Brad Pitt is half Albanian

We’re now in Montenegro, the small coastal Serbian republic where the beaches are more skin than sand.

Our route is hot and hilly, with a few dark polluted tunnels and never a flat moment. As we get closer to Albania the driving seems to get worse. A dog ran in front of us, we narrowly avoided hitting it though the speeding car coming the opposite way hit it square on, never slowing for a minute. The poor thing wobbled  off into the bushes sideways. Many of the cars here are from a bygone era so at least though they drive erraticly they can’t actually go that fast. We tell ourselves. 

We followed the contours of a clover-shaped ‘fjord’ with island cyprus-ringed monastaries, prehistoric cave drawings, Roman ruins, castles and villages designed to go on postcards.

In Ulcinj, the old pirate city in the south we camped in the courtyard of the self-proclaimed Brad Pitt of Ulcinj, who’s old mother keeps moving the bags we use to hold up out tent collapsing it every time. So now we have a droopy tent but nice neat bags all in a line. Brad Pitt, though half Albanian himself has warned us on no uncertain terms to stay away from Albania. “Dangerous. Too dangerous.” We’re getting used to people telling us their neighbours will rob us blind and I’m sure once in Albania they’ll tell us the same thing about their Serbian cousins. If we listened to everyone’s travel warnings we’d still be sitting at home in our Titirangi flat huddling under a blanket.

 

From icy lands to icy drinks

We sat in Scandinavia, in the vibrant port city of Bergen in Norway and our plans changed again. Too expensive, too many insects, lets head south. We boarded a plane to Croatia that we booked the day before. It was amazing to arrive in the land of fresh tomatoes, as I quickly dubbed it. The wine, the bread, the cheese, all found its way to us and we bathed in warm see-through water, like a holiday from our holiday. We decided to island hop our way down the coast to avoid the narrow winding roads that move along the main coast like a dangerous snake. And we were glad we did. The island of Korcula was a laid back paradise which begged us to take long siestas and rescued us from the summer crowds that spread along the mainland like a bikini-clad virus.

The history in Croatia is impressive, with cobbled streets and castles. Our short time in Croatia included a four day stop in Dubrovnik which was stunning and full of high heeled glamour life. I was hassled by Andrew for wearing my “going out shoes” to explore the city. But he swallowed his own comments when the bus we were waiting for stopped right in front of me to open its doors (obviously the shoes), when we found one euro(shoes) and when an exotic looking man brought me a seven dollar lemonade in a restaurant. He will not underestaimate my shoes again. The glamour seems to hide some pretty major issues though.  We heard stories of the war from our camp ground owner who lost her entire house in a bombing and whose husband has got post traumatic stress syndrome. It all seems so recent still.

Crossing into Montenegro instantly increased the “hill” factor of our trip. It was noticeably cheaper than its neighbour and also more crowded.  The waterfront is plagued by overdone development that seems too heavy for the landscape. A highlight was getting off the main road to an ancient town called Kotor. We cruised on a small road right along the water and saw scenes that reminded me of ancient picture books depicting paradise. Why were we so much better at designing towns in the past?

So now we find ourselves 25km from Albania. We have put up our tent the courtyard of a local guesthouse which is in a touristy part of town.

It is the funniest situation, as the whole process of putting our tent up there was a very long winded process.  We sat for an hour with a ninety year old women who kept force feeding us coca cola and smiling.  She called all her relatives to come and try and negotiate a room price for us, and after all that we were told we had to wait for her son who was picking up her aunties cousins daughter from the airport. When he arrived he was quite happy for us to camp there and use the facilities for a third of the cost of a room.

Since then we have been the centre of a lot of attention from a very large extended family who come and go under the watchful eye of the ninety year old. All the old neighbourhood grannies fuss over us. One straightens up everything on the table that we happen to have in front of us, lines our shoes up and sweeps under us continuously, another one tried to lie down in our tent to see what it was like, and yet another one growled at my washing technique and took it upon herself to teach me how to scrub clothes properly. 

The owner of the guesthouse is really overbearing. He keeps bringing women in from the street and saying, “this one is the most beautiful one, no actually this one is!” When Andrew said I am equally beautiful he said, “yes well of course I say that to my wife too, but we know the truth don’t we”, wink wink, nudge nudge!! A very Mediterranean experience…Andrew told him I’m a singer and he listened to my recording. Now he has taken it upon himself to tell everyone in the neighbourhood that I am a professional singer and will be doing a concert tonight at his guesthouse. Hopefully he is joking, hard to tell really. Think I might hide in the internet place.

 

Dalmations aren’t actually spotty

Scandi proved to be a little much for our little wallets (now very little indeed and not because credit cards are getting thinner) so we hightailed it to the Dalmation coast and island hopped through Croatia where we bought a couple of snorkels and emerged from the water whenever we remembered we are on a cycle tour.

