Two more cycling days along the bike trails along the Moldau, then Kathrin meets friends from Switzerland in Prague. Being busy on the new cyclocross-store.de till the last minute, I arrive two days later by train. We stay in a fancy hotel, enjoy great food and a marvelous night walk along the golden city. We look forward to cycle on towards Bratislava. My blood freezes when I see Freddy (Kathrins bike) alone in the backyard, and my lock cut in pieces in the grass. Apparently someone fancied my bike a lot despite the worn look. Video streams of the hotel cameras are checked without success. Police comes by in the evening to file a report, without further investigations. We put flyers with rewards on the neighboring entrances and hope. Luckily we can stay in the hotel for three more nights. One day I rent a bicycle, and we tour the cities doggy districts, visit the "bazars". No trace of my bike but big eyes for the reward.

Weary of the city and the situation I convince Kathrin to do something else. We apply on a Wwoofing farm nearby Prague and get an immediate response. Frantiska, the owner, painter, healer, runs the farm after living for decades in France. Finally Spring in our minds - cherry blossom and birds singing everywhere out here in the tiny village. With Lucy there is another Wwoofer here for the weekend. Weading, shreddings last years shrubs, incredible how much progress is visible day by day. We put new flyers out in Prague with an increased reward for my bike, but still no success. Three long journeys, 20 something countries, bye bye Mono: I wish your new rider cycles with you to Karakorum Highway. :-)

Franztiska travels to Prague for a couple of days, lets Kathrin and me stay on the farm. We quit the faggs, weed the weed, think about our future plans - and decide to move on towards Istanbul. Manually handling four paneers and a tent bag is no fun without bike, so a new bike would be desirable. I'm haggling with the hotel owner to have him cover a part of the damage, and stupid me forgot about the travel insurance, which I actually wanted to do this time.

I take the train back to Bavaria, where Georg helps me to assemble my new bicycle. Thanks a lot for your generous donations - I'm very happy with the bike and its handling, weight and look!

Meanwhile Kathrin cycled on towards Vienna with the bulk of our equipment. Two days later I follow her. I beam through green hills and valleys, see many old stone sculptures of saints beside the roads, rush through Marianske Lazny. Clingggg - a broken spoke on the cassette side of my old rear wheel shortly after. Get it fixed in Plzen and head towards Pisek on small hilly backdoor roads. Great forests, meadows, crop fields and tiny villages with barking dogs. Few road signs, no traffic. Blood sweat and tears on the slopes. I have a rest during the rain in Blatna, and a quick rush to Pisek on the main road that wasn't too bad in terms of traffic. Sight seeing beside searching a guesthouse in the last light of the day. One more racing day - 100 miles to Bitov to catch up with Kathrin again.

Rest day - a walk to the scenic castle over the water reservoir. The campground is great. Finally we tent together, cook our meals and coffees on the little stove as we intended. On the way to Bratislava we briefly cross into Austria to visit the castle of Hardegg in the Thaya valley national park. On the way back to Czech republic, the cycle route leads through a forest of mighty oak trees. I'm taken by the beauty of the Czech nature. The fragance of blooming whitethorn and holder make the cycling incredibly pleasant. 

We stay a night in Znojmo, visit the historical town center and the vast system of man-made catacombs under the city. The guided tour is funny, full of history and fairy tales. The catacombs have been dug since the 12th century for food storage and shelter during war periods for hundreds of years. Then, they were abandoned and forgotten until the bombings of World War II revealed strange holes under the ruins of some old houses.

Looking forward for plain roads from here, we face a tough day of head wind through the crop fields and wind parks in Northeast Austria. Eventually we reach the river March (Morava) at Angeren and take a ferry to Slowakia. The Iron Curtain trail leads us further South towards Bratislava, through beautiful stretches of big willow and cottonwood trees.

A night of wild camping on a  lake with a marvelous sunset between storm clouds and millions of mosquitoes. At 6AM the transportation bands of the quarry pond start to rattle.

A few hours later we arrive in the pouring rain at the ruins of of Devin castle, towering on a big rock over the merging Morave. Utterly soaked we enter Bratislava, and eventually find a hostel after an hour of criss crossing the Danube. Without the rain, I would have appreciated the big balcony of our room and view to the castle a lot. Yet at the time, the gray 1970ies soviet style Hotel Kiev dominates the view, and my mood. There is a Slovak cooking session in the evening. Paula teaches us some lentil soup recipe, and even better, some Fanky sweet dough fried in oil. Yummie! The following day we join a free walking tour around Bratislava and learn a lot about the Slovak history. Kathrin get herself a pink tablet and I feel a little abandoned afterwards.

Sunshine on the following day, time to take off again. A nice tailwind blows us down the Eurovelo 6 cyclist highway along the Danube river (which we hardly see), and by lunchtime we are already in Hungary. Red poppy flowers and storks beside the road, red cherries on the trees in the villages - if we just knew how to ask the owners at the fence for a few. We reach the town of Györ and a nice cafe just before a heavy rain shower, and continue towards Komarom afterwards. But the Eurovelo route is difficult to find, and the road we would have taken is forbidden for cyclists. After we pass the Audi factory and some single trails in the woods, we eventually get back on track, and find the camp site we wanted. A 100 k's, that's descent!

We have lots of opportunities to see the rising levels of the mighty Danube on the way to Esztergom. There is floods in Germany and Austria, and apparently Hungary will get its share in the next days too. However, for today we can still camp  at the riverside in Esztergom, which is most famous for its Basilica on a rocky hill over the river. We take the small cat stairs in the old town uphill, marvel about the view over the river and the mighty marble sculpture of a crowning ceremony. The sky glows in vibrant colors. When we get to the basilica, I'm taken away by the scale of the eight columns at the entrance portal and the mighty green door compared to the visitors. A high priest and his servants celebrate a ceremony, sing and pray and walk to several altars outside the Basilica. Kids stray flowers on the cobblestones between them and the worshipers. We are at the heart of the Hungarian catholic church.

In Szentendre we can stay for two nights in a bungalow on piles on Papsziget island in the river. In the neat old town, people prepare flood walls to protect the old town center. Others would cut the gras on their premises. Surprisingly, everyone is calm, no one seems to be too concerned as we talk to them. Almost all German discounter chains are omnipresent in Hungary, with similar low profile. We watch the Danube rising from our hut, and wonder which direction to take after Budapest. To stay near the flood is probably not very wise.

30 more kilometers to the Hungarian capital. Bicycle trails are partly flooded. Tomasz, a young army student we meet on the way kindly escorts us into town with his bike, and gets somewhat lost too. Eventually we reach the Varosliget city park with the hero square, make some photos with a nice Indian family. The nearby Vajdahunyad castle somewhat looks Disneyland, yet was build around 1900 for the Millennium celebrations of the Hungarian state. Budapest is charming - its history reflected in buildings, the bridges over the mighty stream. When crossing the chain bridge to see the great Parliament building from the Buda side of town, we watch a young man escape an ambulance car and jump over fences into the river. Hmm.

Good news for cyclists: there are many bicycle tracks in the city centre. And the people here like their bikes - they like it fancy and fast. You may see pink racer bikes with pink tires and the cyclist with pink hair too. As well, there is a significant portion of fixies in town.

A great surprise is the Greenbird guesthouse we booked. Not a noisy hostel, but a fully equipped flat near the Parliament building - with our own kitchen, bath. In the basement - we hope the water level won't rise too much. After a long day visiting the Buda hills, we spoil ourselfes with an incredible organ concert in the St. Stephens cathedral. The following day we venture to the traditional Gellert thermal bath, get sunburned and crown the day with a visit to the Belvarosi Festival in the park next to our flat.

Here are some pictures from Budapest:

Hortobagyi National Park (Hungary)

And then, we are on the border that isn't really a border anymore since Romania belongs to the EU. Goats weed on a railroad. A few kilometers later we pass the first Orthodox Church, a white building with silver roof and its unique bell tower style. We arrive in Oradea a little later. The communist style suburbs with its aged and dark gray 5-floor chicken farms (ehh living quarters) are decorated by colorful advertisements. The city center with its many tall 19th-century buildings is beautiful - e.g. the town hall, the splendid hotel across the road and the nearby Church of the Moon. Oradea has once been an important strategic spot during the centuries, and therefore hosts the ruins of a once mighty fortress. Restoration and new construction work goes on everywhere in town. We can feel the boom, can imagine the past and future prosperity. There is a lot of Hungarian influence here in the area, which helps us communicate. Plus, the first two people we really spoke to, would talk French and Italian in addition. A Swiss organic-garlic farmer gives us a lot of funny stories about Romania.

The E79 takes us out of town and gets very busy when the motorway joins in. We ask a young man for alternatives. He shows us his black oily hands and mourns about his "shit country". Apparently he broke his car somewhere nearby. Little later this major road is less paved than pothole covered, with all the trucks and cars and horse carts maneuvering around them. We find a bypass road via Holod through the hills of rural Romania with small farmhouses with stork nests and fields and meadows.

Oradea and Bihor countryside in Romania

From Stej, there is the scenic route 75 through the Apuseni Mountains into Transylvania. We climb up the switchbacks through the beautiful forest up to 1200 meters. At times, Kathrin finds us some wild strawberries. The road sides are limited with brick walls instead of metal barriers, and the limestone mountain tops. Just behind the peak we enter Var Top, a Romanian version of winter holiday and ski resort with building sites everywhere. From there we follow the river Aries through its valley to Garda de Sus, where we camp for 10 Lei (2 Euro) a night. The contrast of a white painted church with silver roof beside a wooden church in the narrow valley is awesome. The paintings in the church display holy men, devils and all sorts of wild creatures, the latter feasting on human body parts. On the first resting day, we visit the nearby gorge with a cave, and chill in an underground limestone spring. On the following day, we cycle up a steep road to visit the famous Scarisoara cave - a giant 3000 year old ice block in a mighty hole. Beautiful views and alp feelings at 1200 meters above sea level.

Our fascination for Romania and its beautiful nature keeps growing and growing on our way down the amazing Aries valley. Steep rocky cliffs, small waterfalls, lush oak and beechwood forests. Wooden monasteries with long bearded priests wearing long black coats and black hats despite the heat. Summer has definitely kicked in and we are grateful for every opportunity to dip in fresh mountain creeks. A dozen man sit under sun roofs in front of the magazines in every village, sharing their 2.5 liter bottles of beer at any time of the day. Finding a restaurant is way more difficult. Still some of the famous wooden cottages are left.

Pictures from Route 75: featuring Garda de Sus and Pestera Scarisoara

The Turda gorge with its 200 meter high limestone walls feels somewhat like the Californian Yosemite valley. The main trail through the gorge is just a few kilometers, but definitely worth the visit. We zip along the E60 to Sighisoara. Lots of new built houses indicate a prospering country, or rising private debts? Comparing the high petrol prices to the average income of approx. 200 Euro per month, I keep wondering how the people can afford driving a car, not to mention to buy a new one.

Cheile Turzii near Turda - not just a climbers paradise!

Sighisoara used to be a center of the Saxon settlers. The fortified medieval town on a hill has been declared World Heritage by the UNESCO and is well conserved. Suddenly there are streams of tourists. Beside the towers and town walls, the historic house of Count Dracula attracts the crowd. Sighisoara is surrounded by a number of fortified churches to protect the Germans from the attacks of the Turks. Bierthan is one of them, located some 20 kilometers away in a lush hilly area. The church is surrounded by three wall rings, and never fell, as the guarding woman tells us. There are only a few very old Germans left here, she says - the younger ones mostly left for Germany after the fall of the Ceausescu regime. In the past, famous wines grew on now fading terrace fields she says with a somewhat mourning voice.

