The Long Road To Shangri-la - Part 1

Here I stand.. on the top of a mountain. Lonely facing the cold wind.. if not my love would be with me.. and Ava of course. Jinlun is her name. And key to our freedom she is. As we were struggling to plan the next steps on our journey, we heard of man travelling by two wheels. His journey through China was almost over, but the motorbike was calling for the next flies that might grace her adventurous life. The decision wasn’t an easy one, with obvious risks, but eager to see where fate might blow us we left the world of guide books and tour buses and stepped into the undiscovered. After a couple of nice nights with our mysterious, slightly alcoholic friend, and a lot of good stories and essential advice for the road, we swapped our crisp notes for the keys to a motorbike tour through Sichuan and Yunnan provinces.

With the start of a brandy dependence and a slight lung infection later, we say our sad goodbyes to our good friend, and to the town of Ya’an, a pivotal place for our journey. After managing to fix our 2 backpacks to the back of the bike with enough bungee cords to jump the Brooklin bridge, we at least blend in with the rest of the typically overloaded Chinese vehicles. Finally ready to set off, we nervously hit the road, making it out of the city and into the deep green terraced landscape. Its not long before we catch up with the rain of the previous days, as we become part of a snaking tailback from a landslide a few kilometers into the gorge. With this, we are forced onto even smaller country roads, where our pale skin (and big noses) have a similar effect to that of a friendly ghost, sending people running into their homes in shock or disbelieve. With the shouts of “foreigner! Foreigner!” we decide that we have finally escaped the grasps of China’s colossal tourism trap.

Crawling across the middle of nowhere, with a few hundred SUV’s from the city accompanying us, we finally see the landslide on the far side of the valley, and soon after are happy to get back to the main road. After a whole morning of driving with only 12km to show, we admit to feeling a little daunted with over 2000 km still ahead. Expecting to cruise on smooth tarmac, we find ourselves navigating a minefield of potholes, murky puddles and mud, left behind by the last few hundred landslides that graced the surface of this clearly well placed road. I think Ava would agree that the experience was a steep learning curve, when she had to get off and walk beside the crawling lightened load, as I tried desperately to keep the bike moving on two wheels. Eventually it smoothes out, and we find ourselves basking in the joy of the long empty road, wind through the hair and a much reduced fear of death or fatal injury.

After a harsh introduction, we soon forget our plans of milage and destinations, and begin to enjoy the roads for what they are. With this, we eat up the distance southwards, through lime green ricefields, valleys, isolated ethinic villages with painted houses and mountains. But it is The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, as we see China’s destructive power on its environment, with butchered landscapes, Submerged forests (and no doubt villages) in the wake of the latest dam projects and barefooted children foreging in the rubble of wasteland. Inbetween it all, life goes on, as villagers use the newly tarmaced road for drying the latest tea harvest. Every metre of land is used in a complex jigsaw of local farming. A land of contrast presents itself as a young girl heads for the road in her high heels, destined for modernity. Everywhere old meets new. Combating the hardship of the last centuries, but providing a ruthless alternative of pure economic development.

On more than one occasion, we found ourselves sharing our route with gigantic quarry sites, as overloaded trucks crowd our path, pounding the tarmac to gravel in front of us with their wheely claws. Like snails, crawling the mountains, they leave a trail of slippery wet road, from hot tires demanding a constant stream of water to prevent the rubber from burning. These fearless trucks, that run the road countless times a day, were a gauntlet to pass. On the last bend before the crest of the mountain, our trusty steed grinds to a halt, her own engine steaming under pressure from the constant accelerating and breaking around the elephants on our path.

We soon find ourselves heading up in elevation, as the air (pollution) and the traffic thins. We follow the river up towards its great mother, the mountain lake straddling the provincial border- Lugu Hu. After a night in a migrant worker village, in a room so dirty and insect ridden that we put up our tent on the bed, the canyon opens out. Unbelievably the dirty brown river (roughly the same colour as the one in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory), leads towards a huge perfect mirror of a lake, the white surface merging with the sky to create a seamless horizon. We find ourselves within one of the last matriarchal cultures in the world, elegantly clothed in their traditional dress. Here the women rule the roost and men obey - A peaceful society for once.

