Travel Tips

A part of me was dreading getting back on the bike. But then I so much preferred it to bus travel. Id just lost all motivation.

We ran out of even the most lame of excuses to stay any longer in our fetid room and shortly after dawn one morning we tentively picked our way through the still sleepy streets and out into the eastern desert.

The road was beautifully smooth, and with the onset of winter, the air crisp and cool. It was delightful cycling; the melodic hum of tyre on asphalt; the stark, arid landscape pockmarked by tiny fields of cotton and peppers, stretching away to the horizon. Small harmonized villages of ochre mud and brick dwellings. The cheering calls and waves from the workers in the barren fields. From motorbikes, cars and trucks. Even the coach drivers honked and waved.

Near the town of Manbij we stopped at a ramshackle chai hut and asked to camp near by. It was an ideal spot, with somewhere to sit and chat with the resting truck drivers, now that the sun would set at 4.30pm making the evenings incessantly long. We were bought so much tea I went to bed with eyes like dinner plates. So wired I couldn’t sleep for hours.

Onward we pedaled, following the road signs for Iraq. Across the mighty Euphrates River, its languid waters drifting reluctantly on to pass west of Baghdad. Every stop was a chance to chat with locals, who came to ogle the bikes and strange characters appearing in their midst. Being the road to Iraq ensured few foreigners passed this way, least of all on bicycles. A night spent sleeping in a room of a roadside restaurant with the staff.

In the morning a major in the security services with a friend forcibly insisted we joined them for breakfast. The major was oddly captivated by our journey and asked if we would detour to Hassake, where he would arrange an interview with Syrian TV. Unfortunately, our visas were shortly due to expire and besides, it all sounded a little too complicated.

Long before running into Iraq we turned off the highway and cycled north. Ten kilometers before the Turkish border we stopped at a small shop to buy biscuits. Joseph, a middle aged Keith Sutherland with a gentle disposition, had tea brought for us. Then a huge platter of potato with bread and sauce. All the while I greedily eyed his house next door, with its lush, green garden. Perhaps the only lawn in northern Syria. What a perfect camping spot! Eventually, I asked if it was possible to camp in his garden. He was taken aback. Camp? In his garden? Of course! What a stupid question! His lovely maternal wife had other ideas however. No, we could not camp in their garden. We would stay in their house with the family.

I rummaged through my panniers and dug out the 99p plastic flying ring wed bought from a gift shop in Weymouth. Juliet and I took turns playing with the kids, who obediently lined up to play catch with her, yet seemed intent on trying to decapitate me.

The evening was a privileged opportunity to experience Syrian home life. Around 15 people lived in the house, though it was hard to work out which kids belonged to whom. Although the women and older girls kept their headscarves on, they socialized freely, taking Juliet aside to show her family photos and teach her how to tie a headscarf properly, whilst the lads showed off their mobile phones to me and the smaller children continued to beat me up.

After a lovely evening meal, sat on the floor sharing together in a home without a chair, and an opportunity to wash, we were given our privacy and allowed to sleep.

After breakfast we said goodbye. I told mama she had a beautiful family. Only social etiquette prevented me from throwing my arms around her and giving her a hug and a kiss.

Sadly, we pedaled onto the border. I desperately didn’t want to leave.

Having checked through the Syrian side, we rode the 50 meters to the Turkish side, this time entering the south-east of the country.

The security officer stamped our passports. "Welcome to Turkey", he said. "Would you like to drink tea?"

Perhaps being back in Turkey wasn’t so bad after all.

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