Near the village of Bradeni we spot a stork gathering. Dozens of the big birds flock between two fish lakes. Here we are invited to camp in the orchard of Greg and Christina. They are both teachers and enjoy hosting bicycle travelers. Their three boys help a lot on the farm and with the two cows. At night we talk a lot about Romania's past, about the German settlers and gypsies and the changes after Ceausescu. The Germans would only allow their kind into their fortified churches and cities. And they employed the gypsies. Now that the Germans left, the gypsies gained some of the houses and lack employment and motivation. Other buildings are still remote-controlled by German church institutions far away. The EU spends hundreds of millions for tourist roads, while the local government lacks money for school books. Actually, we are headed for one of these tourist roads over the Carpatian mountains next.

Surviving the heat and the streets of Transilvania, Sighisoara and Bierthan

In Saliste we find a neat campground (www.salisteanca.com) a few kilometers away from the highway and wait for better weather to cross the Carpathians. A stork nest sits on the entrance gate, and we are allowed to plunder the big cherry tree. David and Nicole, a German couple with a 4x4 camper are here as well. They just crossed the newly paved Transalpina in fog and rain. We plan to do the same road in a three day ride, and start with an easy 30 kilometer day from Saliste up to the village of Jina at almost 1000 elevation meters. Sheep flocks and horses grass on the meadows on the hilltops above the forests. In Jina, we lodge at the only guest house. There is small museum run by an old woman, with a nice collection of traditional clothes such as thick white sheep leather jackets and white dresses with excessive colorful embroideries. The cherries in the backyard are sweet. A five liter bowl of soup and sausage and mustard for dessert.

The next day starts with great switchbacks down to Sugag, and then 40 kilometers up the small valley, past two scenic water reservoirs. Tourist hotels are in construction here, and lots of wood trucks pass by. The outlook of big business probably payed the pavement. The remaining 10 kilometers until the peak of the Tartarau pass are either very steep climb, or our legs are very weak already. No blueberries. 1700 meters above sea level and still thick fir forest, not much to see. We rest in a small cottage in Obarsia Lotrului, make friends with Bogdan and Daniel from Bukarest. They both speak fluent English and French, for both lived in Quebec for years. Bogdan invites us to Palinka, the local spirit and the cheese and sausages they bought on their ride over the Transalpina. A little later we start to drink Tuica (another home-made spirit) from a PET bottle. Hearty Romanian hospitality, campfires and a lot of laughters. I end up with a severe headache the next morning.

On the Transalpina

However – the sun is shining - Kathrin and I decide to tackle the Urdele Pass. Daniel sponsors an apple, a banana and a power bar for each of us, which is somehow more helpful than Bogdans contribution. We see patches of snow on distant mountains. Steep switchbacks through the woods, then we reach the tree frontier. The donkeys up here love cyclists salty sweaty hands, and the many tourists with their cars and motorbikes celebrate us like rock stars. We climb on and on, with aching legs. In distant valleys it is hard to determine between the white rocks and the sheep flocks, and the snow fields get closer and closer. We reach the first peak. Makeshift shops sell souvenirs, and much more important for us - home made cheese and sausages. A feast with the bread we carry since Jina.

Blue sky, great views. Patches of snow and violet alp roses between the rocks. A few kilometers down, then up again to the actual Urdele pass at 2140 meters above sea level. We can see down South into the hilly Walachei now, and spot the hotels of Ranca not far away. Three days with more than 3000 elevation meters with all equipment – well done Kathrin and Freddy and Mono (which was baptized with snow on the event).

Old gnarled beechwood and oak trees on the meadows, fantastic outlooks South – it is a very pleasant ride down to Novaci. From there, it is a lot of ups and downs over the foothills of the Carpathian mountains to Horezu. Pretty jaded we put our tent on a campground with mighty oak trees beside the road. A dog with one and a half ears takes its opportunity to fetch our sausage during our Yoga session. She became a big fan of us with that!

Around Horezu

Horezu has a really good tourist information. The office master tells Kathrin a lot about the famous monasteries in the area, the nearby National Park and the pottery and everything in perfect French. The hiking map provided and the encouraging words about safe camping in the National Park trigger new plans. As our man says with a big laugh, the bad guys have left Romania for Middle Europe.

We visit the beautiful Horezu monastery on the following day, and we admire the somewhat hidden pottery exhibition in the Casa de Cultura. I'm not into pottery, but the sort of fractal details of the decoration is so good that it even became UNESCO Heritage. The following day we pack our stuff and head for Bistrita in the Buila Vanturarita National Park. First we pay a visit to the monastery at the entrance of the gorge, which looks similar to the Horezu monastery. The courtyard is full of big colorful roses, and visitors in the church enthusiastically worship the displayed relics. The entrance to the cave church is locked, yet the view into the gorge already pays well for the climb.

A small gravel road takes us into the Bistrita gorge. Limestone walls of 200 meters height are divided by a small river, at some point just 6 meters wide. On the way, we visit the Pestera Ursilor (bear cave) with its 60 meter high and 30 meter wide entrance, that quickly narrows to gap just big enough for one person. Utter darkness in here, and the sound of bats!

The campground we find after a few kilometers is an excellent spot. White limestone ridges tower above the forest. Nearby the river rustles. A carpenter shows up with two apprentices and two strong horses. He accepts our invitation for a coffee, while his boys and the horses pull a dozen of trunks from the other side of the river. We don't have a real language in common, but somehow we manage to learn a bit from each other. So we learn about the spring half a kilometer up the valley, and a small bear that hangs out around here. Loru (or Laurentiu) is a carpenter from a neighboring village. He worked on a farm in Germany for a few weeks a while ago and he is so curious about our trip that he watches and comments every photo on my camera. Perhaps he just liked to sit and rest. Just, he didn't really bother to talk to Kathrin. Perhaps, attitude already changes as we get closer to the Orient. At nightfall there are dozen of fireflies around us. And little later some rain to ease us into deep sleep. No bears, luckily.

From the Bistrita monastery there is a steep 5 kilometer gravel road to the Arnota monastery, with accommodation facilities and hiking trails on the mountains. This might be our last chance to hike for a while and since I don't like to leave our stuff in the village, we cycle up the painful road. The third monastery in three days – that's almost a pilgrimage! With my non-existent Romanian skills and desolate Bible knowledge, I watch the chapels paintings with little more understanding that an ant. However, the hike almost up to Mount Arnota was very pleasant in a Buddhist way. I really liked the gnarling trees and the view of the surrounding hills and black thunderstorm clouds.

After the hike, we hop on our bikes again and cycle to Baile Gorova, a traditional spa town with a campground. The campground actually consists of wooden huts, tenting isn't allowed and the pool would shimmer in rainbow colors. Sunday morning, 8:30. Disco starts, or rather radio music distributed evenly over the camp. About 5 different songs were played during the course of the day. My flash for Romania gets chilled somewhat. However, we stay for two nights to recover our bums before moving on to Draganesti. Two nights in a decent pension with WiFi. The cook paints bicycles on our plates, with blueberry jam! Busy planning the next adventures – Bulgaria is just 120 kilometers away.

This last stretch on minor roads to Turnul Magurele is once again an amazing experience. Sunflower fields in full bloom are followed by long stretches of old farm houses. Horse and donkey carts rather than cars. Older villagers sit in the shadow under the plum trees, observe their gooses and turkeys and protect the plum harvest. Rarely we find a tree to harvest some plums ourselves.

By 5PM, some unattended goose flocks cross the street, one after another, observed by the gander. Lovely Romania! 

Springs and wells: Romania has no good public reputation for the quality of the drinking water. At least in the mountains, there are plenty of springs with amazing fresh water. Even  in the rural areas we always found a clean well just in time. Whenever a cup was attached to the well, we considered it safe. 

Animal power: Horse breeding is very popular in Romania. The well-feed animals are a common view beside the road or on the meadows. Even on the highways there are often horse carts loaded up with hay, building material or scrap. Older coachman will kindly greet, whereas the boys in charge often attempt to start a race with overtaking cyclists.

Highlights in traditional and modern rural architecture: Traditional architecture of the farmhouses fairly changed from region to region, as well as the amount of incredible new houses and palaces.

Long stretches of sunflower fields are framed by Ganja plants beside the road. In contrast to our last day in Romania, there are hardly villages between Nikopol and Pleven, and no ATMs. Giant farm machinery on the roads rather than horse carts. The good thing is, there is no grannies to protect the plum trees from hungry cyclists.

Signs are written in Cyrillic, and sometimes in Latin characters. I'm thankful now I had to learn Russian language in school. After a few hills with aching legs we get into Pleven, the fifth largest city in Bulgaria. Kathrin interviews the tourist information on the central plaza, when a man on a mountain bike stops by and asks me where I am from and so on. I ask him for a bike shop to center my rear wheel. He replies that he's building bikes, and shows pictures of his self-made E-bike. Zezi is his name, he would look after my wheel and invites Kathrin and me to stay in his flat. So we rush after Zezi through crowded pedestrian areas and streets on wound bums. His flat is an incredible collection of more or less self-made electronic devices, books and pillows - Zezi is a creative genius.

After a shower and a nap Zezi invites us to cycle to a nearby park. Actually, we go to the famous Kaylaka park some 15 kilometers away. The citizen of Pleven have made this beautiful park after World War II. Ponds, meadows with flower beds, forests of old trees. At the end of the park there is a lake framed by 20, 30 meter high rocks. Hikers and cyclists hang out in small restaurants between the rocks and the lake.

Pleven became famous for the big siege during the Russian-Turkish war in 1873 that initiated the retreat of the Ottoman empire from the Balkan after some 500 years. Tens of thousands of men died in the brute battles, leading English observers to statements like "A battle without strategy is pure butchery". The communists erected a giant monument on the battlefield hill hundred years later, and put a museum inside. Weapons are displayed, and some big paintings illustrate the events that lead to the war. In the top floor, a 360° painting displays a battlefield. In front of the painting, the scenery is modeled with trenches, scattered guns and broken horse wagons. It looks so realistic, one can almost smell the stench of war.

We cross the Balkan mountains at the Troyan pass. A fine forest of beech and oak trees leads from Troyan up to Beklemento. There are no trees on top of the pass, the land is used for sheep and sweet blueberries. We compete with a dozen of gypsies that harvest the berries professionally. A giant concrete monument honors Russian soldiers of the big wars. The strong wind up here chill my stealth-camp-mood. Luckily we find an abandoned farm a few kilometers down the road. It is a great spot to camp, hidden above the street and surrounded by mighty trees and beautiful views up to the pass and down into the valley.

 In Kran we are picked up by the local blacksmith while fetching some cherries from a tree on the street. Stefan is his name. He asks us to follow, leads us to his cottage, and shows us his traditional workshop. With a few splinters the fire is started, and with a few dozen skillful hits with the mighty hammer, an iron rose leave is created, then another one. Souvenirs for us, Stefan smiles. We share the beer we just bought in the market, and talk about his family, his job, about Bulgaria. The Stefan sings us a gospel from the Orthodox church. When we leave, our bags are full of vegetables and fruits from his garden, and our hearts overwhelmed by the hospitality.

Just outside of Stara Zagora we are happy see the first road sign for Istanbul. Like other towns we have seen in Bulgaria, most buildings are less than 50 years old. Yet here, there are thousands of years of human history buried under the streets. Already 5000 BC man settled here, living from agriculture and copper craft. The Tracians lived here, then the Romans. All left their traces, displayed in a great history museum. In its basement, an original Romans street is excavated, and outside an amphitheater is being reconstructed.

