Leaving Greece

My morning at the birdwatching tower was quite eventful. Permitting myself to slowly pack up because who would possibly visit the Evros delta during the weekday, I had most of my stuff on the bike at 10:30. I made a last trip upstairs when I saw a load of people leaving a touring bus and walking the couple of hundred meters toward me. I rushed downstairs, used the few shrubs obscuring our views of one another to change into my cycling outfit, and while strapping down the last of my bags I saw I was being visited by children from a primary school on a field trip.

I told one of the teachers I didn't speak Greek as the first batch went upstairs, the second group waiting downstairs staring and unresponsive to my greetings, and additionally blocking the exit. As I wanted to leave a teacher decided to initiate conversation. I had to answer the commonly asked questions: where did I sleep (a tent), where do I get my food (supermarket), where am I from (the Netherlands), and how long did I take to get there (100 days, followed by clapping from all of the children, which was a first for me). The conversation continued a bit, me being a bit unsure if my English was being fully understood, when the teacher asked me if I was scared of immigrants and enemies. I was startled by his concerns for me, and simply answered that I wasn't scared, the most scary thing so far were the dogs. I answered some questions from the children when the teacher ended the interaction, probably wanting to do what he was paid for. I understood, and went on my way.

The remainder of the Evros delta was flat and very nice to look at while I was cruising over the wide dirt roads. I realised the past couple of days that there is a downside to riding over flat land, as although my saddle is quite comfortable, sitting in the exact same spot on your ass for hours and hours will still make it feel a bit unpleasant. Traveling over hills causes you to sit slightly differently depending on the gradient, and descending allows you to stand on the pedals for a bit. I was looking forward to some hills again. But I made my way due east over more flat land, and along the way I saw some signs saying "restricted access" and an icon indicating I wasn't allowed to take any pictures. I interpreted "restricted access" rather freely, as one does when touring.

I made my way the other 50-something kilometers eastward, then curving upward at the border with Turkey to arrive at the highway going into Turkey. The path northward was lined with a great metal fence, razorwire adorning the top, and watchtowers placed at regular intervals. Some military vehicles rode past me, some of the occupants waving at me, as I was contemplating the existence of this fence. My experiences in the Balkans, of people fleeing their home countries for war or in order to attain a better life than could've been offered back home, and the stories I've heard from other travelers that have been to Syria, Afghanistan and Iraq, made me rather conflicted. Yes there are limits to how many refugees and immigrants one can help within a country. But making sweeping statements about which people are allowed and disallowed, which people are true refugees and which ones are just "seekers of luck" (as it is sometimes phrased by people in the Netherlands), making those statements is only easy until you've met some of those people. And the ones I've met were warm and kind, and each had a really good reason for making the hard decision to leave home, family and friends behind. Hearing their stories I would've likely made the same decision.

Soon I came close to the highway, and decided to make some time to call friends and family of my own. Until I found a post to lean the bike against I was stopped once by four military men in two vehicles. They asked me where I was going, and upon explaining my journey they smiled and sent me along my way, waving and honking as the rode past. I made my calls, the first two went fine, but during the third one I was interrupted four times by various forms of law enforcement in order to explain what I was doing. Afterwards I could continue the conversation each time, until the last interruption. A rather aggressive policeman didn't believe me, demanded my passport, and decided that I must've ridden through forbidden territory (I might've, considering the freely interpreted signs saying "restricted area"). I made the rediculous decision to prove that I was a tourist by showing him the pictures on my camera, prompting him to come up with an ultimatum: delete a particular video or come to the police station. So I did, but I still have the picture shown above in defiance.

I was however, much to my own dislike, quite shaken by the entire interaction. I felt stupid for handling the situation so badly, deciding to never assume good intent again at these borders. I went along my way, got a coffee at a gas station, and quickly finished that last telephone call. It was getting late, and I not only had to cross the border, I also had to find a place to sleep. Towards the border I realised how unfair it was that just because I was born in a particular country with a particular passport, that I was allowed to freely travel where I pleased, a luxury not afforded by everyone in the world.

Into Turkey

The crossing itself proceeded rather slowly, a line of cars in front of me that progressed at a snail's pace. But one officer made his way from the checkpoint towards the back of the line while ordering everyone to open up the trunks of their cars, and upon seeing me told me I could skip the line immediately. The slow progression was caused by each driver was required to show all kinds of paperwork relating to their vehicle and insurance, which was a hassle I didn't have to go through.

