This morning began just as the last had, with a giant and savage breakfast at the Caravan Sarai Hotel in Samarkand Uzbekistan.

Stomachs plenty full, we climbed on the Speed TRs and started wheeling past recently build, bizarrely empty office buildings and unsettling water advertisements.  We decided for this wheel to just choose a direction and keep going in it, hoping thst as it usually did, this strategy would yield some adventure and insight into the city of Samarkand.

Eventually, we found ourselves in front of yet another giant ancient Uzbek complex. This one we’d never head of, but it was giant and inviting, so we locked out bikes and headed over to investigate.

It was some 50 cents to get in, so we decided it worth a look. The interior was delightful, and completely devoid of fellow visitors.

It had a very Registan-esque flavor to it, except that his one featured a number of fruit trees and grape vines inside the courtyard, which really made for a delightful change from the blue cloudless sky and the sandy desert tones of this ancient city.

We wandered in and out of the buildings that made up the complex finding them all quite deserted, all the more interesting, and very ornate.

And then we were wheeling again. Tearing down the road, and really putting miles between us and the complex. Suddenly, it was very obviously time to eat, we realized. Luckily, there were plenty of restaurant all around us, as we rode, and we had simply to select one. The one we did choose was a fantastic, truly epic place, where we were able to eat a delightful meal of Shashlik, soup, bread, and salad for about 3 dollars each.

They served the Shashlik there with the most delightful red pepper powder, which was made all the more come hither by it’s fantastic packaging.

After we got back into town, we decided to check out the Guri Amir,  which we’d just seen the back side of the day before. It was also impressive, and we took our time riding around it, taking it in from all sides. One could see, upon circumnavigation, that the restoration was still very much underway.

When we stopped outside the place to catch our breath in the shade, we quickly struck up a conversation with some of the locals who were doing the same.

This conversation soon turned into a kind of photo shoot, in which all the visitors to the Guri Amir, were invited to pose with the strange foreigners. We must have posed with 20 or 30 people by the end of it.

One of them even went and had the photo printed for us.

When we got back to the hotel, we found ourselves in conversation with the director of a school of industry, not far outside the city of Samarkand. After a brief introductory conversation outside next to the Speed TRs, which I believe added credibility, he informed us that he had in his possession some lamb, some cold chicken and some vodka that he would be deeply offended if we did not consume with him.

And so he called out to the hotel staff to prepare a table and we sat down with him. After perhaps an hour more of eating, drinking, and chatting, he announced that he was heading off to bed. We bid him good slumbers and headed off ourselves to find internet somewhere in this town.

That was no easy task, but 5 cafes, and 4 internet clubs later, we found a place that was willing to let us plug our machines into their network. Now if only the internet had been faster that 2 or 3 kb/s once we’d done so, it would have been a true victory.

The Caravan Sarai was an incredible hotel, a gem, an ace you might even say.

We woke up the next morning to find the most luxurious breakfast waiting for us. It seemed the feasting would not be ending any time soon here in Uzbekistan, and we were fine with that. The breakfast arrived in a number of courses of small plates, Russian tea house style, until the entire table was just covered with food.

There was fresh Lepyoshka, butter, various jams and preserved fruits, yoghurt, steaming hot blinis (Russian pancakes), fried eggs, buttery baked pastries filled with nuts and dried fruits, nutty and sharp cheeses, and thinly sliced sausages. It was splendid, and quite filling. As we lounged around drinking another few carafes of coffee, we read aloud from the Uzbekistan guide book that Shoney had lent us.

As we ate, we could not help but notice how ornately decorated the interior of this hotel was, with the walls completely covered with hand carved filigree.  There was even wireless Internet… on the way at least, but as was the continuing trend here in Uzbekistan, Internet would be tough.