Straight off the plane from Norway we landed in a humid night, put our bikes together again and pedalled out into the dark along pot-holed roads, camping on a quiet beach and falling into a hot satisfied sleep.

We started how we mean to continue - with a swim in the clear blue Adriatic waters and cycled past Kasteli - a series of seven small villages each clustered around a castle and straight off a postcard. Then into Split where at the expense of exploring the huge Roman emperor Diocletian’s palace complex that makes up the center of the city we spent a scarily long time in a supermarket just gazing at the fresh produce, cheeses and salamis (my inner vegetarian is facing a losing battle). The town later took on Venetian, baroque and communist influences - guess which looked the least likely to be included on a postcard.

We camped in a nearby town and didn’t leave for four days, taking the bus into Split each day. Here we got a chance to see how Croatians do holidays. They do them well. When Croats camp they bring a lightweight version of their entire house - for some reason there were an disproportionate number of pet parrots kicking about our campsite.

South of Split instead of taking the busy coastal road we ferried to stunning Korcula island and then onto the equally beautiful but mountainous Peljesac peninsula which joined the mainland again near Dubrovnik in the south. The white rock that rises hundred of meters above the sparkling emerald bays on these islands built Roman palaces and also George Bush’s big white house. The roads varied between wonderfully sealed sweeping mountain curves to unsealed empty stretches a few meters from the sea. Bourgainvillia seems to be taking over the coastal villages where we stocked up on fresh food, including tomatoes the size of pumpkins, every meal instead of carrying four days worth as we did in Iceland. When our road hit the sea, we jumped in and got back on the bike in our togs until the next bay in a never ending cycle, pardon the pun. The route was hot and tough but we sent our winter gear home from here so were feeling decidedly lighter. When not camping on the (clothing optional)beaches we found a couple of basic local campgrounds in the olive plantations, surrounded by low-key village summer festivals- a far cry from the hectic family 1000-person capacity campgrounds that dominate the main road on the mainland.

The ancient towns along the way each deserve their own place here but if I have to talk of only one it would be Dubrovnik. We stayed along the coast in a small campground away from the throngs and the parrots. The city was an independent state until not so long ago, so has a ’special’ quality to it that every citizen and tourist recognises. An amazing warren of winding cobbled alleys, each with its own distinct vista and family of cats, it emerged surprisingly intact from the pummelling it got from the Serbian army when they tried to take it by force as their own satellite seaport. We were there for the opening of the summer festival and the compulsary fireworks where we were surrounded by people dressed to the nines in a way they can only do in the Mediteranean. Surprised we didn’t find more broken off stiletto heals between the cobbles.

As we headed off towards the border a Slovenian family we’d been camping next to gave us each a bright red t-shirt so the drivers would be able to see us on ‘those terrible roads’. We wondered what we’d find when we crossed the border but our Croatian and then our Serbian hosts told us Croats and Serbs are the same, no difference, it was the war and the polititians that divided them.

 

Decisions decisions

Our ferry ride to Norway started glassily but as we made our way into increasingly stormy seas it became a little rougher than most of the stomachs (including mine) could handle. I pity the poor cleaners on that ship. But it stayed afloat and berthed in Norway where we left it for the last time.

In Bergen we free camped in the hills above town and the following couple of nights stayed with wonderful hosts who bought us fresh fish from the market and barbequed it to the accompaniment of wines we had never imagined drinking in the most expensive country in the world.

Here we were at a crossroads, having no idea where to go except that unless we found hosts like this every single night Scandinavia was going to blow our budget out of the water. Watch this space…

 

Puffin muffins anyone?

If Iceland is our top tip for a tourist destination it’s only because the Faroes are not ideal for cycle-touring. If you have any other means of transport, it’s one of the most unique and untouched places on earth. In our experience, the roads consist almost exclusively of passes and tunnels. Rachel and tunnels don’t mix ever since she fell fell off the narrow ledge in a tunnel in China. And I can think of better substances to inhale than carbon monoxide. It did mean though that I equalled my long standing NZ speed record of 73 kph on the Lindis Pass.

In Torshavn, the tele-tubby capital we did a frugal-as-possible shop ($5 for a packet of biscuits that were $1 in Iceland… thank God for porridge) to stock up for the too-short three days we spent heading out to the western point of the group of islands and back. We passed almost too picturesque turf-roofed villages, and hiked around a long lake that ended like an infinity pool, the overflow dropping down 50 meters into the sea below. Around us cliffs plunged 800 meters straight down, and all around were rocky pinnacles and sea caves.