Unsure about my chances of finding water I loaded up in a toilet on the Turkish side of the border, and went along my way.

I rode along the highway, beige and brown fields that once housed corn, wheat, and sunflowers all around me. And in the distance, in my direction of travel, a hill seemingly stretching all the way across the horizon. It was as if I was entering the fortress of Turkey, the hill acting as its first line of defence. The first village I passed was adorned with national flags and banners and pictures carrying the likeness of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk (as this is becoming a running gag: sorry Turkish people for not using your alphabet properly). I quickly found a nice secluded place to sleep amidst the harvested fields, and went to sleep.

Towards the southern coast

The next morning I continued eastward. I saw that I could identify the crops that were already taken from the fields by the arrangement of the remaining stalks and the plant material scattered over the soil. The sunflower fields had their stalks evenly spaced, and the some of the flowers themselves could be found, discarded on the ground dried and shriveled, looking much like small balled up hedgehogs. I passed through Kesan, where I got a Turkish simcard and went for some bread. I was immediately approached by a woman who identified me as a touring cyclist, and introduced herself as belonging to the same clan. We went for a coffee and talked about touring and our lives. I told her of my intermediate destination of Luleburgaz, where I would attempt to visit the "cycling academy" I heard so much about. Surprisingly enough she knew the man working there (it appears that cyclists in Turkey form a tight-knit group) and offered to send a message to him in my name. We exhanged telephone numbers, perhaps meeting up again in Istanbul, and said goodbye. Upon leaving I was told the coffee was already paid for.

I made my way down south over a neat unpaved section, over a hill surrounded by pinetrees whose overall appearance reminded me of the German forests I had traveled through, and went down to the coast. The terrain gently sloped down towards the sea, the occasional building, even tiny houses, dotting the landscape. In the distance a handful of big ships were seemingly plomped down immobile in the sea, some seeming like containerships, others perhaps trawlers. I made camp and continued eastward along the coast the next morning. An easternly wind slowed me down a bit, but not so much as to be annoying. In Sarkoy I took the time to travel slowly along the seaside road, had burek (oh, the glorious return of the burek, it was only there that I realised it was likely the pastry traveled westward during the expanse of the Ottoman empire, though I'm not completely sure) and tea in a little bakery, and took in the scenery. Several people on bicycles, many cars, and the occasional two-seater scootmobile traversed that seaside road.

Onwards I went, the gentle slope steepened, hills forming underneath my tires, until near Gazikoy the landscape erected itself into formidable cliffs. And I had the privilege of traversing them by way of a winding road, glad to be able to peer into the distance again. The backside of the cliffs seemed like regular hills, trees growing in patches along its slopes, and would be the last bit of interesting landscape I would see for a while. Not long after the climb I found a place for the night, messaged the bicycle academy to see if there was a spot available, and went to sleep.

The cycling academy

I had one day to get to the cycling academy, and not that much distance to cover. As that would be too easy a start of the day I managed to make a stupid routing decision, got another flat tire, and the wind once more decided to come from the wrong direction. So in the end I felt a bit hurried (even though rationally I had more than enough time to cover the distance) since I had to arrive on time for my appointment in Luleborgaz, so decided to do a bit of racing that day. The fun of cruising at 25 kilometers an hour over unpaved roads every once in a while made up for the endless empty fields on the hills around me.

I made it to Luleborgaz with time to spare, and was surprised to find that the bicycle academy was an actual academy, created by the municipality of Luleburgaz. A place for everyone, but mostly children, to loan a bicycle free of charge in order to go along a track with some simple obstacles. Bicycle tourists could stay in a dormitory, use the kitchen, wash their clothing and use tools, all free of charge. One wall of the dormitory was adorned with a map of the world, all visitors (running in the hundreds per year) could place a little mark indicating where they're from, and leave their name somewhere on the wall.

But I was most impressed with the man running the place. Helping touring cyclists is one thing, but this guy was putting smiles on many childrens' faces. He told me of the plans he had for creating more interaction between the touring cyclists and the local children, perhaps letting the former give presentations about their countries and their trip. I hope he gets this idea past the municipality as soon as possible, as the joys of traveling, namely meeting other people and their cultures, can be achieved just as well by making other people come to you. Should you be visiting on your touring bike, then don't wait for these plans to come to fruition and talk to the children yourself!