We headed out the door, climbed on the cycles and began wheeling. We rode in search first of water, past this example of the amazing signs they use to display the house numbers in Samarkand. We eventually found a Produkti where we were able to buy water. Little did we know, however, that carbonated water was much more popular here than the still stuff, and it would be from this point forth difficult to find. But for now, we just inadvertently bought sparkling water, which exploded, fizzing everywhere, and tasted vile with overtones of carbonic acid. But it was hot and dry, so drink it we did.

We were soon approached by a crowd of Uzbek fellows, all of whom were interested in learning more about us. When they discovered I could speak a little Russian, we found ourselves pulled into quite the little pow wow, with all the surrounding vendors and shop keepers coming out to chat. They asked the most fascinating questions about America. These were mostly focused around Muslim America. Are there Muslims in America? Can Muslims in America possess a U.S. passport? Can they live in any city, or only certain ones? Can a mosque broadcast the call to prayer in an American city?

The answer to that last question, I had to admit I did not know. I felt that they probably could, given that churches can ring loud bells and play blistering recordings of chimes and choirs. But I had to admit to them I’d never heard the C to P in America.

Speculation as to the correct answers to any of these questions is, as always, invited in the comments.

Eventually, once the third kid to take my Speed TR around the dusty block for a ride came back with the thing, it was time to go, and we did our best to politely excuse ourselves.

The first thing we rode past was a giant domed and tiled compound, which we inadvertently approached from the rear, having been traversing the area by means of back alleys.

Wooshed by it, placing it on the list of places to revisit, and heading back into the alley, where we stopped to chat with a fellow washing his car.

From there we made our way back around to the front of the ornate edifice, riding down a large cobblestone tourist development road. When we stopped to drink water on the side of the road, we were surrounded again by such a massive crowd of people that we were forced to hand out all our remaining business cards, and then write our names and e-mails down for those who did not get cards. In the end, the pressure of the crowd was just too great and we had to excuse ourselves, heading out in search of a quieter place to have a drink.

Remembering quickly how foul the carbonated water tasted, we stopped our drinking and headed on down the road, picking up speed and beginning to really cover ground. The roads here were even newer and smoother than they’d been in the capital, and we found ourselves making very good time.

We were just whipping along, waving at people, and enjoying the fantastic signage for local businesses. All around us people we going for it, like this chap transporting tons of burlap sacks full of produce with his Lada.

Finally, tired of the carbonic acid water, we stopped to buy some of the good still stuff.

That purchase rolled into a 45-minute conversation with the owner of the shop about whether or not he could get a green card in the U.S., and whether I could help him to do so. I told him I would be supportive in any way I could, but that it was not going to be easy, and that it would take a lot of time.

We wheeled on from the water joint, and turned off onto an uphill unpaved road that took us to a little brick village. The village showed signs of recent habitation, but seemed almost completely deserted as we rode through, all the residents apparently at work in town, or hiding behind closed doors.

From the village, we continued back down to the main road and made our way around the city on what one might call the Samarkand Beltway.  Before too long, we found ourselves dumped into a giant fruit and vegetable market, which we took a moment to peruse, tempted as always by the dynias.

From there we headed to the Registan, the biggest and most famous tourist spot in all of Samarkand. It takes that title for good reason. It is very, very impressive.

We’ve been to a lot of places, dear reader, and will go forth and say: this one is worth seeing. It could go head to head with the Taj Mahal any day.

Just look at this:

We spent a few hours wandering through the place. Poking our heads in and out of its many bejeweled courtyards. At one point we were approached by a police officer, we were afraid might be there to hassle us, but he was in fact trying to sell us a private tour of one of the minarets at sunset. We told him we’d consider it and moved on.

Suddenly it was time to eat again, and so we headed back out on the bikes in search of food.

Not far from the Registan, we ended up finding a truly amazing place, where we ordered some Uzbek soup and a few shashlik.

All of it was amazing.

As we ate, we struck up a conversation with the people at the table next to us. Most of them had either partial or totally gold teeth. That was when I realized it: Uzbek people have a thing for gold teeth. Everywhere we went, people were rocking the mostly gold smile. It was incredible.