We took a small ferry out to Mykines - Jewel of the Faroes and the mythical ‘Island of Birds’ coined by a well-travelled 10th century Christian monk. Breath-taking savage cliffs cushioned by soft green grass, and grazed by the weirdest looking multi-coloured shaggy rasta-sheep you could ever imagine. And of course, the birds. Above us and below, swooped chattering gulls, gannets, and Puffins (for some reason they deserve a capital P), the incredibly cute orange-billed dinner-suited fellows that outnumber the people here a million to one who luckily didnt choose to reenact a scene from The Birds at this moment. They have odd habits for birds. The make tunnels in the hills instead of nests and they give out a kind of croak instead of a squawk. They seem to crash land every time. This is good for the locals who eat them like other people eat chicken. A path led up a steep hill and then along a precipitous ridge that dropped off vertically on one side into the sea, through packs of Puffins to a lighthouse that would be considered lonely if it wasn’t for our orange-billed friends.

 

Fairies and other furry animals

I believe in fairies. Andrew humours me but I’m sure he thinks I’m stuck in my childhood. It looks like in Iceland I’m not alone. A recent survey found that fifty three percent of Icelanders also believe in elves and fairies! We visited numerous ancient fairy homes on our way around the island and in one place I’m sure I could hear some fairies singing through the rocks when I pressed my ear against it. The whole country is shrouded in magic. Folk tales linked with the dramatic and temperamental landscape and weather makes the whole place tingle with life. Obviously it’s live volcanoes, geysers, swollen streams and earthquakes cause destruction. Even while we were there a bigger than normal earthquake struck the south and sent a few people to hospital. Drama is all part of life in dramatic places.

One day we were cycling along on a typically stunning coastal route and a dog lunged out at us. Being Tibetan Mastif trained I let fourth my well practiced yell of “get out of it”! We soon realised however that he was a friendly version and was just enjoying a sprint along the coast. We became a bit worried when he was still following us 20km later across a “Sander” at the base of a glacier, named so as it has an awful lot of black sand and not a lot of anything else. We stopped to try and get him to go home but he just sat in front of us, cocked his head and raised his paw. It was getting colder (although not darker) so we had to continue, and so did he. We sprinted at one point to try and loose him, but he wouldn’t give up on us. He caught up easily and looked at us as if to say, “what you doin man?”.

That night we pitched our tent in the perpetual daylight in front of the floating icebergs of the Jokulsarlon Glacier. Our new friend sat outside shivering as the temperature fell to zero. We kept hoping he’d head home but it didn’t happen, so we fed him popcorn, pasta and dessert and let him into our tent to sleep. He spend the night whimpering, caught deep in doggie dreams.  It was quite a cold night as we had to leave the tent flap open a smidgen in case he wanted to leave in the night. And then like magic he was gone in the morning. I was so upset that I cried a bit. As if to comfort me a paw emerged from behind the tent and he was with us again, hungry for a hearty cornflakes breakfast.

We were contemplating having to escort him all the way back 20km, but being a tourist destination people started to arrive in the morning and we talked to the tour operators who recognised him as a farmers dog 30km away, as you do. They telephoned the owner and we headed off on our way, happy that he was to be collected that morning. But 5km down the road he was back, smiling and trotting alongside us. We had to turn back and asked a tourist to hold his collar. He was let go too soon and followed us again.  Upon his second return a crowd had gathered to watch the antics.  A young tour operator girl came to collect him and dragged him crying from us. He broke free, ran back to us and raised his paw onto my leg. This brought roars of laughter from the crowd. He was then tied up tightly and we left to the sound of yelping, the last image of him seen through a flood of tears.  It was so sad! I guess that is the price you pay for being on the road.

Our last stretch in Iceland was the hardest. It was across another “sander”, completely isolated, exposed and mountainous. We had to carry food and water for three days. Many of the cyclists we met took a bus for this notorious section, a place where Neil Armstrong trained before his moon mission as it has the closest resemblance to a moonscape on earth. But we are a stubborn couple and wanted to complete the whole circuit around the country. We were repaid with quite a trip. The wind was so strong that at one point we both got knocked off our bikes in unison. We had to walk at times, plunging into the wind that stopped us still more than once. Sandstorms blew across the barren landscape and we got sand permanently etched in our eyes. It was so cold that any part of exposed skin stung. I wore a black balaclava that fogged up my glasses and left me unable to see a lot of the time. This weather was a warning for the last mountain pass before the ferry port which threw a snow storm at us as a final farewell.

Iceland has been without a doubt the best place I’ve ever cycled. There is not a better place to slip into a warm hot pool after a day of exploring nature in its full glory. The people were amazing and unique, the campgrounds were cosy and in stunning locations, the food was not as expensive as we thought (I am addicted to malt loaf and skyr-plain cheese in the disguise of yoghurt.) It was just, well, like a firey fairy land.

 

Iceland: Another Cycle-Tourer’s Unadulterated Guide

A three day ferry ride deposited us in a mythical land. Iceland is one of those places we never really imagined we’d find ourselves, but somewhere along the way someone had made a last minute decision and well, here we were. An entry in this blog would not even begin to do this country justice, all I can say is try to go and see it yourself.