During that weekend I was able to regrease and adjust my pedals, them having developed a little play in the bearings, wash my clothes and eat some proper meals again (and some improper ones to regain some of the lost calories).

Istanbul

I left with a happy heart. Making my way northward at the slow pace of 14 kilometers per hour due to the everpresent same headwinds, the wind having no obstacles to slow it down amidst more of those agricultural lands mostly devoid of trees. I saw some hints of fall arriving in their leaves, and felt the waning of summer when the sun hid behind the clouds. The time for cycling around in shorts and a t-shirt were slowly coming to an end. I had heard how cold it can get in Turkey's central lands, and was both excited and a little bit apprehensive for the arrival of the cold. I could finally put all that winter gear to use that have been packed at the bottom of my paniers for the past hundred days, but I don't have any experience in managing my body heat while cycling (yet). So in the breaks of the next three days I read up a bit on advice given by other touring cyclists. I can't help but constantly imagine what the mountains of Georgia and Armenia will be like (and Kars, in Turkey) upon my arrival somewhere in the next month-and-half.

After a day I reached the forests on the northern coast, the wind not having a free-for-all anymore. How much nicer life can be with a couple of trees around. I headed eastward over unpaved roads, passing small villages, occasionally catching glimpses of the sea, once or twice actually being able to see it unobstructed.

Some villages were absolutely beautiful to look at, sparsely spread over the hills, the minarets of the mosque clearly visible from the distance, and wind turbines on the top of the hills. I've always been amazed by wind turbines, somehow upon seeing them a childhood memory of them lined up on one of the dikes in Holland tends to come back. Seeing them lined up on those hills above the village gave me the sense that perhaps a better balance between humans and their environment can be struck one day. Hopeful visions of the future, so to say.

I visited a little market and upon my return I saw a bunch of schoolkids looking at, and touching my bike. I tried to make some small conversation and offered one of them to climb upon the saddle. After doing so I told him he could pedal for a bit, but he wasn't too keen on doing so. Ofcourse upon telling them my country of origin his friends started rattling of a list of Dutch soccer players of which I recognised just two. We said goodbye and I went on my way again.

I camped inbetween two fields of shriveled sunflowers, a couple of them decided to flower late and held their yellow flowers. A weird sight. The man in Luleborgaz told me that this year was especially bad for the harvest of sunflower seeds. Normally one would obtain about 100 to 200 kilograms of seeds per 1000 squared meters. This year it had been just 40 kilograms due to the lack of rain.

I set off for the final stretch towards Istanbul. Many cyclists shared stories of the great distance you have to travel among primary roads. I had planned an alternative route over partly unpaved paths, and upon glancing over the route that morning I already felt good about the prospects that day. But the little unpaved sections I had planned vanished due to planned construction. I made some attempts at alternative routes, encountering a small lake that had seemingly killed all trees that drank from its waters, perhaps caused by the nearby construction, and after 10 kilometers of riding back and forth I gave up. I entered the D020, with its wide shoulder, and made my way alongside all the traffic to Istanbul. At some point I got off and followed a secondary road alongside big soil and ore-transporting trucks, their wheels whipping up the dust into the air. The surrounding vegetation all covered in this gray dust. I joked to myself that if I sneezed very hard I would expel two anatomically correct noseplugs made out of concrete. Certainly the cycling wasn't the best, but it felt good to arrive at the northern edge of Istanbul's Kagithane district under my own power. Two huge skyscrapers appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and within seconds of leaving that road I found myself amidst of the grandness of Istanbul. Huge modern buildings arose alongside my route, and while I continued along a cycling path towards the south they made place for highrise buildings placed atop a great hill.

The rest of the journey was chaotic, but I moved rather rapidly towards a particular hostel I chose to stay in, awaiting the arrival of my girlfriend. In the meantime I arranged my Iranian visa (ofcourse paying 25 euros too much, which I assumed was due to me asking for a 45-day instead of a 30-day visa, but was caused by the diplomat marking my visa as being urgent), and by buying a new cassette, chain and disc brake pads. It felt like quite an achievement to reach the city that separates the European from the Asian continent, and I'm looking forward to spending the next month, maybe one and half, enjoying the sights and hospitality of Turkey. But first and certainly foremost, some time with my girlfriend.