Spicing things up.. Sichuan style

Despite our best laid plans to leave Beijing, booking the train ticket South-West five days in advance, the best tickets we could get were hard seat (which is somewhere around 4th class). After thirty hours aboard the train, the meaning of the name became painfully clear. Surrounded by hordes of shouting spitting, slurping Chinese, we faced a constant battle for foot space with the ones even worse off than ourselves- the dreaded standing class. At night time they took the floor, trying desperately to catch a few winks between the incessant passes of the refreshment trolley, creating a Mexican wave of standing people along the aisle. A trip to the toilet was a journey not to be taken lightly, trying to squeeze through the obstacle course of people and luggage whilst answering a few hundred “hello, hello, where are you from”s along the way. Enduring this lengthy procedure for the sake of making tea, even as an English person, was out of the question.


When we finally arrived in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan province, it felt like walking for the first time, after our battery chicken style train experience. We happily arrived at the hostel and took a welcome break from Chinese culture with a nice cheeseburger. Unfortunately, we were soon to find that our planned route westwards towards the Tibetan areas was closed to foreigners, which may or may not have had something to do with the 60th anniversary of its, ahem, ‘peaceful liberation’ by the gracious Chinese government. We like to think (for our own sanity) that plans are destined to change, rather than fail. So instead, we enjoyed a few days in Chengdu, exploring the tranquil parks, where hundreds of women gather to dance in unison to Chinese pop blasting from loudspeakers found on every corner, playing anything with a beat, all at full volume. Nothing like some good communal exercise. If that’s not loud enough for you, then you can pay a visit to one of the many traditional ear cleaners, running around with white coats, wielding pieces of wire with some kind of fluff attached to the end- “very comfortable” they tell you with enthusiasm that’s hard to refuse.

In the end, decided to wait a few days in the hope that rumours were true and the West would reopen. Meanwhile, off we went to cross a few things off the Sichuan sight seeing list. First the Leshan Great Buddha- the biggest in the world infact and I suspect the most impressive. He was created by one dedicated soul with the purpose of calming the wild river that ran past the city, and in some way it succeeded. Whether it was indeed the calming gaze of the enlightened one, or the huge amount of rock that was calved out of the cliff and thrown into the river leveling the bed, is up to you. Next on our Buddhism expedition, was Emei Shan, one of the four holy mountains and now shrine to capitalism, with its thousands of camera wielding pilgrims every day. On reaching the golden temple at the summit, its not difficult to imagine the mystery behind this place, the sheer face cliff disappearing into the clouds below, blue skies and bright sunshine, untampered by the usual foggy haze.

There was one thing which we decided to leave of the tourist ‘to do list’ and that was the speaciality Sichuan hotpot. So hot that it might well kill you. Infact, it is said that it used to be made with opium, the numbing effect supposedly countering the burning effect, making it bearable and maybe drugging you enough to actually enjoy it. Now that is outlawed, we thought it safer to stay away, especially with the ‘non-spicy’ food already pushing our limits on the hot front.


As we were wondering what to do next, wait for the police to make up their minds, or to forget it and head south to Yunnan province, fate made up our minds with an opportunity we could barely let pass by… dun..dun..duuuun.

Like a Peking Duck Out of Water

Leaving behind the dirt roads, fighting and chaos of the mongolian border we eventually arrived at the squeaky clean chinese city of Erlian. Without any kind of phrasebook, Andi managed to secure us our first chinese takeaway, using hands feet and masterly charades skills.

We took a sleeper bus overnight to Beijing. The beds were perfect for me, and the majority of chinese people but anyone much taller (or
wider) wouldn't be so happy. After a few fairly disgusting toilet breaks (I'll spare you the details) and the accumulating heat of 50 sweating bodies, the novelty of the sleeper bus soon wore off.