The Ice
It’s not nearly as icy as it sounds, Iceland is surprisingly green. If you want ice, go to neighbouring Greenland (the naming of Greenland is credited as the worlds first marketing trick in an effort to coax settlers 500 years ago).

OK, so there is quite a lot of ice…

The Icelanders
The trip did not begin well. The plan was simply to cycle clockwise (theoretically with the prevailing winds, but that’s another story) around the 1600km single ring road. But as we rolled off the ferry we discovered Rachel’s industrial strength rear wheel rim had become so thin that it just broke apart when I pumped up her tyre. The east of Iceland is one of the more remote places on earth and so it was here that we first encountered the absolute resourcefulness and friendliness of its people. The nearest rear wheel was 800km away in the capital Reykjavik as the road north to the second largest town was closed due to flooding. We took a bus over the pass from the fjord to the ring road and checked into a campground who’s manager took our problem upon herself, made a few calls, helped us to package the wheel up, tossed us the keys to her monster truck and told us to hightail it to the airport where a plane was waiting to go to the capital and to be careful of the loaded rifle in the back seat. Two hours later a mechanic in Reykjavik was rebuilding our wheel for us, took it back to the airport himself and we had it back on the bike the next morning. Then he gave us a discount.

I don’t think we ever met an unfriendly Icelander. And that goes also for th golden-maned short-legged sturdy horses that run along next to you as you pedal past.

The Nature
Barren. Lush. Black. White. Fire. Ice. Green. Golden. Savage. Soft. Spectacular. Empty…

Geysir from which every geysir in the world is named, and Gulfoss, the pounding waterfall that rivals Niagra are the must-sees on every Iceland itinerary but outside of this is an entire country full of contrasting adjectives.

The weather
Someone who’s been following this blog from the beginning might detect something familiar here with another mythical windswept land, Tibet. Where I complained before about constant headwinds along the Friendship Highway, I had at that time never imagined a place with even fiercer winds. Our average speed was 50% lower than anywhere else, though you would imagine it should all even out if you’re following a circular road wouldn’t you? Well, it doesn’t. Sometimes we were blown around in circles, or to a complete halt. One particularly memorable day on a freezing pass, the winds were so strong we simply couldn’t go on. There wasn’t a tree for 100km in any direction and so we camped behind a kind of hump in the dirt. The wind changed direction as we knew it would and promptly snapped our tent pole in two. So we headed off early into equally fierce winds. Towards the top of the pass a gust blew us both off our bikes and into the ditch.

The polar bears
It was only later we heard a couple of polar bears had been seen wandering, not so very far from where we were camping. And they shot them both.

The Food
Mmm, salted fish. Yummy.

The earthquake
The first we heard about the 6.1 richter earthquake which made news around the world was when Rachel phoned home and found we were ‘missed’ by the New Zealand foreign embassy. We were camping in a forest 50km from the epicentre and had a felt a small tremor but that was all. Damn it.

The Arts
Alive and well in Iceland.

The camping
If you can get used to the perpetual daylight, the camping opportunities are second to none. If you go to Iceland, take a tent. Because you won’t be able to afford a room anyway.

 

The traffic
What traffic?

 

When I laugh, You Cry

Every now and again something happens and you realise that the environment is sending us humans a wake up call. Something washes up on our shores. Something to remind us that we are no longer part of nature, that it’s us and it’s nature, as separate as a cry and a laugh.

The polar bear that made the momentous swim or float or roll from Greenland may have been one such reminder. It was the first to come to Iceland in fifteen years and was a blood stained image on the front cover of the Icelandic papers just hours after it put paw to sand. It had been 40km down the road from us when the police had shot it dead. There’s not a lot we could have done. I suppose hiding it in our panniers would have been out of the question.

I felt sad that the locals took such dramatic action. The backlash that flowed forward after this event within Iceland and around the world promised to be a lucky break for the second polar bear who arrived two weeks later, but that too was shot when he galloped near some reporters. Human safety was the justification. There are a few more of us humans about. Logic would tell you that the critically endangered polar bear should be a priority, but obviously a bunch of reporters are seen as particularly valuable in this part of the world, especially human ones.

We travelled across the same Atlantic Ocean as the polar bears, but probably in a bit more comfort. Actually comfort might not be the word to describe the humid, dim, petrol and fish infused bunk room that brought us teeteringly close to nine other peoples feet. But it was OK as we spent most of our time on deck, swaying upon the back of the open ocean waves on stretched-out deck chairs that mimicked the sea. It was a gracious arrival, through snow dripping mountains. Damn, we didn’t think there would be snow, we’d come too early. We met one other cyclist on his way out, torn shirt, nose dripping. He’d just done the round with some necessary bus ride sections. I tentatively asked if he would do it again and his answer was straightforward, No. Righto, what have I got myself into this time.

The Icelandic people are a hardy and tough bunch, which you would expect given that they are descendants of the vikings. Under their weather beaten exterior is a kind, humorous, intelligent and caring side to their nature that was evident throughout the country. Again and again their inventive and resourceful spirit came to our rescue and made me basically want to be a viking descendant in my next life.