We take a slow train from Stara Zagora to Sofia. A young lady near us speaks fluent English, and is very literate. In Sofia there is a great tourist information, somewhat hidden near the Sheraton Sofia Hotel. On the maps provide there, we see many historic places and great landscapes we have missed on our way through the country. However, we visit the synagogue and the Bajan mosque. It is my first time in temples of these religions – I marvel about the rich ornaments without painful dark paintings of saints and evil. In the courtyard of the Sheraton Hotel is a small but impressive Rotunda church that is 1600 years old. Nearby, a thermal bath erected by the Ottomans. Outside we fetch some healthy water from a tap. Sofia is said to be the capital with the best water in the world.

Protests against the corrupt government still go on near the Nevsky Cathedral. People of all ages sit with banners in front of small tents, or cycle around with whistles and Bulgarian flags. As we hear, there are three big parties ruling the country, without opposition in the parliament. Now the government claims it was elected, and won't change. Some Bulgarians call it stubborn Donkey behavior. Hundreds of police man block any access to the government buildings. With a big detour, we reach the impressive Nevsky Cathedral with its giant green dome and the white walls.

On the next day we take a city bus to the Boyan church on the Southern outskirts. From the distance I can see the canopy of some trees that looks very familiar to me. A mighty trunk with soft red bark. An old man in the church park confirms my suspicion: they are Giant Sequoias from California, planted here 115 years ago. The following hike through the steep valley with the gushing river to the Boyan waterfalls is marvelous. Woods of great tree diversity – birches, beeches, oak trees, pines and even yew. Trunks covered in moss. There are beautiful water cascades already before we reach the actual waterfall. Not many tourists are out here, and the trails are pretty clean. The panorama tour back to Boyan features some great lookouts over Sofia and the surrounding mountains. Unbelievable to find such a neat piece of nature just outside a capital!

On we go towards Istanbul. Heat and hills and sweet blackberries on small country roads. Just after 2000, a famous Bulgarian history researcher discovered the Tracian tombs of Alexandrovo. Even nowadays, the place is little known. The tomb was erected in the 4th century AD, and the paintings inside were so unique and well preserved that Japan sponsored a museum nearby. Inside the museum a complete replica of the tomb including its paintings can be visited, and lots of maps, pictures and items illustrate the life of Tracians in this part of Bulgaria. The museum guide speaks good English and enjoys the chat as well as we do.

Last night in Bulgaria – camping at a swimming pool in Harmanli – what a treat after the heat of the day! The owner Alex speaks good German, has been dealing with German cars for years. He invites us for diner and beers and a chat with the local newspaper reporter. We leave Bulgaria on the following day, with deep thankfulness for the hospitality we received, and a feeling of having seen very little of a great country. And did I mention the endless sunflower fields?

An old woman rejects our money when we buy some tomatoes from her shelf. We don't even know yet how to say "Thank you". Just when we spot the first lean minarets, some kids cycle along with us. One of them, Armagan, speaks some English. He and his cousin kindly lead us over ancient stone bridges and cobblestone alleys into the old center of Edirne, and deal with the hotel manager for us. There is a 500 year old caravansary near the bazaar that still emits the old flair, even though it serves as five star hotel nowadays. The first floor of the buildings in the shopping streets is made from wood here and there, and aged over decades.

Sundown, minarets in the sky, a muezzin is singing. Veiled women on the streets. Men greet each other with a little slow bow and the right hand to the heart. We have arrived in the Orient! Not far away the Selimiye mosque is located – a masterpiece of ancient architecture. We can enter after taking off our shoes – luckily no scarf is required for Kathrin. The style of the decorations inside is simply beautiful and many windows make it a bright and light place indeed, compared to the somewhat dark Nevsky Cathedral in Sofia. The floor is covered by a thick carpet. Children play between the worshipers. It feels so peaceful!

It takes us three days and a hundred hills to the outskirts of Istanbul. We get up very early, because by 10 AM the road already melts in the sun, as well as our spirits. Sunflower and wheat fields, shepherds with their flocks, few traffic. Villages here and there with old men sitting in cafes, greeting us friendly. They neither drink nor eat from sunrise until sunset for it is the Ramadan month, and we are happy to get some food anyway. Water we get from the big marble square shaped wells with the little overlapping roof. Up and down leads us the silver band on towards Istanbul. The outskirts of Kirklareli and Saray are big building sites. Dozens of uniform modern apartment blocks are being erected. Uprising economy or another big bubble boom, my head is wondering. One day we find a shady picnic area just after a big hill at lunchtime. Stove out, we cook and eat and sleep till 3PM. Next to us, some guys gather for a little barbecue. What a treat!

60 kilometers cycling through oak and pine forests for a change, yet another 1000 elevation meters in the burning sun. Just on top of a long ascend, a young cyclist stops by, and invites us for lunch at his grannies house in the next village. Erhan is here on summer vacation, and self-selected bicycle training. His granny has a winning smile. She serves us fried peppers and fresh melon from her garden, and spoils Kathrins bicycle Freddy with a bunch of nice flowers.

Exhausted from a long cycling day and without a reasonable hotel available, we have our first beer in Turkey at a gas station outside Cacalta. With that kind of painkiller in the blood, the busy highway to the Marmara coast doesn't bother us anymore. We reach Büyükcecmece by sunset. The Sea, after three months cycling! We have a stroll on the crowded beach promenade with its restaurants and all sort of makeshift shops. The young Turks like this place a lot, and the vibes are very kind. The dress code for the women ranges from western style to fully veiled, right beside each other. And we spoil ourselves with a nargile, the Turkish water pipe tonight.

There is still 50 kilometers to go to the Old town of Istanbul. Partly we can cycle on beautiful beach promenades, partly on busy highways with desolate or non-existing bike tracks through new apartment block districts and industrial areas. Many smelly creeks lead into the sea, and an armada of mighty cargo ships occupies the Bosporus. We decide not to swim.

Late in the afternoon we arrive at the remains of the ancient Theodosian walls. 12 meters hight and 5 meters thick, they were erected in the 5th century to defend the city and the Byzantine empire. The mighty walls survived the heavy artillery of the Ottoman siege in 1432, but not the Byzantine empire. The contrast of thick white limestone layers and thin red brick layers is still magnificent, even after 1500 years.

Just in time for the evening prayer we arrive with our bikes on the Sultan Ahmet Square between the ancient Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. The 3D sound of muezzins singing from minarets around us and the evening light are a great reward for the long journey!

Of course we visit Hagia Sophia, the once and for 1000 years biggest cathedral in the world, that became a mosque after the conquest of the Ottomans. Its outstanding architecture influenced centuries of architects. Atatürk turned it into a museum in the 20th century. Some of the original Christian wall mosaics were restored between the mosque decorations. Another relict from the Byzantine era is the large ancient underground cistern with giant carp fishes, whose roof rests on 300 pillars. At night, the drummer passes by again. Car alarms on. No one cares. Seref, our host, smiles when I ask him what that is about. It is a Ramadan tradition to wake people early enough for their pre-dawn meal.

On a ordinary street market we meet Ahmet, who speaks fluent English. He lives around the corner, and invites me to go fishing on the Galata bridge at night with his friend Orhan. The view over the Bosporus bridge to Asia. The mosques are illuminated. Phrases like "All man are brothers" are displayed in neon writing between the minarets. Wow! Dozens of men fish here every day and every night. For them, it is a nice retreat and social event. Ahmet introduces me to his friends there. We catch a bucket of small fish. I go to bed just after the drummer at 2AM.

Kathrin and I visit the great mosques with their marvelous decorations and we walk colorful bazaars in the baking heat. And last but not least enjoy a tourist boat cruise with a 10TL beer. One day, we meet my ex-workmates Erman and Giray in Taksim. Giray is accompanied by his wife, who speaks brilliant English. Kathrin is more than happy for the conversation. Men in Turkey often did not bother much to talk to her. Taksim is traditionally a very liberal area. Only few girls are veiled here, and beer is served on the streets. A pity the nearby park was about to be doomed for another shopping centre, a pity the protests were stopped so violently. However, our dinner together is marvelous, with dozens of appetizers and tasty bread and finally fish, accompanied by some Raki.

Another day, Kathrin and I are invited to Ahmets cool basement flat for dinner. He is a professional and loving cook. In no time he prepares a lentil soup, a salad, cheese wraps and the fish we caught. Afterwards Orhan and his wife take the three of us on a car ride. We zoom over the bridge to the Suleymani mosque, have Cay (Turk tea) on a rooftop restaurant. "Life is good" is his often repeated mantra. And he is so right with that! On the way back Orhan turns on Turk folk music. We swing and clap hands. Teshekür edirim! After a week, I can sleep without hearing the Ramadan drummer.

By sunset we have our first swim in a little village called Riva. A beach with an old castle, and only a handful of people. We have no place to sleep yet, but who cares if the colors on the horizon are that picturesque? Some local boys show us a somewhat hidden official campground a little later.

The hilly coastal road towards Sile leads through building sites of apartment blocks, and not too long ago deforested land. Rough gravel instead of pavement. The sun burns. We take a better logging road inland, and spot two turtles in action. The thick forest around us provides cooling shadow, the ramps are less steep. By lunchtime we luckily hit a real road again, and arrive in Sile in the afternoon. Just at the town entrance there is Nehir Motel Camping. Tall trees provide shadow, the beach is just a five minute walk away, what else can we wish for? Two families stay here sort of long term in big tents, escaping the summer heat of Istanbul. Jihan from one of the families offers us sweets and treats every day. Every time the muezzin sings, the neighboring dogs howl. One cute lean doggy becomes our best friend when we barbecue Köfte (meatballs) or fry cheese cigars ala Ahmet. Kathrin plays guitar again after a long break.

Within a week on the beach we decided not to follow the Black Sea route. During the Bayram festival at the end of Ramadan there won't not be much space nor peace on the campgrounds. We will head for Ankara instead, and from there to Cappadocia.

The expected invasion from the city arrives at the campground at 6AM. We wanted to take off early, alright. The newcomers questioned us eagerly whether we would leave. And if our neighbors would leave this morning too. With running motors. And curious kids.

So the road has us again. Steep hills for 50, 60 kilometers through oak tree and pine wood forests on back roads. Kathrin gets sad from hooting young man in pimped cars and gawking villagers, whereas I feel almost like a rock star by the greeting and waving guys. By the end of the day, we reach the city of Izmit on the Eastern end of the Sea of Marmara.

The country road South of Lake Sapanca provides few views of the lake. Instead it is framed by business areas and settlements. Luckily Kathrin spots a small underpass on the Eastern tip of the lake for our siesta. Some hours later, we arrive in Akyazi, a charming town with big mosque and an somewhat old center. Seeking a cheap hotel we are dragged onto small seats at a nearby bakery, and spoiled with Börek, Baklahva and tea. Orhan, the charming owner of the traditional bakery doesn't mind we don't speak much Turkish. With big smiles he shows us the big stone oven, the mill and the kneading machine, and lets us store our bicycles in his barn. Eventually, his German speaking nephew arrives, who currently spends his holidays in town, to translate a bit. Like so often, men approach me for a chat, but Kathrin ends up widely unrecognized. The women would at most muster her.

In nearby Kuzuluk a funny girl serves Kebap with a white head scarf with green skulls . We spend the heat of the day dozing on shady park benches. A man approaches me with real good English, offers Kathrin and me two great peaches. He is Halil from Istanbul, a very bright man who tells us a lot about Kuzuluk and its thermal springs and the bath, about Atatürk and much more. The Thermal bath is a classic building with two big domes. Entrances are separated by sex. The round shaped hot pools are roofed by the domes and the entire interior is decorated with white marble – a fantastic view. 10 TL entrance fee is a bargain compared to the prices of the touristy Hamams in Istanbul.

Just before sunset our road parallels a river. Some cars are parked at the river bank, families having their picnic in the shadow of the cottonwood trees. The ideal place for our camp tonight we just think, and luckily receive an urgently needed gallon of fresh water by a leaving party.