Arriving in the middle of the night and with no clue where we were, we gladly took refuge in a 24hour Mcdonalds until daybreak. The huge jump in temperature and humidy from Mongolia soon became apparent as we searched for our couchsurfing hosts. After the simple but great pleasure of having a first shower after a few days of public transport and intense heat, we could relax in our new temporary home. As always we had a lot of planning to do and no clue about the new country we were in. Luckily Yuli and Roman did and were more helpful than any guide book could be.

The further east we have gone the cheaper restaurant food has become.
With this we happily frequent local haunts where we can eat a delicious feast for a couple of euros. Chinese food heaven you might think. Until of course you find the menu in only chinese without the all important pictures. Here is where you enter a dangerous zone, where you are opened up to the pletheror of animal body parts you would rather not consume.

And of course the dreaded chilli peppers for breakfast scenario - always a good start to the day. For Andi this sitution presents itself as an exciting opportuntity to broaden his food horizons, where fate will decide what you will encounter next. When you find the waiter coming towards you, proudly presenting a large pile of meat and nothing else, its not hard to guess that you are about to consume some kind of speciality. At this point you order another beer. After further enquiry into the restaurant we see a cartoon picture of a donkey on the wall.. mystery solved. Luckily the novelty of voluntary exposure to the eating of hearts, testicles, and everything inbetween has worn off for my eating-machine friend as we try to stay on the straight and narrow.

Beijing is a good city for tourists, with far more to see and do than we even attempted. We did however make it to the Great Wall. And more, we managed to get there by public bus, rather than being stuck in a tour group as most are resigned to.

Our little £17.50 festival tent that has accompanied us all the way from England was still going strong. So we headed for the wall, and attacked the huge amount of steps that awaited us. With no time limit we made our way slowly across, from tower to tower, me with an umbrella against the blazing sunshine and Andi with one of those round straw hats you imagine in the paddy fields. Looking quite ridiculous we finally made it to the end of the tourist section and a little further. At dusk everyone suddenly disappeared and we were left alone to set up our tent on the highest tower as the sun fell behind the mountains. We drank the beers that we had torturously laboured up a few thousand steps -sometimes steep enough to have you down on all fours.
The effort was rewarded as we watched the silent landscape, the great feat of construction snaking elligantly through the hills, from what can only be described one of the greatest camping spots in the world.

Touristing the Mongol Planes

We arrive at the capital Ulaanbaatar. Every single traveller in Mongolia passes through this needlehead and such it was an ease to catch some comrads for our journey into the "wild". After the usual rain that we tend to drag to places - even if they barely ever see water - we eventually leave the city to its flooding disaster.. past lakes that fill the roads with whole buses stuck in it. We felt like apologising but guessed we would be declared as fools.

Some hours later, 7 backpackers from 5 nations, a guide and a driver glide smoothly like a ride on a wild bull over the vast empty vallies of Mongolia. Other than on horseback this is likely the only way one can navigate the chaotic braids of dirt-track that scar the peaceful and fenceless flatland. Passing hords of free animals and randomly distributed gers, our eyes catch children sitting near the tracks. We stop to buy from the young seller Ayrak - fermented milk with only little alcohol. A delicious drink for mongolians and only for them as for our taste it smelled like.. well.. fermented milk. We head towards the temples of Karakorum - built from the leftovers of the ancient capital of the largest empire in history. "You can conquer the world from the back of a horse but you can't rule it from there", a wise man once said. And the only reason to find the foundations of this once thriving city in the middle of dry-nowhere.

It takes another 6 bumpy hours and some sleeping pills against roadsickness for our singapori friend till we get to our final destination: Terkh White Lake. A feeling of mystery crawls over my back as we drive past the frozen lava streams and hundreds of carefully built stone piles. People had too much time here. A gorgeous view over a huge blue-green watery mirror with a volcano on the edge opens up. Already i am excited for the coming day, to hop on my horse without a name. As in Europe we take riding lessons and all of that kind of expensive crap I didn't know what to expect. A funny sight it must be for the experienced Mongolian riders, when a group of foreigners try in vain all pitches of the word "shuh" (meaning GO! if you are a Mongol horse), forcing him to round us up into the right direction. An hour later I eventually got the idea and found myself galloping rather proudly towards the silent volcano. Staggered we stand at the top of this holy place and with ease I can sense the power that had been alive here. Holy indeed. Back to the ger we honour the day with Chinggis Khan vodka, poker and some propper traveller's tales.