Their resourcefulness was evident on the first day. My prayers had been answered (don’t tell Andrew). I was secretly skipping inside my head thinking of the bus we would have to take instead of my bike, with a newly cracked rim. Just before a big hill. What luck. Unfixable, those were the words Andrew used. Unfixable. But like a dream, a small stocky lady with enough energy to be classed as “electric”, found a way to fix the unfixable. Sure we were in the middle of nowhere, but there was a plane leaving for the capital city in five minutes, there was some old cardboard in the rubbish to wrap around the broken wheel, there was her car, loaded mounted gun in the back, keys in Andrews hand, there was a way to avoid any bus trips. So all in one exhale I found myself cycling up that very same hill with a new wheel. The same hill that I had mocked the day before.

So sometimes nature does win. I cried half way down when I lost it on loose gravel, came off my bike and twisted my knee(which resulted in two days of being unable to walk and some pain during the month ahead). Nature laughed in victory. And we were as separate as ever.

 

25000 kilometers, 2 milestones

Two events dominated my arrival in Denmark. First, I hit the big 3-OH without going to pieces, with the help of Rachel who arrived the day before, the first we had seen of each other for three months.

And a little juicy gossip for those of you who we’ve been neglecting… while I was in India, and Rachel 10,000km away in New Zealand, she asked me to marry her… by the usual conventional method of email (and after only 10 years together!). Of course I said yes. So we had a little catching up to do.

Our hosts Lise and Jan who I had met once when I was 10 welcomed us into their family and for the next few days treated us in every way it is possible to be treated, treating us to a wonderful birthday meal way beyond our meagre means. Copenhagen is a cool relaxed capital where no one seems to care if you crack open a few beers along the canals like the Danish Vagabonds seen below, or even if you decide to shut down the main street for an impromptu May Day Hash Parade as the Copenhagen Christiania counter-cultured commune decided to do as we were coming the opposite way.

After freaking out the royal guards (maybe it was the hair) we headed west. Our trip across Denmark through fields upon fields of rapeseed that make me think the whole country is yellow, past gothic castles and tidy towns was broken only by ferries and cycle-friendly bridges (take note Transit New Zealand) and perfect forest freecamps. An easy country to pedal, and friendly people who speak English better than me. We’re starting to encounter strange new letters in the alphabet which apparently get completely out of control in the rest of Scandinavia. We especially enjoyed the village of Fussing Over.

Lise and Jan gave us the generous loan of their traditional wooden cabin on the hilly forested peninsula of Helganaes where we had a short holiday from our holiday with nothing to do but contemplate life and our navels. Back on the bikes Rachel was having a little trouble breathing, a doctor told her she had a ‘bent’ rib which is never fun on the uphills. He also told us that the ticks we’d recently had a run in with only carried moderate diseases as opposed to the life-threatening ones we would be meeting later. So that was good.

 

A penmark about Denmark

So the story goes like this. You are sitting in an internet cafe in India cruising the net to escape the heat, heat like the inside of a shoe. You decide on a new career, book a three year course, fly half way across the world to start it, and then wake up in Auckland in a sweat reminiscent of those felt on hot Indian afternoons and realise you’ve made a mistake. Easy solution. Pay more money to go back, back track, back pedal around an icy land in a bid to rewind time, and escape that pesky heat. And that’s how I found myself in Iceland.

Before heading off on our ferry trip to Iceland we cycled from Copenhagen to the top of Denmark. I recovered from my flight with the help of the Kissmeyer family, who spoiled us and even took us out for a Danish beer dinner, which cost $60 dollars each for mains!

The land of Denmark had a magical fairytale quality to it. We free camped in forests with golden and pink leaves, cruised past castles where I imagined the Australian born Crown Princess Mary first arriving, trying to stop herself saying things like “strewth” and “geez” at inappropriate times.

It was strange being in a non~asian country. I felt a bit responsible to point out interesting things for Andrew to photograph, as I had convinced him to forfeit Asia for it’s distance rich cousin of Europe.  The problem was the photo opportunities were just not popping out like in Asia. Everything was too perfect for the imperfections required for a good Andrew travel photo. Oh well, he can always take photos of me!

 

Pakistan to Parkeston

I sat next to a Sikh businessman on the plane who just couldn’t get it into his head what I do with my life. “But why?”, he kept asking. Still, he wished me luck because he thought I needed it, I said goodbye and walked out into a frosty London morning. The only time I ever feel like I need a little luck is when I take my bike, still boxed, on public transport, and so began the battle of the underground. My 32kg bike box, 4 bags and I, lost.

My Dad was here to be awarded the International Optometrist of the Year, and so I’d had a suit made in Delhi in 24 hours and high-tailed it north. He put me up in his hotel for a couple of nights for my 30th birthday present, and the dinner in the London Guild Hall had to be seen to be believed - talk about a lifestyle change!