I tried to look past all the bling in these guys’ grills, and answer their many questions about America. How much is gas in America? How much is bread in America? Is it safe at night in America? Are the women beautiful in America? How many are blond? How many have black skin?

We wheeled next back to that glorious and beautiful Samarqand train station to buy our tickets on to Bukhara. The lines were not long; I was only cut three times; and the economy class tickets were dirt cheap, so it took relatively little energy to execute that mission.

Back on the bikes, we decided it might be worthwhile now to try and find an ATM machine. So we continued to wheel, asking people from time to time where we might find a machine which emitted dollars (to change on the black market, of course).

Everyone seemed to know of a different place that might give us dollars, but most of the leads petered out in either dead ends or ATMs that only gave сум. People were more than happy to help, to give us elaborate directions, and to generally chat for extended periods of time.

One group of men outside a credit union insisted on taking the Speed TRs for a little ride before letting us strike out.

We continued to wheel on, past this giant wedding, for which the families had rented a fleet of Mercedes Benz sedans.

We struck out too, here at the National Bank of Uzbekistan, which had no dollars for us. In fact no сум either.

Somehow we ended up next inside an accounting office, using their computers and chatting about AsiaWheeling, web design, and the world of Internet consulting with one of the managers there.

He claimed he knew the only place in town that would give us USD, and directed us to wheel down the street, but to hurry for they would close soon. We thanked him and hopped back on the cycles.

When we got to that bank, they apologized to us, explaining that it was the end of the month they were closing the books, and instructing us to come back in four days. Shucks.

As we wheeled back to town, we spotted a very fancy looking hotel, which we thought just might have an ATM. We ran inside and sure enough it did, and it served USD! But only for Visa cards… We had only MasterCards, so we left empty handed.

We headed back to the Caravan Sarai and dug into our secret supply of emergency USD, changing them with the manager of the hotel for pretty close to the black market rate.

After seeking a quick and delicious dinner of more salad and shashlik, we corresponded into the night and retired in preparation for the next day.

We woke up the next morning at the Yakubjanov residence, and the smell of more Plov was already wafting through the residence. Not to be outdone by Shoney’s grandmother, his mother too was eager to try her Plov out on us. Shoney had already been telling us about the majesty and wonder of his mother’s Plov. Nothing she’d cooked yet had been anything other that a home run, so we were excited to try it.

First we had to go on a mission for washers. I headed out with Shoney’s sister to go searching. You see, during the previous day’s open heart surgery on Scott’s Speed TR’s dynamo hub, we had been forced to remove and jettison quite a few pieces of the wheel, meaning that now the hub was a fair bit too small for the fork. My idea for a temporary solution to this was to simply fill the extra space with washers. So I looked up the word for washers in my Russian dictionary, and we headed out.

Eventually, after striking out a few times, we wandered into an auto mechanic’s shop. The man was not only swimming in washers, but he was more than happy to give them to me for free. “As many as you can carry!” he laughed.

By the time we all arrived back at the house, it was Plov time. And my goodness did she go all out.  The rice had been steaming in meat juices, and meanwhile she cut up a large piece of lamb, some horse sausage, a couple of hard boiled eggs, and unstrung a necklace of stuffed grape leaves. She then piled all this on top of the dish and presented it to us with a big smile, some apologies as to the out-of-season nature of the grape leaves. “You’ll have to come back when the grapes are in season. I’m sorry about that.” Mrs. Yakubjanov, we would be more than happy to come back and eat your Plov any time.

It was too tasty, the rice all filled with raisins and nuts, the grape leaves succulent and juicy, the meat salted and spiced to perfection. I just couldn’t stop eating it. It was served, as is the tradition, with a fresh salad of onion, tomato and cucumber.

Once again, we felt so full that we might have to be rolled out the door. And then it was time for melon! Another dynia, perhaps even sweeter and more delightful than the last.  My goodness do they eat well in Uzbekistan.