We celebrate our 4000 kilometers on an endless ramp through lush oak forests, shrubs and dry meadows. Two young cyclists from Slovakia overtake us, traveling fast and light towards China or so. By lunchtime the sun grills us on an empty wide bypass road. We are starving for food and shadow. Kathrin's cycling spirits have faded - the hills, the heat, the early rising day by day, the lack of communication took their tolls. The lunch break in the village is little relief with toy gun firing kids. However, the following kilometers are less hilly, less hot. Gnarling pine trees grow on the rocky ridges beside the road, then the valley opens to a wide vegetable plain which is followed by strange gray and cone-shaped hills.

The old town of Mudurnu with its narrow lanes and traditional Ottoman houses in an awesome rocky valley is National heritage. We stay two nights in a nice 100 year old hotel made of wood and clay. The ultimate highlight of our stay is the bath with massage in the 600 year old Hamam (Turkish bath), for just 10 TL.

The road from Nallihan to Cairhan leads through fantastic landscapes. Red, purple, yellow, white and gray mesas in the arid flat remind us a lot to Utah or Arizona. Erosion and wind stripped millions of years of earth history in colorful layers before our eyes. Cycling does make sense after all. Nearby a big water reservoir, we stop a a vegetable stall to get some tomatoes for dinner. Kemal and his friend Mustafa won't let us go without a bag full of vegetables, and another bag full of grapes. Just asking for a place to pitch our tent, we are invited to spend the night on the barn of his families farm house. We have a great barbecue for dinner with the entire family. Good for us – Kemals brother Mehmet who lives in Germany since 30 years, is just visiting his family here.

The last night before Ankara we pitch our tent near a mosque in Ayas at sunset. Naturally after asking the neighbors. Cycling fellows from Turkey have always told us that camping at mosques is allowed. But an hour later a police car stopped, and a rather young police officer insisted that we should leave. The Imam and the neighbors pledges for us did not change his mind. One of the old men spoke some German, and offered us to stay in his apartment. Saved at last.

Our host Botstein wakes us at 6AM, won't let us leave without breakfast. By 10AM, we have climbed the second pass before Ankara. A long soft decline follows, and by lunchtime we are in Ankara. Never mind the dense highway traffic.

We find an inexpensive hotel room with balcony in the Ulus district. Young and old men sell used shoes, computer main boards and mobile phones on the pedestrian. In the bicycle district, I find an old man who fixes the loose spokes on my rear wheel. Why he put oil on the rim and the hub I still don't understand.

It is just a short walk to the Ankara castle with its old worn clay and wood houses. The mighty walls with its cut stones from former Greek and Roman temples reflect dozens of civilizations dwelling and battling in this place. From here – and our balcony - sunsets over Ankara are definitely impressive.

From Aksaray, we time-travel into the past. Actually, we lost our way and take another route heading South towards Ihlara, with splendid views of Mount Hasan Dagi. Out here the small villages consist of more or less faded ancient stone houses. Donkeys and horses and cows on the road, old men with wrinkled faces sit in the shadow in front of the Cay Evi, the tea houses. Yet beside the old Renaults and Fiats, there is always a new Mercedes or Audi with German or Dutch member plates. Expat-Turks are on vacation, visit their relatives, which is good for us with our still desolate Turkish skills. So there is usually a kind insider to tell us more about the country than how much a Cay is.

Ihlara is such an old small village. The former inhabitants of the valley, the orthodox Greeks hid themselves from the hostile world and dug thousands of flats and hundreds of churches into the soft Tuff stone walls beside the river during the last 17 centuries. Hundred thousand people are said to have been living here. We enjoy the hike in the green valley in the shadow of gnarling widow trees, climb up here and there to explore some of the extensively painted cave churches in the tuff stone walls. The frescos are sometimes just red Orthodox crosses, but more often colorful bible scenes. Niches in the walls of the cave flats were dove nests. Their eggs were used to make long-lasting color for the paintings, a park ranger explains during our lunch on a shady rock on the river side. Unfortunately, often the faces of the Saints have been damaged.

Sneaking up the dark tunnels between the levels of some flats feels pretty adventurous since we forgot our headlamps. Eventually the valley opens, and we find our selves in a vine yard. It's harvest season - yummie! In the distance we see the fairy chimneys, the famous aspargus-shaped rocks. There are hardly tourists on the 16 km hike until we reach the big rock monastery of Selime. Here backpackers from the more famous Göreme are dumped with big buses, and their guides keep calling “One hour, then we meet here again lads”. The rock cathedrals are truly impressive – wide halls with rock columns and a dome roof, and multi-level side ships. An England-based Turk gives us a lift back to Ihlara, we arrive on the campground just in time to see the ducks marching from the river to their house. Back in town we fancy to buy a motorbike with side kart for Kathrin to move on.

Fullmoon. We cycle to Güzelyurt, a nearby town with an ancient underground city, rock monasteries and some very old stone churches. The underground cities here in the area have been used to store food, as well as to escape the frequent raids of Arabs and Mongols back in time. Again we forget our headlamps. Few of the lamps of the installed light system do function.

One of the biggest underground cities is located in the nearby Derinkuyu. This one has 8 levels and reaches up to 60 meters deep with an extensive ventilation system. Massive disc-shaped rocks have been used to close the narrow tunnels from the inside. It is declared UNESCO World Heritage, and a prime tourist attraction with a fully functioning light system and a lot of sealed tunnels.

The little girls nearby are first curious: “Money money”, then ask us to buy them ice cream. Eventually, one of the girls tries to ride Freddy, Kathrins green folding bike. A puppy dog comes in her way. The girl crashes and the poor puppy ends up punished for the kids fault. When we have coffee on the market nearby, pottery flies between the makeshift stalls during intense discussions between some sales boys and big grannies. No way we spend the night here!

By sundown we cycle up the last hills before Uchisar. A giant rock on the horizon locks like the Babel tower in some famous painting, or like a cheese with all its holes. It is called the castle, we learn the next morning. The view from its top over the fairy chimney rocks in the Göreme valley is fantastic. People still live in these rocks. Some of them have up to eight levels. We take a stroll between the crumbling walls. One guy calls us from his rock balcony and invites us to visit his flat. His name is Jamma, and he shows us the rooms with carpets on the floor and has us sit in the comfy cushions and couches. Besides his flat is a souvenir shop - Jammas sales strategy works pretty well.

The next day we venture down into Göreme, visit three campgrounds before deciding where to pitch our tent for the next week. The Panorama camping is just a little steep climb up from Göreme village. It has a pool and a kitchen area and a comfortable lounge to hang out. And luckily, Ahmet the funny owner doesn't bother for permanent musical entertainment.

A roaring noise directly above us ends our sweet dreams by sunrise. No, that can't be a truck this time – it's above us. It stops after a few seconds, and it starts again. There is a hot-air balloon directly over our heads, the passenger basket scratching the branches of the olive trees nearby. We crawl out of the tent and view the spectacle. All around us are colorful hot-air balloons rising into the sky. Some of the balloon drivers go right between the fairy chimney rocks with their dozen passengers screaming excitedly. It is a dreamlike scenery surrounded by the Uchisar castle in the west, the 3500 meter high Mount Ercies to the east and a big red striped mesa in the North. Kathrin counts 43 balloons. Ahmet mutters somewhat disappointed that it was up to one hundred on busy days.

We enjoy the rest days. I can do my Yoga in the morning again. The pool cools us during the baking heat of the day. The two campground kittens gain a lot of our attention . We do some hikes in scenic and lonesome valleys nearby, feasting on grapes and plums. A Scottish cyclist couple arrives, Kevin and Lucy, and we have a lot of stories to share.

Eventually Kathrin gets an inspiration how to work around the faded cycling motivation. Apparently there is a train from Ankara to Tehran, that stops in nearby Kayseri. Why shouldn't we go to Trabzon by Rental car to get the Iran visas. And why not cycle some mountains with my bicycle too?

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Sivas, two hours North of Kayseri is a city full of history. Sivas is located at an important junction of the ancient Silk Road, and has a massive old Kervanseray with Hamam. Kervanserays were important protective shelters for traveling salesman in Medieval times. The Ulus Cami in Sivas dates back to the Seldjuks. This mosque was built without dome but a vast arch hall and its old brick stone minaret lots its balance in the last few centuries. Most attractive for us is the old Medrese, a medieval Quaran school. The square shaped building is made of big white stones. The corners of the building are round-shaped and decorated extensively with geometric ornaments and flowers. The likewise beautifully decorated main portal is framed by two brick stone minarets. The bricks are arranged to three-dimensional patterns on the top, and colored black and blue in addition. The courtyard is currently a construction side, and playground of some kids. One of them, Mohammed, leads us up to the roof on some wooden ladders, then he shows us the stairs to the minaret. Kathrin climbs ahead over the narrow and dove dung covered stairs in the dark. I try to picture the Muezzins days before loud speakers were installed everywhere. Five times a day up, singing as loud as you can and then down these stairs again. I'm pretty happy to get back to the ground.

On the following day we drive through narrow gorges and climb fantastic mountain roads. South of the pass, the landscape is rather dry. Naked rocky mountains glimmer in any variations of orange, red, white, yellow and dark brown. An ancient castle sits on top of a massive rock near Sebinkarahisar. Beside this town and a few farms, we see hardly traces of civilization. Near the top there is fog and rain and temperatures below 10 degrees. Beyond, we enter dense forests in rocky mountains. The vivid green makes not only our eyes happy. It lifts our sun-dried spirits too. Near the villages the jungle is replaced by large hazelnut grooves. From Giresun we take the motorway along the coast to Trabzon. The 4-lane road is excellently paved for high-speed. Beside traffic lights and pedestrian crossings, there is even sudden left-turns on the fast lane. One must be highly alert to drive here.

Trabzon has been the last bastion of the Byzantine empire in Asia, but fell in Ottoman hands shortly after Constantinople. We manage to find a cheap hotel off the tourist track, and spoil ourselves with a great fish meal. The visa mission basically worked out well. Beside the fuss of loosing and retrieving my credit card, queuing and waiting at the Iranian embassy and the bank there is not much time for sightseeing. Yet we meet a bunch of travelers from all over the world with the same destination, and end up smoking a water pipe with a Chinese who studies in Germany.

On the following day, we drive up some 50 km to the Sumela monastery. Around 300AD, a monk started up what should become a famous religious center during all the political fuss of the subsequent centuries. Even Muslim emperors visited and supported this place, 200 meters up in the middle of a giant cliff. Its mission ended only with the Greek-Turkish peoples exchange in the early 20^th century. Today, it is a prominent tourist side, famous for the well-conserved frescoes at the cave church inside.

I hop on my bicycle, and Kathrin takes the car. The major mountain road from Trabzon to Gümüshane is, like many other roads, currently under construction. That is, a wide highway is milled into the rocks, and the remaining lane is occupied by heavy trucks carrying gravel and rocks. Not much fun to cycle. Luckily, there is a parallel old road on the other side of the valley, leading through lush forests and little villages with farms. The night we put our tent behind a gas station just outside Gümüshane.

From Gümüshane we take route 885 via Köse Gecidi and Ahmedyie Gecidi to Erzincan, two passes of about 2000m. Kathrin enjoys the car ride and lots of time for reading, I enjoy the cycling up- and downhill and mourn about the heavy west wind on the flat stretches between the passes. The next day we move on towards Divrigi in a beautiful green valley with a considerably big river. The mountain-backed valley narrows to fantastic gorges every now and then. The railroad leads through tunnels, the road goes over the mountains. Again, heavy west wind increases the training value for the cyclist. Later we learn this is the Euphrat, the cradle of human civilization, agriculture and domestication. Some 50 kilometers later we stop in Kemah. There are old Seljuk tombs and the ruins of a once mighty castle dating back to early Byzantine times. An old man with a distinct Swiss-German dialect invites us for tea. He normally runs a Kebap in Switzerland.