Hung out at the London Marathon the following day with the masochists, masais and mobile vegetables and then cycled out of town. At the first intersection I got accosted by police for running a red light. Mental note: you’re not in India now Dr. Ropata. In the outer burbs I stopped to ask a matronly woman in a bakery directions, “You going by car, luv?”, she asked choosing to ignore the helmet on my head. I was snowed upon, rained upon and completely sun burned, so English weather as usual. I passed through the little village of Parkeston, which if I couldn’t get to Pakistan is a close second. When I could go no further east I caught the Harwich to Hook of Holland ferry (or Arich to Ook of Olland as they say around there). 

I was again reminded that the Netherlands is the most cycle-friendly country in the world. Cycle-dedicated lanes and traffic-lights and a law that says no matter who’s fault it is, if a car hits a cyclist the driver of the car is in deep trouble. In my neverending pursuit of directions I began by asking locals if they spoke English, they invariably answered “a little” and then preceded to correct my own English. As a native English speaker and therefore one who makes little effort to learn new languages I constantly feel inferior next to your average Dutch or Indian six year old who speaks a language for every year of his life.

I passed a dam, then the town of Dubbledam (but I suppose you had to be there…) I followed the Waal, which became the Rhine when it hit Germany, the border crossing marked only by a blue ‘D’ on a roadsign. After Asia, crossing borders in Europe is extremely disappointing. 

I made my way through the Ruhrgebiet, the huge region that started off as a few industrial towns which expanded, joined together and became one big industrial megacity with 6 million people. Last time we cycled through here we promised never again, but I had good friends to visit and it’s become a little cycle-friendlier in the last five years. My friends had four days of BBQs, dinners, bars, concerts and all kinds of sleepless fun lined up for me and for the first couple of nights I didn’t go to bed until daylight. A strange change when I’d just got used to going to sleep in the tent when the sun goes down!

North through flat and monotonous landscape to Hamburg to meet up with another friend of ours who I stayed with for another two nights. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing with my life when I see my old friends and how successful they’re becoming. But the feeling never lasts very long - I just have to take a sidelong glance at Heironomous sitting there waiting for me in the corner, winking.

I’d promised Rachel I’d be waiting for her in the Copenhagen airport two days later but still had 350 km to do, so I was a little worried. But there’s nothing like cycling for three months by yourself as an incentive to make it on a date so I put my head down and got on with it. I passed into Denmark, the land of the wind-turbine, and I got there with an hour to spare, but it took one 201km day which just about killed me. It took a lot of chocolate and a friendly racing cyclist who kept me company for the last 30km and after I’d wearily pitched my tent in the dark that night I was blissfully unaware that I had fallen asleep sitting up mid-mouthful and that I was sleeping in a cul-de-sac.

 

Plans Schmlans

So, finally, after almost four long weeks in Delhi of research, planning and bad phone connections, we decided that having spent 15 months sweating it out in the tropics, we’d do just the opposite, and head north, waaaay north, into the arctic. I’ll fly to London, then pedal up via England, Netherlands and Germany (again), then Denmark where I’ll meet Rachel the day before my 30th (better than alone, halfway up the Karakoram) and from there we’ll take a boat via the Faroe Islands to Iceland, where we’ll spend a month before heading to Norway, up into the arctic, across Sweden and down Finland, crossing over to continental Europe into Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania.

So goodbye to Asia for the time being, but we’ll be back… 

 

Delhi Belly, Holy Holi and Now For Something Completely Different

My stay in Delhi has been marked by three major events.

The first was a bout of the legendary Delhi belly - a major event for me as it’s the first time I’ve been sick in India and I was beginning to think I was bullet-proof. It put me out of action for a few days but I was well enough to celebrate the next major event.

Holi! Or the ‘Cover each other in paint’ festival. Try as I might I never got a straight answer as to what this was all about other than everyone takes part regardless of age, sex, race or religion and it’s smashing good fun.

The third major event is a complete rethink of all our future plans. Instead of rushing around trying to get visas for the middle east which I thought I’d be doing in Delhi, Rachel and I have been talking about something entirely different.

You’ll be the first to know. . .

 

The Order of the Naked Peacock

A long monotonous 150km day to Jaipur, a city you can call a lot of things but not monotonous. It’s the most indian Indian city I’ve ever been to if that makes any sense with maximum hassle factor - hard to avoid even on a bike. The old part is called the ‘pink city’ though if we’re going to be picky here it’s more a terracotta jumble of lego-like shops and houses stacked randomly on top of one another interspersed with chaotic alleys and dens - labourers work away on the roofs, while rats and monkeys play in the guttering. Despite the road being hectic a herder was driving his donkeys the wrong way down the road, avoiding motorcycles, cycles, rickshaws etc and the ever present cows, bouncing up and down on his stunted steed. Above the buildings in every direction are forts and palaces built high on barren ridges.