Then it was time to split. With so much gratitude that we could not tell which was more busting, our stomachs or our hearts, we thanked them again and climbed on the bikes.

“Now remember, my father has booked a room for you guys at the Caravan Sarai hotel. It’s the same place where he sets up his U.N. guests! The manager will meet you at the station. Good luck!”

The conductors on the train took one look at the Speed TRs, and saw an opportunity to extract a bribe. In the end, not knowing the rules of post Soviet rail travel, we paid them nearly $5.00 for each cycle.

As the train rumbled through rich Uzbek farmland, we chatted with our fellow passengers, all citizen of Samarqand. They seemed thrilled to be sharing a car with us. It was one older man, a cartographer by trade, and a mother and daughter. The woman ran the front desk at a hospital, I believe.

About every five minutes, I would hear “VooDya!” and the little girl would have sprung up with another question for me. My Russian was terribly rusty, and had gotten little better since I’d come to the Uze, so reliant had we been on Shoney to play translator. But now I was getting to use that old muscle, and it felt good, exhilarating in fact.

Near the end of the ride, they noticed the ukulele and asked for a tune. I was happy to oblige them with a little Doobie Brother’s “Long Train Runnin.”

We arrived at the station in Samarqand and were blown out of the water by how beautiful it was. It was the most impressive station Scott or I had ever seen, lit up dramatically in the night, and built out of gorgeous materials. We were just about to leave with the young manager who had come to meet us and take us to the Caravan Sarai Guesthouse, when I realized we had left our keys and helmets on the train.

I sprinted back and caught it just as it was leaving. The words for helmet and keys came back to me in a flash, and I was able to ask for them. Sure enough one of the women cleaning the train had found them and placed them in a large metal bin.

I came back out at a triumphant jog, the only words to describe my emotions at that point were in Lao: Uzbekistan Duuuh!

We woke up once again in Uzbekistan to a giant feast, laid out on the kitchen table for us by Shoney’s mom. Most of the dishes from yesterday were there, with the addition of a kind of buttery fried gluten, like caramelized roux, which was spread on bread or eaten straight.

Shoney’s sister Luiza came out to join us, and we all goofed around, drinking coffee and trying not to be outsmarted by the little firecracker.  She ate very little that girl, but could certainly throw back the Coca-Cola.

Our first mission for the day was to register. You see, dear reader, it is illegal to be in Uzbekistan for more than 72 hours without registering yourself with the government. So off to the registration and passport office we went, throwing our Speed TRs into a cab so as to be prepared to do a little wheeling later in the day.

When we got to the office, we locked our bikes outside and headed in. It was a two story, cheaply build Soviet structure, with sagging floors, now covered with flattened cardboard boxes, and peeling wallpaper. We began waiting in line, and scrutinizing the info-graphics on the wall explaining how one would be rewarded for turning in criminals.

Unfortunately, after waiting for quite some time in what turned out to be the wrong line, we were ushered to a new line and eventually into a room where a very grumpy woman looked positively crestfallen to see us.

“I am very sick today. I need a nap,” she exclaimed when we entered the room and indicated our intention to do the registration.

Shoney’s mother pressed on. “Fine then. I’ll need the full blueprints for your house detailing where they will be sleeping.” We of course did not have these. Shoney’s mother was not even sure she knew where to find them. So We walked out of the place empty handed. Fair enough.

We walked past the giant line of patiently waiting Uzbeks that had formed behind us, and past the gleaming black Mercedes 600 SEL, which was driven by the head of the office, and climbed back into a cab. We would need to think of a Plan B. One option would be to work with a hotel, who might register us for a cheap rate, given we wanted just the registration and that we weren’t staying with them. We talked about that for a while, but soon were distracted by the city of Tashkent flying by outside our window.

Our next stop was to meet up once again with Shoney’s grandfather, Nazarkulov.

We met him in the large central square where the government put most of its flashiest buildings and monuments. It’s place called Mustaqillik Maydoni, or Independence Square. We locked our bikes to a tree, where a nearby Somsa and drinks vendor had agreed to keep an eye on them.