We leave the river and drive another mountainous 100 kilometers until Divrigi. I'm happy in the car, off the fierce west wind. Not more than a few farms, dry harvested wheat fields and goat flocks to see out here. We park the car in a lush valley a hundred meters off the road, and prepare our dinner by sunset. It would be great to spend the night out here and watch the stars. Kathrin disappears into the shrubs, just to call me an instant later... In the light beam of my head lamp I see here coming back, followed by two pairs of sparkling eyes. Apparently, she found some new “friends” – growling big Shepherd dogs. Luckily, their owners, two old man come just a few minutes later. They are very friendly but insist we should not stay here over night. The actual reason we don't understand with our sparse Turkish vocabulary. However, they are armed with big rifles. In that case, we might as well take a hotel in nearby Divrigi.

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Few tourists are seen in charming Divrigi. The Seljuk mosque and hospital date back to the 13^th century. While the mosque was founded by Shah Ahmed, the connected hospital was founded by his wife. The 4 tall stone portals of the building are greatly decorated with a mix of geometric ornaments, flowers and trees. Some parts focus especially on the equality of man and woman. The building is one of the most important medieval buildings in Anatolia, and became UNESCO heritage in 1985. In addition, some ancient tombs and the old town center with its narrow cobblestone streets and half faded wooden houses are definitely worth seeing.

Some more mountain ranges cycled with fierce headwind and a noisy night spent camping next to a Gendarme station in the highlands, we arrive back in Göreme. Ahmed and the cats on the camping are happy to see us again. A young German family with three kids, an Oldtimer Mercedes bus and a big dog stays on the campground. They are on their way to India. Surprisingly, two cycling couples from Scotland and France are just nearby, and visit us on the campground for gossip, coffee and beers.

The slow paced 20-hour train ride to Van Gölü through the dry land is anything but boring. 50-year old Ismael, our compartment mate teaches us a heap of Farsi words, without a single word English. In the train restaurant, the few foreigner tourists gather to drink the last beers. Most of Iranians have visited some Exile-relatives in Ankara or Kayseri. Turkey is sort of a Getaway place for Iranians. Few other countries they can travel freely, as we learn from Reza who speaks very good English.

In Tatvan the train ends, and all passengers board the ferry over the biggest lake in Turkey. We leave in the late afternoon. Many passengers gather on the deck, enjoy the breeze and the sunset. By nightfall, men and women start to dance and clap their hands happily. We reach Van by midnight. From here another train goes to Tehran. Suddenly the women wear headscarfs or the black chadors. In a crowded waiting hall, Reza helps us getting seats for this train. Everyone is tired, but sleep is rather impossible that night. First all passengers are queuing at the Turkey border post. It takes ages, and we can only return to the train when everyone is ready. An hour later, the same procedure at the Iranian border post.

By sunrise all passengers are required to leave the train in a small gorge. Customs – everyone gets his bags and packs from the luggage. The customs officers check the stuff of the Iranians thoroughly. Luckily our bikes and bags can remain in the train, and when we get to the checkpoint, we are just waved through. This border crossing is a true ordeal!

Cycling the five kilometers from the train station into the city center of Tabriz is an amazing experience. Suddenly, the writings on the sign are not readable for us anymore. Old Paikan limousines and small motor bikes drive hardly faster then us. Many drivers would call us out of their cars: “Welcome to Iran! Where are you from?”

Later in the evening, we meet my former workmate Christian and his Iranian friend Babak. To meet Christian on such an unlikely place after three years is a really funny thing. And Babak actually studies in Germany. He drives us through the modern parts of Tabriz. Places that Babak remembers as empty spaces are bustling shopping areas now.

Tabriz is known for its old large bazar. With 7 kilometer of brick-built roofs over the shopping alleys it is one of the largest in Iran. Spices, jewelry, stationary, last but not least the famous Iranian carpets, anything is available here. Every once in a while small motorbikes or old men with big wooden carts push through the people in narrow lanes to supply the shops. Once, there were a number of caravanserai's and Koran schools here, too. One exit leads to an old mosque with a courtyard full of Imams discussing in the shadow of the tall walls. On the opposite side, two colorful tiled minarets border a mighty portal. We are allowed into the prayer hall from Seljuk times. The pillars of the arches and small domes are fine red brickwork. Windows with colored glass illuminate the hall nicely. Carpet sellers lure us with tea. Unfortunately, we couldn't find the magic flying carpet.

Two days later we get on a night bus to Isfahan. Meanwhile Kathrin did some research on the web, and we fine-tuned our plans: Rather than venture a lengthy application for the Indian visa in Tehran, we would try to get the visa in Muscat, Oman. But before we would visit the historical highlights of Iran, and use public transport for the lengthy parts.

Isfahan was a mighty capital of the second Persian empire. The town is located in a flat high plateau, surrounded by steep rocky mountain sides. The list of attractions seems endless. The Imam square which is the second biggest square in the world is surrounded by a big bazar, two incredible mosques and a palace. Classic horse carriages gallop tourist around the square. The glamour of the colorful tiled domes and iwans (Muqarna decorated half domes inside great portals) of these buildings are beyond my lingual abilities.

In the Shah Mosque, we are invited for tea and sweets by Imam students of our age. We sit for an hour with them and talk about traveling and Islam. Somewhat north of the square is the biggest mosque of Iran, the Jameh Mosque. During the centuries-old history, it has been expanded and renewed. Today it contains aspects of many architectural eras.

The people on the Imam square and in the streets are very curious to talk with foreigners. At the Chehel Sotun palace, we were once closed in by a group of thirty young English students. Usually, Kathrin and I impersonate ourselves as married when talking to elderly people. The young people giggle when we tell them that we are “married here in Iran”. Relationships outside marriage are not allowed, nor is public kissing. The young woman in the streets wear their colorful head scarves as fashionable as possible. Big clips hold the long hair high, and the scarf on top of that reveals more hair than it covers. That's fine as long as the moral guardians are not around. And Kathrin does a great job not to wipe off her unloved headscarf in the heat nor to put it on when leaving the hotel room.

There are old brick stone bridges over the dry wide river bed, and on its green shore people sit and smoke water pipes by sunset. A little outside, the ruins of an 2500 year old fire temple crowns a rocky hill. It was once dedicated to the Zoroastrian religion which preceded Islam in ancient Persia. Nearby are remains of some ancient pigeon towers that were used to collect the doves dung as fertilizer. Across the river, we meet some young men smoking water pipe on a carpet in front of a few trees. We chat a little, smoke a little, and after a few minutes start to dance Iranian dances. The Iranian love to laugh and smile and dance!

So do we. But next we'd love to cycle to Shiraz.

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We're happy to escape Borujen, yet the odd vibes follow us. Heavy head wind slows us down. The truck and car drivers need to express their excitement about us with loud horns. Somewhere out here, a strange guy in rags follows us on his motorbike for half an hour (at 10km/h). He insists that we follow him to his home, in Farsi. All my “mochakera, nemifahmam, choda hafez” - (thank you, I don't understand, bye bye) doesn't help. In the next village, Kathrin stops to chat with some women sitting on a pick-up truck on the side of the road.

They are fruit farmers, and happily smoke their water pipe and offer us tea. Not long and we get their husbands to know. A little later our bikes are on the pickup, and we sit in a car zipping some 50 kilometers off-map. It is a fast-and-furious convoy drive into the wild. Incredibly, out here in the dessert there is green patches of fruit trees. We reach the one-horse town by sunset. The family of ten lives in a two-room cottage with few furniture. Chicken BBQ is prepared by the man, and their cheeky boys are very curious to talk to me. As far as my Farsi skills go, I can ask for names and ages and stuff. Little English is spoken. I would have loved to understand their jokes. The full moon rises.

Meanwhile Kathrin sits inside with the women, and apparently enjoys it. Food is served on the floor on a plastic tablecloth. The boys scan Kathrin's phone for bikini photos and the likes. After dinner, the grown-up men sit and do what men can do out here – smoke and drink Cai with big lumps of sugar. Kathrin and I play a few songs on guitar and harmonica. Distant family members and friends call to invite us to visit them over a noisy phone connection. A Farsi-English dictionary is around to enable some communication, and Kathrins picture dictionary. Later, mattresses are laid on the floor. Men and women sleep in separate rooms and my aching head gets some rest.

After a great breakfast and lots of “Choda hafez” we are on the road again. By lunchtime we reach Semirom, from where we continue towards Yasuj. The idea is to cycle a few more hours, and then hitch to Yasuj and stay in a hotel. Our wild-camp ambitions have evaporated. Selfishly, we fancy a shower tonight, and a room for the two of us. So we ride through the dessert, up some colorful mesa-like mountain roads. A few shrubs, a few goats, some nomad camps. Families in their cars stop by for a chat, for a photo. They spoil us with cookies, dates and grapes. It is custom in Iran to reject each offer three times, then we have to take it.

Somehow the distances on our map do not match reality. By sunset there is still no trace of the next town, and hitching proofs difficult. We are in the middle of nowhere. A first attempt to hitch brings us in a strange situation with a handful of man. We get our bikes back on the road and cycle on. Muhammad, a bus driver waiting for his group tries to stop a few buses heading for Yasuj with no success. All full. Hitching a pick-up is not a good idea he says, he wouldn't trust the people here. If we wanted to go back to Isfahan with him. We are both devastated for the ruined bike trip and happy to get to a hotel.

His tour group arrives half an hour later, agrees to take us with them. Soon after departure, the young folks start to dance in the passageway of the bus, despite the switchbacks. How they can dance, how they enjoy this trip - in their country without night clubs, where no relationships outside marriage are allowed. What an amazing bus ride!

We reach Isfahan just before midnight. One more time we cycle through the busy streets, eventually find us a hostel and enjoy a good night of sleep.

When the bus arrives in Shiraz, there is no trace from the bus driver anymore. We unload the bikes, say good bye to Maryam and the friendly board steward. It is night already. In the heavy traffic we cycle to our hotel in Anvari street, happy to have a quiet place for ourselves.

Various clans ruled the country from Shiraz. Some of them supported literature and fine arts, so the city became the cultural center of Iran and is full of historical buildings. The hundred year old Masjed e Nasir al Molk has big colored windows in the east of the portico. Colorful sun beams light up the hall and draw fantastic patterns on the red carpet. The simple drilled pattern of opposing columns change direction. The tiles in the hall and at the fabulous iwan are painted mostly with flower ornaments.

From here, narrow alleys between high clay walls lead to the famous Aramgah e Shah shrine, erected where the brother of the 8^th imam was killed. It is another fabulous building, cornered by fine decorated minarets. Kathrin needs to wear a Chador before we can enter through gender-separated entries. The walls inside are completely tiled with small mirrors. They reflect the light of the chandeliers and the golden and green shrine inside like a crazy jewel in a crystal chamber. Men pray on the carpets. I am allowed to take a photo. Kathrin on the other side catches some angry gazes, probably for not covering properly or wearing sunglasses.

On our way back to the hotel in the midday heat, we bump into our Japanese travel mates Hito and Ai the third time in 3 cities while sipping a gorgeous milk shake. Walking the buzzing foot-walks is fun for me. Meanwhile I reply the random “hellos” and “how are you” with a few sentences in Farsi, before withdrawing with “Nemifahmam” (I don't understand).

We meet Maryam at the famous Hafez tomb. Hafez was perhaps the most important Persian poet. His works influenced and inspired even the famous German poet Goethe. Hafez lived in the 14^th century in Shiraz. Besides the Qur'an, every Iranian household seems to have an edition of his poems. The marble tomb resides in a neat pavilion surrounded by a fine garden full of flowers and trees. It is a pilgrims place. When we arrive, scholars read the Qur'an out load. After sunset groups of young people sit on the green and read aloud – Hafez.

