looked like a motorway, I'd be able to fast-track the day's ride much further east than would have done using any other country as a ride-around. My last email from Bjorn told me that his Romanian route for example, was dotted with small towns that made for very slow progress. And by now had well and truly made up my mind to hot-wheel it onwards to Turkey, where I'd arranged for a tyre-change. This was my chance to make up time, and may even be able to meet up with Bjorn before the Turkish border.

Sofia (16/6/08)

After leaving the rather nice small Hungarian town of Pécs, had figured to get through Europe ASAP. Sensibility once more prevailed during the day, in deciding to take a stoppover, rather than another night-time ride-through to reach my next target in Eastern Bulgaria. 'Net' research had shown a promising campsite run by a couple of enterprsing Brit's, but my progress during the day had proven me to be waaaaay off the mark. The GPS informed me after a nice gentle ride South, and as I joined Serbias spine-like E80 motorway, that I wasn't likely to get to my hoped for destination till gone midnight. Now, I dont know what your tent pitching skills are like, but after a long days riding couldn't see me engaging in any kind of canvas erecting activity with any sort of enthusiasm, or indeed particular skill. Apart from that, knocking up a couple of caravan park/campsite owners from their beauty sleep just for a €2 'earner', didn't seem the right thing to do.

Another mad-ride was coming to and end, as darkness approached. The Serbian motorway had served it's expensive purpose in shooting me across the country in double quick time. I'd also negotiated the Serbia/Bulgaria border, but to tell you the truth remember nothing about it. Try as I might here while writing, cannot find any memory relating to that particular border crossing. Normally, border crossing's are cause for some kind of hold-up that langours in the memory banks, but no, nothing. It's as if it didn't happen, so can only guess that it must've been a wave-through without incident of any kind. Most unusual!

I was again bone-tired after a day watching Serbia hurtle by in my peripheral vision. The main road was now taking me directly towards Sofia, one of Bulgria's big industrial towns. Not fancying a ride into the likely-to-be-busy centre, would see if I could find a bed for the night this side of the city. As I approached, a set of traffic lights showed a teeming junction, with cars and lorries going left and right. A ring-road? If so, then it's a good chance to find a sign saying 'Bates Motel' or whatever ...

I finally managed to find a hostelry, but not one that was able to warm me to either Bulgaria or Sofia. To give you some idea ... my rather expensive evening meal at the unfriendly hotel struggled to attain average. As an example, the chef had added enough salt to the potatoes to turn Lake Coniston into an inland sea, and the chicken kebab was delightfully 'pink' inside. The waitress clearly wanted to go home, so acted like a 5 year old having a tantrum, as well as trying to give me a hard time afterwards for not having enough money to pay in local currency.

NB. I did make a foolish attempt of turning this overnighter into an anedote that had some entertainment value, but I was as successful as the waitresses efforts at détente. So I've ditched it, and moved straight to the next day:-

The final nail in the coffin to ensure my sole visit to Bulgaria was filed into a somewhat negative memory, was a minor incident the following morning. Having got up and dressed road-ready, realised my rather pricey night's stopover didn't include breakfast. I couldn't say I was really too worried, as I'd already made up mind that I wanted to get out of there and on my way as soon as possible. So packing up, did a quick once-over to make sure everything was bolted-down on the bike and set off. The GPS showed what appeared to be a ring-road around smokey old Sofia, so started along the very busy and poorly maintained route to negate the need of going through the centre. I remember a few things quite distinctly from that morning. One was that the sun was shining and it was clearly a beautiful day. But the road, the conditions and occassional glimpse of Sofia gave a rather depressing feel to the ride. Once I'd negotiated the fearfully busy and at times dangerous ring-road, finally managed to get onto the main road East.

Once on the main route it felt like I was making real progress, and so started to relax as I moved further away from that bad place. As a parting salute, Sofia was still making its oppressive presence known in both mirrors. It could be viewed laying in a fug of pollution behind me, and if you'd have been there would have seen a little puffy thought balloon coming of my helmet, that displayed the words; 'thank goodness I'm past that'. I'd already done something like 40 to 50 miles or perhaps more, and was beginning to settle into the morning's ride. So belatedly completed my double-check routine. It was then that it hit me ... You know ... one of those 'sinking feeling' moments. All it took was a glance into my mirror ... to make sure I had my bag, which held some personal stuff. No strap! 'Oh shit'. Check again ... Yup, there was no bloody strap. I looked down, and could see the bag wasn't where it should be. And because this was the first time I'd checked for it, I knew it hadn't fallen off. It must have been left back at the hotel! Damn, blast and buggery! My stomach turned over with a lurch. The next immediate thought was, to try and remember what exactly was in the bag, as at that particular moment could not face the thought of turning around to go back. Backing the throttle right off, slowed to 50Km/hr and dawdled along for the next couple of miles. I continued to dig into my proven-to-be-unreliable memory banks. Though no matter how hard I concentrated, couldn't for the life of me recall what was in the bag, apart from note-book, pens & compass. I even stopped briefly for a stock-check of 'stuff'. Moby? In my bum-bag. Wallet? Same ... Passports? Jacket rear zip-pocket. And so it went, with me not really finding any really high priority items missing. What I was doing was trying to find reasons not to go back. I was looking for an excuse to carry on my sweet way and just forget all about it. Then two thoughts struck me simultaneously. The first was that I'd put a small ornament into one of the bag's pouches. It was a cut-glass hare, wrapped in tissue that I'd intended giving back to my youngest daughter, but not getting to see her was still carrying it with me. Then the second thing was; that I quite liked my little gay man-bag. It was a present, and I was already kind of attached to it. I had to go back!

I stole myself and even gulped at this realisation. I've gotta say the idea of doing the ring-road again ... twice ... was very depressing. With legs of lead, stepped back onto the bike and carried on for a short distance, before doing a U-turn. Going back down the hill the city smouldered, the unwelcoming fog still hanging like a shroud. Being directly in front of the wind-screen I couldn't help but watch it get closer, working it's magic and dragging my mood into a deeper hole. The hell of the ring-road was beckoning. Refusing to think about whether I was likely to find the bag after going back, tried use a bit of positive reasoning. Concentrating on the fact I was at least making the effort, rather than abandoning it to an unknown fate, kept the monsters at bay. Twenty minutes after the U-turn I was back on the ring-road and battling the trucks, mad drivers, heat and pot-holes once again. Less than an hour after turning back, saw me outside the hotel back where I started. Some doubt filtered to the fore, as I walked up the hotel steps. Is the bag here? Will it be worth it?

Walking in, the place was still devoid of people. So began going around trying doors, calling out a wimpish sounding hello, to attract attention. Eventually I found a cleaning lady, and asked if the manager was about. She then made a motion putting a bag onto her shoulder. Noooo? It couldn't be ... surely not? But yes, she'd put it into one of her broom cupboards. I could've kissed her. Then did a double-take at her manly appearance. Perhaps not ... Managing to find some grace in a heart-felt thank you, added one of my best cheesy smiles, which seemed to raise her sour looking demenour slightly. Before I left she let me know by pointing, that I'd simply left the bag out the front. A distant memory ... taking the bag off, placing it on the deck before pulling on the bike jacket. I may well have made sure the luggage was all firmly strapped down, but in my haste to get away from there, had failed to double-check I'd picked everything up. What a prat! Mounting the Dakar it made a parody for me to do the check again, but the reflection of the bag-strap was where it should be this time. Lesson learned I set off towards Satan's race-track, for the third time that morning ...