I stayed for a few days but it wasn’t for me and I pedaled north towards Delhi. A little way out of town I turned off and began the 5km climb of 20 switchbacks up to the Jaigarh Fort dominating the surrounding countryside, protecting the monolithic Amber Palace below with the world’s biggest cannon. I felt my first splashes of rain in three months and cycled away from the huge dirty-pink walls soaking wet.

A couple of strange things happened along the next stretch. The first was a motorbike that drew up beside me as I cycled, the guy yelled, ‘Give me your bag!’. I ignored him but he kept trying to draw up beside me so I hung back and we cycled like this for 15 minutes. Soon he dropped back again and said, ‘Give me your glasses and helmet!’. I said something back you probably won’t find in many English-Indian dictionaries and he motored along in front before speeding off. Two minutes up the road I saw they were talking to some police officers who all yelled at me to stop when I passed (fast). Not likely. I have no idea what that was all about. The second strange thing was passing two nuns being pushed along by a guy on a cart piled high with bunches of peacock feathers. For the next 10 kms groups of old men, each group escorted by a guy dressed in white, walked along the edge of the highway each holding a peacock feather. The odd thing about this scene was that every man was stark naked. Ah, India . . .

A friendlier guy on a motorbike invited me back to stay with him in Rewari and we arranged to meet at the train station when I arrived. I’d laid out my gear on the floor of his tiny room he shared with his friend before his landlady arrived and told us how it was going to be. So he found me a cheap guesthouse instead and we went for dinner, all the while he was apologising for the ‘bad’ people in India. I could assure him that I really hadn’t met many of those. The next day a couple of brothers on a motorcycle invited me back for lunch. Their home was 20 kms away so one asked if I ‘wanted to hold his hand’ in order to go a little faster. Well, what can you say? We made it and I sat in their simple home, now in Haryana state while one of their wives prepared the food and chai. I realized I’d just made a 20km detour to get here though so by the time I hit the outer suburbs of Delhi it was getting late and I arrived in the tourist district of Paharganj in the dark. On the way in a motorcyclist next to me at some lights asked me, “When you can choose a motorcycle, Enfield or luxury cars why the hell do you choose a bicycle?” After a visibly long, tiring, dirty, sweaty, hungry day on the bike I was surprised that anyone might mistake me as someone who can afford a luxury car!

 

Mr. Andrew, The Fast Cyclist of NZ

The road to Pushkar weaves through small villages and the occasional big town. People yell at me to stop and get a runner to fetch me a glass of water, sometimes scooped out of big open drums which everyone gathers around to watch me drink. It’s difficult to say no - I’ve had everything from “don’t worry, this water best and beautiful!” to “we are strangers, is that why you don’t drink our water?”. I try to explain Indians have strong stomachs while New Zealanders have very weak ones but my arguments sound as weak as my supposed constitution.

I had the road to myself most of the time except for the odd jam - a traffic jam Rajasthani-style consists of goats, camels, humpback cows, shepherds and a big colourful truck, heavy on the horn. A man pedaled by with a full-sized goat in each pannier. Another guy on a bicycle stopped me and motioned if I could take a photo of his family. We parked our bikes and set off across the field. He talked with the three women in his tiny bare hut with a tattered plastic roof and they smoothed down their saris, flicked their jewellery including nose-rings that dangled below their chins and straightened up for their portrait. Afterwards, they invited me in and we sat on the floor drinking goats milk from bowls. These people seemed to have nothing except a few pots, meagre rations, some sleeping mats and bits and pieces wrapped up in plastic. So it was a little surprising when he asked for a photo of himself with his mobile phone to his ear! My few attempts at conversation flopped but they didn’t seem that interested in conversation - smiling, pointing and drinking seemed enough. In the next town, it was quite the opposite, an outspoken retired geography teacher wanted a good old fashioned debate, on subjects ranging from the dangerous colour red (”If those meddling Chinese invade us again we’ll be ready”) to Obama versus Clinton (”America needs to change, it does more harm than good, and India just follows…”). I didn’t get a word in.

It’s hard to believe a place like Pushkar actually exists. You’re cycling through a barren desert and ten minutes later you’re on the main tourist bazaar amidst a sea of dread-locked tourists, enthusiastic touts, cafes and guesthouses. I checked in to the laid-back 100 rupee/night Moon Cafe owned by a great mustachioed Rajasthani beadi chain smoker and patronised by some even more laid-back travellers who look as though they’ve been here for years. The tiny town is basically a small holy lake, surrounded by 400 temples, surrounded by Travelland, surrounded by a few local suburbs. Signs on the walls tell tourists to respect the Hindu faith, to not place your shoes too close to the lake, and definitely no meat, no alcohol and no drugs. The first two go without saying - they’re impossible to find, but the last one is a joke. Every single juice stall and half the guesthouses and restaurants serve ’special’ or bhang lassis - basically a yogurt and marijuana smoothie. It was Shiva’s (the God of bhang among other things) birthday while I was there which is the day half of India gets bhanged up so the town sparkled a little that night. I got roped into making an offering out across the lake near where Ghandi’s ashes were sprinkled, as you do, and found myself repeating after the Brahman priest “I pledge donations for each and every member of my family…” If you can get past the tourist circuit it’s an amazing little town, Saddhus sit all day under huge decorated banyan trees, black faced languor monkeys scoot across the roofs of the temples, and everything centres on the little lake, sprung up from where Brahman dropped his lotus flower thousands of years before.