The following day we are invited to visit Maryams parents. Her cousin Vahid picks us up near Hafez. He is a funny long-haired chap, talented guitar player and teacher as we learn later. At Maryams house, the proud parents show us dozens of gold medals Maryam gained in her Karate career. Unfortunately her sensei left Iran some years ago.

A big TV and a colorful Hafez painting dominate the living room. Cabbage rice with small meatballs is served on a table cloth on the rug, and the family gathers around. Kathrin is pretty happy not to wear the headscarf here. Together with Vahid and Maryam we visit the Eram Garden with its splendid colorful palace. Before dinner, Maryams brother takes us out for ice cream with his wife and their little baby son. We'd watch their wedding photos and chatter through the evening.

Next morning, Vahid picks us up with his friend Daniel. After we successfully pushed the car to life again, we drive to the ruins of Persepolis with Iranian tunes on the car stereo. The remains of the capital of the first Persian empire sit on the footsteps of a rocky hill, overlooking a significant date tree plantation in the flat. Persepolis dates back to 500BC, when the very empire stretched out as far as Greece. It was young Alexander the Great from Macedonia who put an end to the mighty empire of Xerxes and Darius, and burned the city around 330BC.

The base platform is made of giant asymmetric stones fitted joint-less on top of each other, similar to the Inka cities in South America some 1000 years later. Very tall columns at the “Gate of all Nations” carry mighty stone sculptures of mystical animals. Columns, stairways and stone portals with very precise frescoes is what remained after 2500 years. The frescoes are very little weathered. Scenes of the ancient life are displayed: servants carrying tributes, lance carriers and warriors on chariots, lions and kings. The details and the amount of these frescoes as well as the scale of the place are very impressive! Daniel and Vahid explain this and that. Maryam says she isn't much in history, and gets a full load of it today. The five of us giggle and photo a lot in the burning sun, before we dance back to Siraz in the small car.

We spend the afternoon in the big flat of Vahids parents in a new suburb of Shiraz. Vahid plays some great guitar tunes, his mother serves pasta and I learn Backgammon. Eager to get to India as soon as possible, Kathrin and I decide to fly directly from Shiraz to Oman. There we hope to get the Indian visa quickly. Suddenly we just have one more day in Iran, that I'd like to spend on the bicycle.

Early in the morning I take off, zip through the still moderate traffic on the highway towards Yasuj. Commercial and residential areas dominate the road for some 20 kilometers, Shiraz is huge. Suddenly I spot a guy in bike shorts on a road racer in front of me, the first sport cyclist since almost two weeks. I catch up on him. His name is Ali, he is 32 years old and has the same destination as I. That is how far my Farsi skills go. Yesterday I read about some bike tours back around Galath, and that's where we go. Unlike me, he knows the way. Luckily Ali agrees to team up. The village of Galath is located on the footsteps of a mighty rocky mountain. Half faded, half maintained old clay and stone houses border steep cobblestone alleys. Ali directs me to a dead end road at the entrance of a neat green valley. He tells me to walk on while he stays with the bikes. I find myself in a real forest. Rocks lay in the valley. I breath fresh air and hear birds singing to the gurgling sound of the small river. After days in noisy cities, I instantly feel like in paradise.

The departure from Shiraz goes very smooth. Our taxi driver comes with a pickup truck for all our luggage and helps us to carry the big bags inside the airport. Just a coffee later an airport manager waves at us, and complains why we did not call him. We actually met him and his family on our bike trip, where he even told us he worked here. Bagher (thats his name) manages all wrapping and check-in procedures for us. Mochakera Bagher, mochakera Iranian friends for all your support! Koda havez - you are such a great nation!

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Muscat is located on the shore of the Indian ocean, and spreads out between steep rocky hills. The green strips between the highway lanes are irrigated. We learn that the many Indian workers here established a network of coffee shops, serving tasty cheap Indian food and fresh fruit shakes. Some people say, there is about 3 million Omani in the country, and another 3 million expat contract workers. Apparently it is mainly Indian, and we exchange a lot of “Namaste” and head shaking rather than “Salam aleikums”. They love their picnics on those green patches on the highways.

In the evening it seems to be cool enough for a first little bike tour in Oman. We head for the sea, and see the splendid sultans palaces on the way. In a small fisherman village, we find our way to the beach. Villagers take a bath, and we can't help jumping into the warm water with all our bike clothes.

It would take a week to get the Indian visas, we are advised at the BLS office on the second visit. Rather than waiting in our luxurious hotel, we decide to rent a car and tour the country. Petrol costs as little as 24 Eurocent per litre, even though Oman effectively imports it. By sunrise I'm on my bicycle, make may way out of the heavy city traffic and soon find myself on a highway through rocky hills. An hour later the first oasis town, then rocky desert again. Cicades hum high pitch songs. By 10AM, the thermometer shows 40°C. Kilometers fly. By 11, I'm out of  water – 2.5 liters went down the throat. Kathrin catches up in the car near Qurayyat. The Omani highways are state of art, yet somewhat lack road signs at times which caused the little delay.

Rather than putting the bike in the car, I decide to cycle on. The heat on the following 30 kilometers to Fins on the hilly coastal road is almost killing me. Just behind the coast, a bald mountain range rises high up, divided every once in a while by Wadis, that is rocky narrow gorges. After twenty kilometers I'm out of water again, and wave my bottle at the traffic. No good idea to cycle around midday in Oman...

There is an impressive sinkhole near Fins with some 30 m diameter. Before we get to visit it, the park guide Hadib invites us for Omani coffee and dates and teaches us the Omani coffee drinking customs. The turquoise pond 18 meter deep in the hole is connected by small underground channels to the sea and to fresh water. Small fish in there are happy about every visitor and feed on their dead skin particles. Hadib invites us to camp here, rejects any money.

By car, we drive through picturesque villages. Little girls wrapped in colorful sheets giggle shyly when they see us. By sunset we reach “White beach”, have a swim and pitch our tent. Wild camping is no problem in Oman, and we have the pebble beach pretty much for ourselves. Heaven on earth!

After a beautiful sunrise, we drive to nearby Tiwi. Here is the entrance to Wadi Shab, a beautiful deep gorge with palms and flower shrubs. We hike in for two hours, enjoy a freshwater shower underneath a small waterfall. Deep in the gorge, the only way to move on is to swim in a bottomless turquoise pond between mighty round shaped rocks. After some time, there is a tunnel where only a head fits through above the water line. No ground underneath the feet. Thrilling, but we dare... Hand over hand we move through, and find ourselves in another crystal clear pond framed by rock walls and partly roofed by a giant rock. From one side, a waterfall sprinkles down. What a place!

We drive through the picturesque town of Sur with its lighthouse and castles, see the old Dau shipyards. By nightfall, we arrive at Ras al Jinz. A sanctuary has been established to protect the nesting turtles on the beach here, with a very informative exhibition on the life of turtles. We are allowed to pitch our tent in front of the visitors gate, and tie it to the car to ensure it stays there despite the fierce winds.

Visitors can enter the beach with guides late at night and very early in the morning to witness the great turtles laying their eggs, and see the hatched baby turtles find their way to the sea. We join the late night show in a group of some twenty people. It is black moon. Only the guides are allowed to use flashlights. They lead us to a turtle retreating back to the sea after laying her hundred eggs. Hatchlings crawl out of the sand and follow every light in hope for the sea. Incredibly fast crabs attack them, and perhaps foxes if there are no visitors around. Out of thousand eggs, only two or three will make it to grown-up turtles. Kathrin finds a little hatchling, successfully protects the fellow from the stampede of the tourists. Our guide takes the hatchling up, and keeps gesticulating for a few more minutes before releasing him. Probably our baby turtle got terribly sea sick...

Some more cycling on the next morning through stretches of sand dunes and rock deserts near the coast. Corpses of goats on the side of the road. Fierce and hot headwind no matter which compass direction the road takes. I'm happy to put the bike in the car again. In Al Kamil we spot a fortress from the road, stop by and soon find ourselves in a museum. Khalifan, the descendant of the former rulers of Al Kamil had the 300 year old castle restored few years ago, and put his large exhibition of traditional items in there. He and his staff explain us a lot about life in Oman decades ago and nowadays. We spend the heat of the day in Khalifans castle, enjoy Omani lunch and spice tea with milk.

We visit mighty red sand dunes with green oases and camels, cross unreal dark rocky landscapes on the way to Nizwa. The city is located at the footsteps of the Al Khadr mountains, and has once been the residence of the Imam. Wide date palm plantations surround the city. After a visit to the old bazar and the mighty castle we drive towards Al Hamra. On a side road we find a neat place to camp. Sharp edged mountains scratch the evening sky. Guitar songs. Gypsy heaven.

The fresh water pools some kilometers deep in Wadi Ghul are the perfect refreshment after hiking. The cliffs framing the gorge are at times up to 1000 meters high, and sometimes just 10 meters apart from each other. A giant, a majestic place! One side of the cliffs top can be accessed by car. That is a 30 kilometers ride from the entrance of Wadi Ghul. By 4PM, I hop on the saddle. By 5:30 I managed some 12 kilometers with shaking legs. Incredibly steep roads wind up here. Even the cars have difficulties. Of course the winds blow downhill. With the bike in the car again, we enjoy a majestic outlook over fantastic ridges above the valleys by sundown. Little later we pitch our tent on the rocks of Jabal Shams and enjoy another night under sparkling stars. Jabal Shams is sometimes named “Grand canyon of Oman”, and truly the outlook here is fantastic. Sitting on the cliffs 1000 meters above the ground is breathtaking.

Two days later we have the Indian visas in our passports, just in time to leave Oman before our 10-day visa expires.
The majority of the Omani seems to be wealthy and happy with their Sultan. We enjoyed camping so much again! The pretty much unplanned visit turned out incredibly well!

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After visiting the Red Fort with its amazing palaces, a tout guides us to some lassi stand. Unsure about the quality and the area, we decide to hitch another motor rickshaw to get away. Just after boarding, I feel a soft touch on the calf, and realize Kathrins camera has vanished from the backpack between my legs. I look around, and see a guy in dark rags with the camera in his hand, looking desperately at me. Same instant, an old man on a cycle rickshaw just beside us starts yelling at the thief, and a second later the camera is back in my hands. Incredible!

We manage to escape Delhi two days later. Not by train as Kathrin wished for, because I couldn't cope with the hassle of our luggage at two crowded train stations. Our plan is to reach the Indian Himalaya range still before winter. A Sikh with a big new taxi brings us and the bikes and bags to Chandigarh for ten times the train price. We arrive late at night, find only an overpriced and very basic hotel room. Speaking about hotels, rooms are equipped with at least a dozen of switches of varying functionality. Indian electricians seem to be paid by square meters of switches they install. But thats just beside. Finally we unpack the bikes in  the room and I desperately wish for some happier events here in India.

We leave early the next day. Lovely breakfast from friendly people at a roadside shack, then we hit Highway 22 towards Shimla. On a big display over the 4 lanes it is written: “Welcome to Himalayan Expressway”. Our spirits rise. Some 20 kilometers later the highway is just an ordinary road winding up a hillside. We enjoy the fog in the thick jungle, the monkeys on the roadside and the birds singing. Heavy traffic and notorious horn concerts are less adorable though. By afternoon we find a neat “Nature Inn” guest house for a fair price. Our quiet room is below the road, overseeing the misty valley. The Indian room neighbors recommend the local fruit wine, and by nightfall, after one bottle of plum wine, we feel like in heaven.