Our next destination, after the obligatory long bumpy jeep ride, was the steaming hot springs of Tsenkur. Walking along a forest competing in its green to Bavaria, I encounter what I wouldn't have believed existed.. a swarm of 20 eagles circles above our heads. Our daily dose of Chinggis vodka this time was shared in the naturally heated tub - hot enough to have killed off any future offspring in advance.

As everything is touristy organised we don't miss out the desert that cross our path on the way back. We stop at a local family's place and kill the time watching the work of the masterly mongolian riders while the sun sets behind the dunes. With elegance they gallop behind the free herds, catching the young mustangs while making a 180 degree turn without stopping. Time for dinner. A salad and all kinds of bits of meat (but mostly bones and fat) are cooked via hot stones added into a huge pot by the local Mama. After a cosy night of 7 in one ger we face a significant decision.. horse or spitting camel. Some eyeblinks later Ava, steadily the swarm of mongolian men, was sat on a horse, accompanied by one of the riders, galloping into the distance. So off we were to the sand piles either riding or in case of huge camels rather trotting, our friends clinging desperatly to the huge bristly humps.

For a change from dunes to civilisation we head back to the only big city in this country - having had a great time with great people.
Thanks for the pictures, Jan!

From Siberia to the Steppes

For the first time since our trip began, we make contact with the backpacker trail that follows the Trans-Mongolian rail. We realise how lost we must look as we are immediately scooped up by a local hostel owner and taken back to his homely abode in the centre of Ulaan-Ude. Its nice to enjoy the rare company of other travellers and indeed people who speak english at all.

The feeling of this town tells us we are closer to Asia, not just because of the amount of Mongolians and Chinese that grace the streets, but because of the cheery Buraty people common to the area. We head for a nearby buddhist datsan, full of colourful temples and mandalas, with jolly old monks posing for photos along the way. Unfortunately our prayers for sunshine were left unanswered and the rain that began on the hour of our arrival in the city (the first rain the area had seen for 2 months!), carried on relentlessly. With this we decide to head for Mongolia. Of course this plan didn't go as planned as we find that the quick, easy and highly convenient bus to Ulaan Batar is fully booked by travellers more prepared than we are. So instead we are left to explore a route known only to the brave and (mainly) stupid. To make things worse, we happen to share a dorm with a couple of Irish folks, meaning guarenteed hangover on the morning of our expedition. Taking the minibus to the border along bumpy roads, i spend a few hours in limbo between reality and the land of nod. Luckily while i was busy attempting to catch a few winks, Andi was doing what he does best: making friends with the locals. Handy indeed, when a maze of checkpoints and bureaucracy awaits.

Having successfully left Russia and with no clue how things work in Mongolia, we decide best to follow our new friends for a beer. We are treated to a fantastic welcome as they show off their rather impressive vocal and guitar skills. It seems that even the young generation of mongolians adhere to the traditional songs of the landscape, and watching from the window of the bus, its easy to see why.

We head to the home town of Unika and after a very appreciated dinner we drive with her family to a camping place. This turns out to be an hours drive off road, fording rivers and bouncing between the roof and seat of a jeep. We arrive at a picture postcard location, with vast open steppe bordered by sweeping hillsides. Horses and livestock graze in the distance and nomads in tradional del trot gracefully from ger to ger. All is tranquile apart from the 500 or so people who happen to be singing, dancing and fighting in the middle of it all. By chance, we have come across a local nadaam festival. A battle of strength and skill in the 3 manly sports of wrestling, horse racing and archery (with vodka drinking appearing to be the unoffical 4th). We are introduced to Unikas family, which appears to be every other person we come accross, including the honourable wrestling champion.