Then we began strolling, and Nazarkulov began explaining to us the history of the square using this sign as a diagram. The square had first contained a statue of the Tsar. You see, Uzbekistan was first a colony of Imperial Russia. Then when the Soviets took control of the Russian empire it became a state of the CCCP, and the statue was replaced with one of Lenin. Then with the fall of the Soviets, the square was redone a few more times to bring it to its present state.

And what a state it was, with a giant monument showing the globe with Uzbekistan as the only country and a huge field planted with Siberian evergreen trees (each of which required it own shading device in order to keep it from withering in the Uzbek dry heat). We continued on into a nicely manicured and shady park, past old Soviet gardening trucks, to the Uzbek WWII memorial.

It was quite a memorial, and startlingly touching. The Soviets were very successful in the Second World War, but their methods for making war required some of the most reckless losses of human life ever recorded on our planet. In WWII 350,000 Uzbek Soviets died fighting against the Axis.

We wandered through the monument, where the names of each fallen Uzbek were carved onto great copper sheets, and collected like the pages of a book. Shoney and his grandfather struggled to locate the names of their own fallen relatives.

We moved from the monument out into the shadow of a giant pillared archway. On the top of the arch was a giant stork, the symbol, here too, of new birth.

We walked on past a giant fountain which had, in its hayday, blasted over a walkway, allowing visitors to walk through a tunnel of arcing water. It now sputtered weakly next to the walkway.

We sat down with Shoney and Nazarkulov in a special section of another nearby park to discuss Soviet times and this man Sharof Rashidov. Sharof Rashidov was an Uzbek leader during the Soviet times, made famous for his successful execution of an elaborate system of bribes and lies that convinced the Soviet government that Uzbekistan was producing more cotton and wheat than it actually was. This was of vital importance to the Uzbek people at the time, for they were not going to meet the quota that year, and would have suffered harsh consequences had they come up short.

Nazarkulov  was quite the fan of Soviet Uzbekistan, spoke perfect Russian, and spoke passionately about how life was better during Soviet times.

Having toured Independence Square now for some time, we were all ready to eat some more. And so Nazarkulov took us to an chicken restaurant, established during the Soviet times.  The chicken was incredible. It was served with a Bloody-Mary-esque sauce, which came in a little shot glass, and for a few cents more, your table could share a still-warm-from-the-oven loaf of Soviet style bread.

Not believing the reality of the pure volume of bills it took to operate in the Uze, we had attempted to pack our wallets with сум, figuring that we couldn’t spend it all in one day. Wrong we were, for just this cheap lunch took a huge chunk out of our pitiful wallet-sized wads.

Bellies full and wallets empty, we exited the restaurant and took a moment to take in the giant and mostly empty Hotel Uzbekistan, across the street, with its exquisitely filigreed front facade.

We then stuck out our arms, and the next car that passed stopped to pick us up. In case he did not agree to the price Shoney felt was fair, there would inevitably be another queued up behind him, ready to talk to us if we flagged the first one on. This cab system was amazing. We threw the cycles into the back of a black Chevy and headed off toward Shoney’s grandfather’s neighborhood, where a bike was waiting for Shoney.

The frame had been recently painted, and everything tightened up. It looked like a good ride, very 1983. And with some heartfelt thanks and goodbyes to Nazarkulov , we hit the road for a little inaugural Uzbek wheeling.

Traffic was light, and the roads were good, the main ones at least. Like everything else he applies himself to, Shoney wheeled hard and fast, heading on past giant Soviet apartment blocks and in toward the city center. Then, suddenly, Shoney’s tire popped, and the wheel ground to a halt.

We had a patch kit and pumps (in our seat posts), but what we needed was some water so we could see where the puncture was and patch it. The best water we could find was this river.

The river ran through a large Soviet sports club, where Shoney used to box. All the workers there were instantly skeptical of us, and just as instantly sympathetic when we explained the story of the flat. Some of the groundskeepers even offered us the use of one of their buckets.