After total three days of climbing up and down foggy green hills we reach the outskirts of Shimla. Shimla has been the summer capital of the East India Company. In the city center, the so-called “Mall”, many colonial buildings still exist. Pushing our fully loaded bikes in the strictly traffic-free zone we search for a suitable guest house. Not long after we escaped some tout, we find ourselves in a wave of Indian pilgrims on a small, steep alley with merchants and beggars. Kathrin spots her nightmare – a big snake handled by a guy. My nightmare is the entire crowd, and I am more than happy when we can finally escape it. Like often before, we enjoy a fine vegetarian Indian dinner with its great variety of tastes to forget about the worries of the day.

Monkeys balance everywhere on the roofs and in the trees of the city. The Jakoo temple on one of the hills is dedicated to Hanuman, the monkey-faced Hindu god of power and speed. Manu, a friendly Shimla resident tells us about the Ram festival later today at the temple, and we hurry to get there before the crowd arrives. A giant red Hanuman statue overlooks the treetops of the forested hill. Monkeys follow the pilgrims on the trail up to the temple. Most of the monkeys gather at the temple itself in wait for the sweets handed by the priests to the pilgrims, or other opportunities to fetch something. We see a monkey with glasses beside the trail, and a smart man dumping some shiny and bigger thing nearby to retrieve the glasses again. The trick works out perfectly well.

A sleepless night in Kufri induced by a girls class entering our (expensive) hotel by 10PM, followed by another sleepless night in chilly Narkanda (2700m) with a student group partying below our room. I feel I am getting older, and wonder what Karma have I collected in those wild sleepless nights years ago. Now I only wish for proper night time sleep.

We have one more spicy Indian Chai break. That is tasty black tea with spices, milk and lots of sugar. A man approaches us, waving with a 100g bar of Charras in his hand. Well, uhmm, thanks.

On the back of the menu in Negi Dhaba, Narkanda we see a beautiful picture of Mnt. Hatu and the likewise called temple on 3200 elevation meters. Dinesh, the friendly waiter, advices us not to leave the road when hiking there to avoid to get lost. Every once in a while, there is outlooks to surrounding white peaks. It is sunny and warm on top of the mountain and the wooden temple is beautifully carved. Most Indian pilgrims come here by car, despite the quarrel of getting around opponent cars on the narrow road. Imagine the deafening honking concert in the otherwise quite peaceful woods. They are curious for the two Westerners, ask where we are from and take a few photos. However, we are happy to chill our feet and ears on a rock for a while. Then Kathrin spots a trail leading down, somewhat parallel to the road – way less noisy, and way more picturesque. Luckily, there is a power cut that night and we finally sleep peacefully.

From Narkanda, the road leads 35 kilometer downhill to the Satluj valley at less than 1000 elevation meters. The first 12 kilometers are so bumpy that Kathrins rear brake pads crumble. At the bottom of the valley, it is warm enough for rice paddies and bananas on the banks of the mighty river. Colorful birds with long tails climb better in the branches than they fly. Our road winds up and down the rocky flanks of the narrowing valley.

Just before Rampur, we reach a Hotel called “Grand Shangri-La”. In front of the hotel, we meet an Austrian-German couple with a packed Enfield motorbike, the first foreigners since Shimla. Nina and Daniel have been traveling from Dheradum via Manali through Spiti valley on their Enfield. We are glad to meet them, happy to get information on the road conditions and share some experiences with these long-term travelers. Apparently the road is still open, however the stretch from here to the 160km away Pooh is very bumpy, narrow and unpaved, with frequent landslides. Sounds like a good reason to take a bus tomorrow. Never mind the icy river crossings at Kunzum La...

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People of Kinnaur (that's the name of the district) wear brimless gray hats with green patch, and many of them look fairly Chinese. The Tibetean border is just a mountain range away. We reach Rekong Peo late in the afternoon, by the time we expected to be in Puh already. And we would only get our permits on the following day a man at the tourist information tells us. Well then, we have beers and enjoy the view of the full moon illuminating the snow-capped peaks of Kinner Kailash on the other side of the Satluj valley.

After a thin coffee we get our permits and find a bus for Puh by lunchtime. Landslides and shooting stones are a major problem on this narrow road stretch underneath giant debris mountain slopes. We spend almost two hours waiting on the road for a time slot without shooting stones. A hiker from Chandigarh states: “The world is crumbling” while another series of football-seized rocks crashes on the road in the bend before us. Eventually the bus moves on. Yet the ride is not for the faint-hearted, the narrow bends of the road are framed by rock walls and abysses. Every now and then a crew of women maintains the road. They carry large bowls of concrete on their heads and little children on their backs. Smiling, crashing rocks with hammers. By nightfall we reach the diversion to Puh, unload and pack our bicycles and pedal 4 kilometers of switchbacks up to the actual village.

Vishnu Ram, the police man finds us when we are about to leave the next morning. He invites us for a tea and gives us detailed information about the road to Nako. We jolt on to the mouth of Spiti and Satluj, then tackle the first series of switchbacks high above the Spiti river. There is no traffic anymore, and not much settlements. In a small village, we are happy to find a very basic Open-Air Dhaba (primitive roadside restaurant) and scoop truck driver portions of rice and Dal. The very truck drivers would often stop and hand us some of the incredibly sweet apples from the region. More and more switchbacks are to come, and by nightfall we finally arrive in Nako. The GPS states 3700m above sea level, our tourist map indicated just 3000m. A small typo can make a big difference for a cyclist...

Terrace fields and orchards surround the peaceful Nako village with its picturesque clay houses high above the river. Peas grow here, vegetables and barley as we learn later. Cows and goats occupy the narrow lanes between the stone walls, and prayer flags just perfect this ensemble. With two monks from the Buddhist monastery we hike up a neighboring hill with a splendid view over the Spiti valley and the snow-covered Mount Shipki. Tibet is incredibly close. Horse trails lead there, and the locals may exchange cows and stuff with their neighbors. The Spiti people use the Tibetan script, but have their own language, Botu. The food is also more influenced by Tibet than by India. Momos (tasty dumplings filled with vegetables, or cheese or potato) are widely available, and different types of thick noodle soups and Chowmei. Actually, noddle soups are our favorite for the cold evenings up here, and Chapati are hard to come by. Instead, they have Tibetean bread sometimes. That is thick fluffy flatbread and even better than Chapatis.

With a truck blocking the road to Tabo, we enjoy a cycling day with no traffic. After 20 kilometers downhill to Chango at the river side, there is another 30 kilometers of bumpy up and down between giant debris slopes and narrow gorges. Colorful rock formations spoil the eye in absence of vivid green. The incredibly turquoise Spiti river has carved a truly fascinating landscape between the mighty mountains. We reach Tabo with dusty aching bicycles, and bump at the bus stand into Carola and Felix, a German couple. They have spent two weeks teaching English and collecting cow dung in a monastery near Kaza, and tell us a lot about their journey as street musicians and artists. Together we check in to the monastery's guest house and spend the time waiting for our ascetic (but delicious) meals in the attached restaurant.

On the next morning, Tabo feels as numb and sleepy and dry as my ears and brain and throat, respectively. Damn, I got a cold. But hey, I wished for peace so desperately just a few days ago! The tourist season is long over, most guest houses and restaurants are closed. Wandering the empty streets in the cold leaves a strange sensation in me. I need to get out of our dark room, and so Kathrin and I check into a different hotel. Carola and Felix join us there for a jamming session with three other backpackers in the late afternoon sun. Passing by neighbors listen to the sound of violin, accordion and guitar. “On the road again” we sing and my spirits rise.

I manage to attend the morning prayer in the monastery. Monks mumbling mantras. Me with a dripping nose, far away from enlightenment. Tabo is famous for the paintings in the 1000 year old Buddhist temples. From the outside, they seem just like a number of clay houses. My head still feels like a cotton ball when we enter the temple area. Ali, a young German who has been traveling in the Himalaya for half a year is sharing his knowledge of the various painting techniques of the ancient frescoes. In the evening we find a proper Dhaba that serves food in less than 10 minutes, at quantities cyclists need. I feel much better after.

A dusty day ride away from Tabo is the town of Kaza. Of course it is cold here too, but with the shops and tea stalls open, it feels way more lively and charming. We stay two nights in a traditionally built clay house, and visit the nearby Kee monastery. The white painted monastery houses on the rocky ridge look almost like a snow cap at 4000m above sea level. Young monks try to ride Kathrins Freddy yet the dark red monk clothes are anything but suitable for the task. The view from the monastery over the suddenly wide Spiti valley with naked brown terrace fields in front of the mighty mountain ranges is splendid.

We have Yak-Tanduk, the thick home-made noodle soup for dinner with our hosts. It is our first meat meal since we are in India, and it tastes incredibly good. With the help of the family, the owner of the mobile phone Kathrin found on the roadside the day before can be traced and contacted. Tick that. Time to move on before we get snowed in.

Our plan to reach Lhosar appears pretty ambitious in the fierce headwind early afternoon. Lots of ups and downs and the pothole spiked gravel road leave no chance to maintain a pedaling rhythm. No Dhaba for 50 kilometers. The sweet chickpea balls we carried as emergency food don't warm me up anymore. The constantly running nose and the outlook of at least three more days on even worse roads lets my cycling enthusiasm crumble. Another set of bumpy switchbacks ahead. Shivering to the bones we arrive in Hansa, 8 or 9 kilometers before Lhosar. No guest house to see, the Dhabas are closed.

We ask some locals. One of them, Navang, invites us for tea to his house. He is a local healer, and right away senses our misery. In the dark kitchen of the clay house, there is a small stove we sit around, and sip about a liter of hot Chai to warm up. Navang proposes that we could stay here for the night, have dinner at a nearby wedding and get a lift to Manali on the following morning. Sounds like a new plan!

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After dinner we are guided to a long and narrow room full of young men sitting on rugs. There is a 10 liter bucket of self-made Spiti beer (that has little to do with the beer we know) plus some bottles of self-made barley whiskey, and the lads have been sitting already a few hours. We talk, drink and sing and pass time. Weddings used to last for five intense sleepless days. Nowadays it is compressed to two, which perhaps serves the health of the attendees. After some photo shooting, Kathrin and I receive white Tibetan “Good luck” scarfs.

Tsering, Navangs father appears early in the morning to lit the cow-dung stove in our room. We talk about the Tibetan healing with the three-finger diagnosis, about the Botu language being the key for learning it. Apparently, winter is the best time to study here, for there is nothing else to do. A German, Peter van Ham, who has been here often, wrote a book about the valley and its traditions. Then our jeep arrives. Or rather three of them. Our luggage and bicycles are spread on the roof carriers, and we are fitted neatly with 8 other passengers in one of the Jeeps.

The road winds up from Lhosar towards Kunzum La at 4500m, where we stop for some prayers. Incredibly beautiful snow covered mountain ranges surround the white Stupa, covered with scarves and prayer flags. With no more than 20km/h we move over the bumpy track and through icy creek crossings through the Lahaul Valley. For me it looks like an endless stone desert, framed by mighty mountains. Nothing seems to grow here, no one seems to live here. Those expensive modern City Jeeps would probably not last long on these roads, but the Indian Mahindra Jeeps master the track.

Only a single Dhaba is open on the 80km stretch between Kunzum La and Rotang Pass since the tourist season is over. It would have been mission impossible on the bikes with our three packs of instant noodles. The fantastic view of a paved road winding all the way down from the Rotang Pass through green forests towards Manali makes a cyclists heart jump. Colorful paragliders hover in the mystic afternoon sun. Unfortunately, my bike is on a Jeep that has long reached Manali, but a seed was planted at that moment.

We spend two weeks in the comfortable Gudu's Orchard Guest house that is only accessible by foot and therefore cut off from any street noise. During the day it is usually sunny and warm, yet after sundown we huddle in long underwear, woolen socks and blankets, listening involuntarily to the wedding parties in the neighborhood.