An old man in a long silk del with medals pined to his chest takes us by the hand and leads us to his home without speaking a word. We sit humbly and sip from the bowl of Airag, fermented mares milk (which by the way tastes exactly how you would expect). The inside of the ger is beautifully decorated, with carpets and painted furniture around a central stove. He poses proudly at the head table with his wife as we document the occasion with a photograph. It is all very dignified, which wasn't so true of what was going on outside, as the last drops of vodka were absorbed. At the end of the night all of the rubbish that was evenly spread across the steppe was burnt on a big toxic bonfire and the drunks that were stumbling around were collected and taken home to avoid becoming the midnight snack of a hungry wolf. We too retreated and enjoyed a much needed sleep after a fairly random but brilliant day. Next stop Ulaan Bataar.

Off the rails..

Old man baikal, as it is known by the locals. A wise and ancient
spirit with a power that matches its size, holding 20% of all unfrozen
fresh water. Its not hard to see why those who inhabit its shores hold
such reverence for the mystery surrounding this sacred soul. The
holiest places are adorned with scarfs and rags, ties to branches. And
if you are in a bad mood, you better not dare to enter the shamanic
island of Olkon, or else risk the bad fortune that you will bring upon
yourself.

Once a year, on a date kept secret to those outside the spirit world,
shamans are drawn from across the world to the mighty lake. What
happens there is a mystery, but you better make sure to offer some
vodka or cigerettes to keep on the good side of this old russian soul.

As we set up our tent beside the endless expanse, its hard to image
how such a place could have been part of the open prison that was
Siberia. Intricately carved wooden houses stand out against the
backdrop of soviet tower blocks, giving a clue to the past culture
created by the exciles of the Decembrist revolution.

Having said that, we are lucky enough to be here in the few months of
summer, with warm sunshine and days that last almost till midnight.
The temperature of the water is the only clue that in the winter time
the ice is thick enough to drive a car over. Equally beautiful but not
so hospitable I would imagine, equating to a punishment on par with
death. Still, we make the most of our time drinking vodka and eating
the freshly smoked fish by the lake, a welcome break from the cities
and trains that we have been bound to for the last few thousand miles.

The morning that we leave is overcast with thick fog, reflecting our
regret that we must leave before we have even scratched the surface of
this incredible place, or infact of Russia in general. We hope to
return one day without the restriction of the small printed expiry
date that sits on the pages of our Chinese visas. Until then we bode
fairwell to old Baikal and head eastwards to Ulan Ude, our last
Russian city before the turn southwards to Mongolia and China.

On the rails..

Sochi ahoi. Being nearly intoxicated with benzin on our ferry we happily exited onto the port in Russia. With the help of Anastasia, our new friend and fellow couchsurfer, we popped up in the spare room of a cosy soviet style flat from which we explored the sub-tropical resort town. With its parks of eucalyptus and palm trees, its hard to imagine it as the home of the next winter olympics.

With one kilogram cake hidden in my backpack for Ava's birthday we start the journey. Due to communication problems our invitations for coffee found rejection and the delicious cake luckily needed sharing between ourselves. Barely philosphical talks were shared with our random passenger-companions as we tried to use the international language. "Bayern Munch" or "Gitler" (the russians have no H) are the essential letters, replacing all other unnecessary words such as verbs, adjectives and anything else required to form a sentence. Not much communication found place even between Russians and in general these folks are quite similar to something I would describe as a hard nut. Instead of wodka-evenings we had a suprisingly calm train journey drinking tea and enjoying the medititative and absolutely boring constancy of Russia's birch covered landscape out of our bed-seat.
Stocked with enough food for a Siberian winter we at least didn't need to worry about starvation.

For the next days I improved my minimalistic drawing skills while getting thrown random dates about wars with Gitler and Napoleon on me from the old lady next to us. After being reassured the fifth time she hates Germans I wonder if she really knows I am one of them. After clarification and some laughing i hope to have spread the word that we have not the same plans as before.