But once we took the inner tube out, we found that no patch would solve this disaster, and thus no water was needed. The tube was an old cracked monster of a thing, and the flat had occurred because the valve nub itself had just torn free of the inner tube.

We would need a new inner tube, for sure. So we locked the bike inside the sports complex, grabbed the problem tire, and headed back to the streets where we caught a cab to the nearest bike shop. We ended up buying not only a new inner tube, but getting a package deal on a ridiculously cheap Russian-made tire as well. The man at the shop changed the tire and tube, and even pumped the thing up to show us all was legit.

Back in the park, we made short work of the repair, and headed back out to continue the wheel.

It was glorious to be wheeling again, sun bright, air fresh. Then a cop stopped us, and began to yell at Scott in Russian (of which he understood none) using very condescending language (Shoney later explained) and asking him what he thought he was doing. Turns out the cop had thought Scott was Russian and had some bones to pick with the Russkis. Shoney interjected in Uzbek, which surprised the cop a bit, explaining that we were American tourists and eventually he told us to wheel on, but reminded us that in Uzbekistan it was illegal to wheel more than one meter from the right side of the road, which if I am interpreting the law correctly, actually makes left turns illegal.

“They just want to have enough laws so that they can catch you breaking one of them at any time day or night,” Shoney explained. Fair enough.

We wheeled on toward the train station, stopping halfway through to grab some water from this M&Ms branded Produkti, which is the Russian answer to the convenience store.  Or maybe the convenience store is the western answer to the Produkti; speculation is invited in the comments.

We wheeled on past giant new housing developments and old crumbling Soviet structures. Though most of the signs were in Russian, one also saw plenty of Uzbek too, which is these days written in Roman characters and looks like this:

We paused outside a the train station to let one of the many street trams go by.

The city really had some impressive public transit, for the capital of a country with a GDP per capita of just under $4,000. Sporting two metro lines and eight tram lines, it was very impressive. Also, as Shoney explained, traffic was a new thing to the city as well, having only arrived in the past couple years. Traffic jams were still a rarity.

At the Uzbek train station, we entered a terrible do-loop of waiting forever in the wrong line, then switching to a new line, then having it be wrong too. Eventually, we found the right line, though, and bought  two tickets for the day after the next’s train to Samarqand.

On the way back to the house, we stopped by a certain hotel Shoney’s mother knew of, and bargained with them to register us. They were skeptical at first, but soon realized the opportunity to make some cash and agreed.

When we got back to the house, Shoney’s mother had made another giant meal for us, featuring a giant lamb and potato dish which, despite being extremely impressive, was presented to us with an apology!

Twas the night before Uzbek when all through the stan,

not creature was wheeling, not even a man.

Claudia’d been sent back to the States in a plane,

Meanwhile gifts from Santa and Elf had just came.

We ran to the door to see what could it be,

It was our dear friend Alp with a package for me.

T’was a big cardboard box, wider and fatter,

We shook it around and heard intriguing clatter.

By Santa and Elf we mean Allan and Tan,

The Speed Matrix Depot and My Bike Shop Man.

See, our tires were worm from eons of wheelin’

And our rear ends were chapped up and down right near peelin’

So we tore in with delight in our eyes,

To find joy in our hearts at savage surprise

For what to my wondering eyes did appear?

But new handles, new saddles and tires (front and rear).

Rido seats how they twinkled, Big Apples how merry,

If the trip were an ice cream, twas surely the cherry.

Thanks Speed Matrix and My Bike Shop!

And Merry Christmas, every one!

After waking up in the clean and sunny comfort of our rooms at the Dora Motel in Cappadocia, we decided it was high time for the entire team to take a wheel together. So we unfolded our Dahons, and walked them down to the market, where we had seen people renting bicycles.

In the market, we ran into a fellow selling Turkish IDs, press passes, and other printed and laminated images.