Gudu's mother takes Kathrin and me for a hike through gnarling woods to her husbands house. Old Ram welcomes us to sit on the wooden veranda of his old cottage. He smiles and plays with a trapped rat, right beside a cloth full of peas. We sit for an hour and enjoy the view of the Beas river and the waterfalls on the other side of the valley. Not far North, there are snow-caped mountain ranges. Special Bidi. Peace on Earth. In the nearby Rasta Cafe, 50 year old Takashi serves omelet and apple pancake that melt in the mouth. Japanese perfection far away from the Indian tourist track.

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On a sunny day, I cycle the 50 kilometers up to Rotang La. The road is paved and in fairly good condition. Switchbacks lead up through pine woods. Once over the tree line, there are amazing views into rocky gorges. In Marih, the last village before the pass, an old woman sells used ski suits and bath robes for the tourists riding up on rented motorbikes. It is getting colder and colder. Thin air, weak legs. At the pass level, the temperature is down to 2°C, and a fierce wind blows. Patches of snow beside the road. I'm happy two Indian tourists share their woolen blanket with me so I can change clothes. I'd die for a hot Chai. Out of nowhere, an old man appears with a thermo, serving Chai! The surrounding summits are in thick clouds. Soft descent, soft switchbacks, hardly traffic - the way back down is almost like flying.

After a week, Kathrin and I rent us a red 350cc Enfield and ride to Manikaran. It is my first ride on a real motorbike since 13 years. The engine bubbles gently and the helmets dampen the omnipresent honking. After a dry and narrow valley, the road leads through picturesque forests with rocks and gnarling Himalayan cedars on the last few kilometers. Easy Rider feelings long time not felt.

Manikaran is blessed with its hot springs. It is a holy place for the Hindus. The legend says, Lord Shiva and his wife Parvati were meditating here for some 10000 years. There are public bathing facilities beside Hindu temples and a big Sikh pilgrim place. A white temple is half hidden behind the clouds of steam. The water in the pools is so hot, it feels like being cooked alive with a strong tickling all over the body. Rejuvenating, indeed. The heat warms our bodies thoroughly. Somewhere on the way back on the next day, Kathrin practices riding the Enfield for a while. Later in the afternoon, we have another swim in the hot springs of Bashisht, near Manali. The bathrooms within the old temple are roofless, with walls of dark cut stones and some sculptures. The water here is less hot, and somewhat white from, well - I hope it is soap.

After Divali (the well celebrated Hindu light festival) the days are getting colder, and the snow line is closing in. Time to say Good bye to our new friends .We are back on the road, with the cacophony of traffic noise in the well populated area on our way to Rishikesh. Soon our fragile state of relaxation is history. Lots of ups and downs on the way down the river won't let us make a lot of pace. But there is swarms of big eagles in the air, and before Mandi the valley narrows to a beautiful gorge. In Bilaspur, Kathrin is fed up with the torture and intends to take a bus on the next day. That proves to be difficult with misleading information at the bus terminal. A man of our age gets curious about us. We sit and talk over Chai. Virender lures us to come to his village on the other side of the water reservoir.

Usually he is living in Shimla, yet for the funeral ceremony of his cousin he stays on the farm of his mother. The well maintained house is surrounded by mango orchards and small fields, settled between lush forested hills. The trees are full of singing birds, and monkeys. Water buffaloes are fed on green leaves from the nearby trees. Two shy cats and a dog keep watch. We'd pass the time resting, strolling the fields and the neighborhood, and eating dahls and vegetables and rice that Virenders mother cooks for us.

Against Virenders will, we take off again, cycling. The minor road via Darlaghat and Dharampur is bumpy, hilly and rather busy. Small settlements are glued on the slopes. Luckily the road from Dharampur to Nahan is better maintained, and almost free of traffic. Monkeys everywhere. From Nahan, there are dreamlike thirty kilometers through thick jungle in the lowlands, before we hit the buzzing Harbertpur. From there, we won't get out of the heavy traffic until Deradhun. The best moments are a dozen of school kids waving at us from a single small motor rikshaw. After we find a reasonable guest house in a narrow alley beside the main road, I venture out to get us some well deserved beers. The next “English beer and wine shop” is a kilometer away, near the clock tower. In the dark, the area looks like after an air raid. Apparently, the wide main road has been milled through living quarters. Three storey buildings with cut walls and open rooms full of rubble still remain on both sides of the road. Add the traffic mess with the horns and the pollution, you'd get a Hieronymus Bosch scenery. Luckily, I get the beers and we celebrate the day in the somewhat noise-reduced courtyard of our hotel.

50 kilometers left to Rishikesh! Heavy traffic until Deradhun airport, then relief – the road narrows, leads through jungle again. On the other hand, big displays with pictures of giant elephants attacking cars warn about the dangers. Apparently, elephants get frustrated about the ongoing cutting of their habitat. A great view over a big rocky riverbed – 7000 kilometer mark on this journey. Little later, we arrive in Rishikesh and cross the mighty Ganga river to Ram Jhula. Temples, ashrams, guest houses, restaurants and souvenir shops are crammed beside each other on the riverside. Narrow streets are full of babas (Indian beggar pilgrims), cheeky cows, horning motorbikes and tourists. We haven't seen foreigners since Manali, so we enjoy the change. Especially in terms of proper Pizza and Pasta!

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In Rishikesh the Ganga leaves the mountains. A holy city, which declared itself World Yoga Capital. Every second display advertises Yoga classes. My head is buzzing. Suddenly I hardly feel motivated for Yoga anymore, for the first time in almost three years of practice. Most hotels are new and feel rather sterile, houses for rent are hard to come by. Eventually, we find a room with kitchen space. Some Yoga scholars here recommend their favorite Yoga teacher. Indra, a Norwegian man invites me for a walk to the river. He is doing his morning meditation on a quiet spot at the river that is still covered thick with sand from the recent flood. Nearby, a young baba takes a bath. I can't help following his example. Instantly the mind is washed free of worries, empty at least for a few moments.

Our room neighbor Julian shows me the way to Surinder Singh, the recommended Yogi. His drop-in classes are well visited. About 18 scholars lay on the mats, waiting for the Yogis arrival. Surinder appears, silently stands with folded hands at the window for a minute before he sits down. Then he starts the lesson with “Keep your eyes closed, put hands in Namaste mudra”. Breathing practice is followed by simple postures that get very intense after holding them for minutes. Surinder walks through the scholars, silently and gently adjusting positions with fingertips and toes, smiling behind his long black beard. Some postures he'd explain in detail with possible pitfalls. Bare pure Yoga without unnecessary ornaments. My Yoga set is rather Aerobic exercise compared to his.

We'd read a lot of books, hike up waterfalls. Kathrins friend Daniela visits us in town for lunch. You can imagine the joy for Kathrin, gossiping in her mother tongue with an old friend after months on the road. Where we go next is as clear as the sunsets over the Ganges. I'm waiting for my Vipassana course in Deradhun to begin. Everything starts moving when I call there for course confirmation. The online booking didn't work, the course is full. After a brief investigation, I find another 10-day Vipassana retreat in Jaipur, starting in a few days. I sign on by phone, then Kathrin and I book train tickets to Jaipur. Time to move on.

The early morning ride through the still sleeping metropolis is nice. We cycle along the orange painted city walls and gates. The architecture here in Rajasthan is so much different from the one in Uttarkand or Himajal Pradesh. The old buildings feel so much more playful with the small Jharokha balconies or Chhatris (small dome shaped pavilions on the roofs) and various other decorative elements.

After a while, we check in at 'Ratan Niwas', a comfortable and charming hotel two kilometres away from the old city. Walking in the afternoon through the crowed alleys of the old town feels like running a gauntlet. Every rickshaw driver demands a dozen arguments why we don't hire him to get around. Beggar kids and drum sellers linger in front of the tourist sights. And the horns of the heavy traffic accompany the movie. Briefly I notice the famous Palace of the Winds.

On the following day we cycle the few kilometres to the famous 400 year old Amber Fort. The giant construction sits on a dry hill slope above a lake. Behind the tall outer walls the building is rather a palace than a fort, with  fine mix of Rajastan and Islamic architecture. Tiled squares, gardens and stone pavilions occupy the four big courtyards. The courtyards were used for different occasions such as official  meetings, family ceremonies or to host the harem. The many Indian tourists take their chances to get photographs with the few western tourists. Back on the rooftop of our hotel we enjoy a cold beer for sunset while the muezzins nearby calls for prayer. 

For 5 days I manage to stay (or rather sit) in the Vipassana centre near Jaipur. That is - no conversation with the 80 fellow students, 4 AM wakeup and 12 hours meditation interrupted only by a few meal breaks. The focus is supposed to remain on the sensation of the breath breath entering and leaving the nostrils. No exercises, no Yoga, no writing nor reading - an attempt to tame the waterfall of thoughts that runs through my brain. Peacocks trumpet in the park between the huts. Large silver gray Hanuman langurs occupy the branches and dance on the ribbed roof of the meditation hall. After some intense lectures in Hindi and English over squeaky speakers,I feel brain-washed and decide to abort the course. Just to find out I've been tricked by my own mind. However, Kathrin is still in the hotel in Jaipur and happy to see me again. Unfortunately, she didn't get any interview appointment in Switzerland, yet booked a return flight. Yes - we will be back with our families for Christmas! Later that evening, Kathrin brings the guitar to the rooftop, and we sing a lot of Cat Stevens songs with Mimi, the beer drinking lady from Finland.

There are still 10 days to kill until our flights depart. A small squeaky bus brings the three of us to Pushkar, a small pilgrim town 200 kilometres away. Pushkar is famous amongst Hindus for its small lake that washes away all sins, and for the only Brahma temple in India. Lots of old palaces surround the lake. The town is famous with European cloth sellers too. Every winter they come for a few days or months to stock up with colourful shirts and trousers and scarfs that are produced in nearby villages. Kathrin and I find us a hotel with ground level rooms in a green and quiet garden. The garden is quiet as long as the Macacues and Langurs in the branches of the trees don't drive the three German Shepard's on the ground mad. Time passes by while we stroll around the Ghats that surround the small lake, or ride camels for sunset. Pushkar becomes the first place of our journey where we actually have to buy drinking water (elsewhere, hotels usually provided filtered water).

The last station of the long journey becomes Agra. We take a train from Jaipur that slowly saunters through lime green rice paddies and hopeless slum areas where children play in piles of burning litter. The smell and the scenario sink into the memories...

The arrival in Agra becomes a fuzz. The bicycles did not arrive with our train. The luggage manager in the train station remains unmoved and calmly informs us that our bicycles might be on the next train, or the train after the next train. So we have to manoeuvre our bulky bags by hand through the station into a rickshaw, and return to the train station at night after a few desperate beers. When two young man pull our unlocked bicycles out of the last train, we are really happy.

On the following morning we visit the 400 year old Taj Mahal. Built by a Mughal emperor in grief for the death of his wife, the white marble mausoleum became the symbol for eternal love. The mighty dome on top of the octagonal main building between four 40 meter tall minarets is vaguely illuminated by the blur light of a misty sunrise, and mirrored in the long pond in front of the building. Big Iwans (niches) with rich decorations were built into the walls of the mausoleum. The white marble walls are decorated with inlay works - poems and Quran texts, and stucco flower garlands. Inside the hall, colorful gemstones were used for exquisite inlay works. In the centre under the dome, behind delicate Jalis (perforated stone windows), lay the sarcophagus of the emperor and his beloved wife.

As the morning lingers on, the steady flow of tourists increases. Time to leave Taj Mahal. Time to leave India after two and a half months. Last but not least - it is time to end our eight months long "Journey to the East" -  with many big thanks to everyone who supported us on our way from Europe to India. Love, light and peace be with you.