We follow our usual city routine and hop off in Kazan with no clue of where to stay or what to do. Luckily we stumble into Diana who takes us by the hand. After visiting the local world heritage Kremlin we head for a cheap hotel to fullfill our registering duty. A hotel glamoriously exhibiting itself by a little A4 paper taped on a random black door saying "Gastinitsa".

After our nice city break, we head on for three more days of sweating our soul out in a cramped 3rd class wagon... Trans-Siberia. We are happy to arrive in Irkutsk, thousands of kilometers further into Russia with the great Baikal lake awaiting us..

The Black Tea* Coast

Welcome to Asia - the sign reads as you cross the istanstal bridge, leaving Europe behind. Not much changes. Chaos still ensues on crowded roads. We jump onto a bus, waving goodbye to our good friend and host who battled through traffic to bring us forward to the next side of the world and the next stage of our journey.

We finally manage to escape the never ending city, watching from the cabin of a truck as the landscape transforms from grey to green. The image of a dry Turkey proves to be false, with the north rivaling England's green and pleasant lands any day.

Against very sensible advice, we decide to head straight for the Black Sea coast, rather than following the country's main transport route through Ankara. A quick decision at a road junction that would shape the escapades of the following week, as we try desperatly to hop from village to village along scenic but bumpy cliff top roads. Terrifying panoramic views.

Things began slowly, as we struggled to make more than 30km a day.
Daunting with still 970km to go... at this rate we would reach Russia by Christmas. But we clung desperatly to our ill-made plans, based on what our free tourist map told us was a main road along the coast. A main road which appeared to be somewhat... under construction in places. Although this turned out to be a blessing and a curse, with a stream of truck drivers taking us across parts that few others would dare to venture. Crawling up rough mountain roads that make you envy the calmness of the black sea. Followed by plumeting downhill with the full force of gravity pulling you, and the ten tonne truck of rock behind you towards the abiss. Its a real life rollercoaster as you will the unsuspecting pedestrians out of the way of the unstopable mass.

Choosing to hitchhike, the main problem we faced surprisingly wasn't that nobody would take us... or that somebody might chop off our hands, then arms, then head (as one young turk enthusiatically suggested.. with actions). It was the massive amount of tea that we had to drink along the way. Not only from each driver stopping in the middle of their journey, but from petrol station workers, shop owners.. just random people in the street. That, together with sitting in on occassional business meetings, tourist site stops, and being dined in restaurants with more luxury than we deserve, put an end to any attempted time planning. Generally, the generosity and openess of the Turkish people made it impossible to...well..get anywhere at all.

Once we finally did make it further east, the land flattened out and the big towns rose up. We soon found ourselves missing those tiny mountain villages where the men seem to drink chai all day and the women do all the hard work. We made more distance in two days than the whole week before put together. With our Russian visa about the begin we set the port of Trabzon as our destination. Unfortunately our lack of planning ability showed through again, when we literally didn't know what day it was and our visas didnt start as early as we expected. (So after) splashing out our spare cash on a hotel, drinking raki and eating honey soaked baklava, we had 3 more days to kill before the next ferry departed. Back to nature it was, roasting vegetables on the campfire and drinking water from the springs.

After surviving our final spurt in the wilderness, we headed back to the ferry port. Eventually leaving behind the land of tea, for the one of Vodka... next stop... Sochi, Russia's number 1 holiday destination!

Shashkin Yaramaz

Right.. here we are. On the Taxim square. No sleeping place. Panic can arrive at midnight. For now we fullfill our duty to be properly amazed when entering a big city. An army of red flags cover all houses and suggest turkish people don't have minor value complex on their country. In hope to meet good people we join a couchsurfing gathering at a top floor bar. Whilst enjoying the amazing view over the old part of Istanbul we get in chat with Yahya. Our fantastic host and new friend .

From now on a difficult time began - being invited even for dinner and for the bus tickets we found ourself exhibited to his brilliant hospitality with no chance for escape. Being shown huge mosques, the grand bazar and BurgerKing our feet started to weaken more than during all our journey. In fact there is nothing better in this situation than a couple of chai's with an incredible view of the Bosporus.