At the nearby city of Ajmer as I cycled out I met an old guy at a roti stand who had cycled 18000km around the Indian subcontinent on an old Indian bicycle and a grant of 10,000 rupees from the state government. He gave me a goodwill message he wrote that he handed out to people on his epic three year journey and wrote me a note to take with me:

‘Congratulations to Mr. Andrew a fast cyclist 4 they have under tour coming from New Zealand 2 have meet me in Ajmer city of India. I became very glad to meet them and I can’t praise them (enough) on their tour. Wish a heartly success for their tour,
Thanks, Mohammed Husain Jockey 09/03/08.’

 

Earhair to Die for

The village roads out of Udaipur took me through strangely beautiful hilly scrub-land along a single lane road through villages where I had to stop all the time to ask directions, answer the Big 5, down mini cups of chai and the usual thumb-squashed cold samosa in cold curry sauce. On this stretch I followed some wonky directions resulting in a 20km backtrack over a 900 meter pass. When I stopped to thump my compass under a huge tree, I became aware of a presence - the branch above me was actually the tail of a rather large languor monkey who was asking me why I had stopped under his tree. The kids I pass are cute but noisy, racing from the other side of a field to yell “hellohellohellohello . . . onepen?” or “dadadadadadadada…” repeat one thousand times… (so I’m guessing da means pen). A man stopped me to offer me sugar cane juice - he just jammed cane branches into three ancient looking cogs attached to a long wooden lever tethered to his zebu humped cow and gave it’s rump a whack. It bolted around and around turning the cogs and squeezing the cane juice right into my glass. Works a bit like our old smoothie maker.

Took another detour up to Kumbhalgarh - I didn’t know what to expect as it it’s little more than a footnote in the Lonely Planet so when I rounded the corner at the top I was blown away by the site of a fairytale citadel that has never been conquered perched high on the remote hilltop surrounded by a 36km long fortified wall. I was now 1100 meters high so the view from the top was incredible and showed the absolute emptiness of the surrounding landscape, making me wander why this state was so sought and fought over. Back down again I followed winding roads through barren jagged hills I shared only with goat herders who had the sense to sit out the heat under the sporadic trees, and camels wandering aimlessly along next to the road (baby camels can only be described as confused balls of unravelling fluff). I was amazed to see my first wild peacock, until I realized they’re as common as sparrows around here.

In the villages, I’m practically ordered to stop every few meters for gawking and the same old questions. Not easy as no one speaks a word of English, and my Hindi’s not exactly fluent either. The guys I like the best are the old turbaned fellows who at first I thought aloof but when waved at always break into a big toothless grin. These old guys, in dusty white topped with dangling gold earrings and fluorescent turbans often sport a phenomena I’ve never seen outside India - magnificent ear hair which grows along the edge of the ear and can be up to three inches long. I’m very envious. At the chai stalls, they don’t ask questions, just sit and drink and smoke and smile, they have hard ragged lives but seem to be the epitome of contentment.

A nail managed to get through my rear tyre and when I pulled over to fix it, the middle of nowhere turned out to be an impromptu bus-stop, so I was joined by all sorts of characters wanting to get their face as close to the puncture as possible and wanting to know everything that I did. A little girl arrived with her grandmother and burst into tears until the old woman asked if I could remove my helmet and glasses to show her I was actually a human and not a strange pointy headed alien. She sniffed, clasped her hands together and ramramed (a Rajasthani namaste) which I returned. On this stretch I realized my back rack has a perfect handhold for someone roughly three feet tall so occasionally I’d find myself going nowhere only to look behind and see a cheeky smile attached to a pair of determined grubby hands. In one village, the kids decided what great fun it would be to load my rack up with rocks whenever I stopped. What fun. So cute.

The more barren and desert-like a landscape becomes, the more people seem to do to offset it. Next to a bright blue house amongst boulders, cacti and pink bougainvillea I chatted for a couple of hours with a young boy called Keshau and his family who spoke great English. He innocently told me my ’skin was a different colour’, I showed him how I go pink in the sun. “Our skin is the colour of wheat” his sister said and I wandered what my skin was the colour of. “Hmm, maybe blossoms….?”. What adults see in black and white, children turn into effortless poetry.