But enough of the daytime. Nightlife called for us. With excitment we headed for the bars in Taxim to enjoy the one and only: Efes Pils..
which we know so well already from Berlin. As one can feel the millions of humans during daytime so can one now - streets flashing with light and filled with people wherever one looks. A melting pot for the young'ens of Turkey. Just as foodshops can be found on wheels or legs, so can everything else: getting your shoes shined whilst playing scratch cards or buying glowing princess crowns - everything is possible.

But there is more to nights as we head home.. dozens of fishermen on the bridge extract the ocean's delicious inhabitants, which barely leave the river before being grilled and served up from one of the many floating fast food joints. But even this is only a fraction of the troup that covers the bridge shoulder to shoulder during the day.

All good nights are followed by a good breakfast. While we enjoyed best turkish honey, chai, local cheese and olives together with Yahya and Mr. Akif the first mornings, they had to suffer the third day under burned bavarian bretzen. In general i filled these days with confusion and accidents and such found quickly to my new name shashkin yaramaz - little confused terror. But every terror has its ending and so does this one..


Thanks again Yahya for having a good lough and a brilliant time!

Portal to Istanbul

Highway to Istanbul. Donkey-driven carrages. A busdriver misses his exit. With elegance he solves the problem, making a 3-point turn and blocking the highway. The fact that we are still 60 km outside of Istanbul doesn't hold these thousands of houses back from covering the coast. We are thankfully dropped off by our german-iraqi chauffeur before we get totally sucked up by this massive 16-million city.

We find the houses properly organised along straight streets towards the coast, each one with an obligatory street-portier and an own "village"-name. Some scary dogs and a nice chat with the locals later we find ourself somehow in front of a delicous dinner in a villa eating 9-month-long sun-dried beef and drinking wine. Enjoying this very nice welcome to turkey we fall into our first bed in 3 weeks.
Being even accompanied to the busstop - which pops out to mean to go to the highway and stick your thumb out to stop a minibus - we get highly excited about turkish hospitality.

After 2 hours driving with the bus in an endless city i am convinced to have seen for the first time in my life a million people. This IS in fact a hell of a lot of people! Turkey's population growth - being almost as high as india's - is about 1%/a. One can indeed feel this in every corner. And we are heading towards the center of its megapole.

Crossing borders

After over a week on the farm, we headed straight for the Turkish border, taking the train to make up some time. Somewhere along the way, in a nice little river valley, we made camp for the night. And for the first time so far we were able to make a fire, without any worry of attracting unsavory characters (/murderers). Unfortunately we didnt have the equipment or the skill to catch our supper, but we did use our pan for the first time to make tea from the camomile growing around.



The main benefit of which was the slight reassurance that the the lump of metal we have carried half way across europe isnt completely useless.

Anway, we arrived finally at the border, to find that the service for foot passengers was less than satisfactory. On the advice of the greek police, we hitchhiked across, avoiding confrontation with the small army that populates the 500m of no-mans-land up to the turkish border.
For a quick 15 euros I bought a visa (with complimentary sweet). Just a few minutes of standing in the car lane like over-laden donkeys (and a half-hearted search by a border curious/bored guard) later, and we were out of the EU and into turkey.

Apart from the obvious differences... church steeples to minorets...
disappearance of the greek alphabet... the driving style becomes somewhat more... 'relaxed'. The hard shoulder becomes a much more efficiently utilised space, reserved for the numerous low horse power (and occassionally horse drawn!) vehicles.

The good life

Here i find myself trying to find the freedom of my soul - accompanied by goats, sheeps, horses, cats, 2 typical greek bear-like dogs,.. loads of chickens. They seem to be happy here.

Constructing cat-proof chicken stalls (lets hope for the poor animals) and learning the tricks of ecological gardening, we find ourself enjoying the life on the farm. Added the spice of hearing about the food's connection to our mind and health, we get energized every day by home-grown salat. Living here it seems clear that societies livestyle has shifted the wrong way during the industrialisation period - having now good food as the exception, while it was normal for centuries. Change in a changing world is needed anyway. But are we really ready to take down our dependence on luxury?

For my part i find myself, after eating salat for a week, in the kitchen - trying to cook delicious home-grown garden snails in order to counter the joy of lacking meat. Accompanying me in my eagerness for this dish, i find the owner of the farm - Dimitris. With energetic enthusiasm and excited young eyes he adds flour to the basket.. A clever process for cleaning the living food outside.. and inside.

Leading scaryily-big horses, the sorrow with a dying little goat in my arms, the pleasure of running water in the morning, laughing with the farm's kids Amelie and Louis.. many more little experiences.. before we were eventually pulled back on the road again..

The best things are for free.

A cliche but true none the less. We are over half way across greece without spending a penny on the getting here part. Ok, its nice to keep the pockets lined..but the real advantage is the bizarre poetry that has become of our lives in the last couple of weeks. You cant help but wonder, as you roll away the tent in the morning, where you will be by the time night falls. From an old bus station, precariously hidden behind an obviously thin tree, to a marble clad villa by the coast. The kindness of strangers is a strange thing indeed.

So thanks to our new friend Georg, a very interesting 70 year old, who prefers the shortcut of climbing the balcony to the mundanity of stairs, we had a very comfortable welcome to the east coast. Drinking sherry as the sun fell behind mount olympus.


After a couple of days of greek coffee and a very well appreciated barbeque, we decided to move on. Since we arrived in greece, we have been followed rather persistantly by a large rain cloud and it had caught up with us once again. My idea of a sunbaked greece has proven to be a myth, and so my forever lasting attempts to escape that english-style drizzle must go on.

So after taking the train north somehow for free, we arrived in the metropolis of thessaloniki. Surrounded by busy streets and busier people, we headed a few kilometers out to Thermi. As has been the case so far, help arrives just when it is needed, and our desperate search for a camping place brought us under the wing of a local ecological farm. Good fortune it seems, is always to be found in good people. But the story of our week in thermi, i'll leave for andi to tell...

Navigation to the Gods

Oh you greece, rainy greece. You welcome us with your blessing showers.. and hords of north-africans trying to reach the european mainland for a chance to a better life. Friendly people who find time for a smile. Wild dogs accompaning us. What a blessing after stressful italy. Ava - having the pepperspray at hand - didn't agree in first place.

Watching the spring-green and flower-covered mountains go by whilst heading east, i found back to my hour of random thinking - one which i missed quite a lot in my former worklife. It feels good to almost reach the intense awareness of things as i was used to before. The pure realisation of these free timeframes reminds me how valuable our ticks on the watch are and how easily we forget about it.

Ticks later, we find ourselves wasting our freshly gained free time by watching ducks diving in an abandoned stadium for boatracing. Our lazy decision to stay is rewarded by a beautiful view of the gorgeous lake in the morning.. after a hard earned night with the typical english paranoia we found ourself used to by now.

On the search for a ride my eyes get caught by an old VW completely equipted with homemade kitchen, beds, everything. Surprisingly i found myself talking to a retired beekeeper-electrician-farmer from bavaria and his lovely wife. Titled the rank of navigator i faced the task of using my knowledge of the greek alphabet from physics. I knew one day my studies would pay out.


As we drove along from lush green forests to goat covered shrubland, i was staggered by the braveness of Schorsch, who doublessly believed into his ability to turn around on a narrow road, with a greekish unsecured shear drop of 100m. Ava and Anne shared this feeling for sure as they clinged on their seats with widely opened eyes. My astonishment was further assured as he explained to me in detail the principle of other self-made parts of his car. My favorite being the hand-controlled accelerator.. something i rather would describe as a cork skrew.

Eventually we reached Meteora alive. A place like none i ever have seen before. Massive rock formations shaped by the shear power of time and lots and lots of water. On these breathtaking colossus, ridiculously brave monks must have found their way up and covered the rocks in monesteries in the hope to be a bit closer. Pictures will say more than words but really one has to see it for themself..

Thanks again to Schorsch as we would have never seen without you this, the underwater temple of aphrodite in zeus' city and the seat of the gods - mount olympus..