We stopped to take a look at his wares, and as I was noticing that his sample ID, taped on his printer, looked startlingly like my father, the proprietor took a picture of me with his DSLR, smiling at me and offering to make me a Turkish driver’s license. I politely declined and we moved on to find a cycle.

The fellows renting bikes were quite interested to see that we’d mostly arrived with our own cycles, and we were more than happy to let them take the Speed TRs out for a spin. Their offerings, on the other hand, were none too impressive. In the end, we ended up selecting a cycle, but the brakes were so poor and the transmission so finicky  that Scott volunteered to ride the thing, leaving Claudia on his Speed TR, and Diane on the Vitesse D7.

And from there we set out, into the blazing sun, the unforgiving desert, and the jaw-dropping geology of this place. We quickly turned off the main road and onto a sandy side path, heading into one of the clusters of “cave” dwellings.

It was not easy to ride through the sand, but we managed for a time, eventually giving up when the path turned into a savage uphill climb toward the cluster of cave houses.

From there, we continued wheeling through the sandy washed out roads to the next archeological site.

There, we proceeded to do the same thing. We wandered through the cave dwellings, climbing around on the rock, and generally having a gay old time.

We wandered through a ancient and deserted city, now re-inhabited by tourists, stumbling upon old churches and cryptic wall carvings, the whole while, just sweating like maniacs in the midday heat.

We returned once again to the main road, heading on toward the pottery town of Cavusin, where Diane purchased a slew of pottery, which we duly divvied up and strapped onto our cycles.

You can see Diane here with the man who made the pots. He would look better with a mustache, don’t you agree?

From there, we wheeled on, heading uphill. Diane’s hat kept falling off, so she re-purposed its purple bow into a fastening system.

The road was wide and empty, spilling out before us, and beckoning us forward. We were happy to oblige, spurred on by the promise of more ruins and bizarre geology.

We then proceeded to, perhaps naively, pay our way into an “open air museum.” The museum ended up being just another archeological site, like those we’d toured previously, though perhaps a little more densely populated with ruins.  Oddly, we encountered this sign posted in English on the ticket booth.  What could they be talking about?  What audience were they targeting, and why here?

Considering all the free sites around us, it might not have made sense to pay our way into this one, but once inside we were determined to get our money’s worth.

We thoroughly explored, bouncing in and out of the “cave dwellings” and generally enjoying ourselves.

That evening we returned thoroughly exhausted and hungry from our wheeling and traipsing, and most grateful to have some clean air-conditioned beds to collapse into.

That next morning in Guzelcami, we pulled ourselves out of bed just in time to catch the large group breakfast at the Ecer Pension.

We spent the first part of the morning wandering through Guzelcami’s market and running little errands. The market had some truly stunning products for sale:

After the market, we headed to a certain healing sulfur spring outside of town, dedicated to the god, Zeus, which proved startlingly crowded. Regardless, we decided to hang there for a while, taking a dip in the spring and having a picnic of all the leftover foods from yesterday’s picnic.

Having eaten and had our sulfur baths, we found ourselves at a crossroads. What to do next? Where should we go?

We had heard many good things about the beaches farther south, but we had also heard great things about the fabled inland city of Cappadocia, where houses are built into the stone faces of the local geology. Call it the Petra, or the Pueblo of Turkey. In the end, we decided that we’d seen enough beaches, and that Cappadocia was the move.

So off we went. We drove for hours, listening to NPR’s Radiolab on compact disc.

Our next stop was to eat again, this time at a very interesting food truck we spotted off the side of the road, in a rather industrial part of the city of Denizli. They were serving up some wicked pressed sandwiches, and were more than happy to give us a knife to cut the melon that we’d bought earlier that day at the market.

It was well after midnight by the time we arrived in our final destination of Konya, where we had booked a room at a hotel recommended by the lonely planet, but we had still another two hours of driving around to do before we actually found the place.

When we did, the owner was standing in the doorway looking sleepy and waiting for us. Claudia and Diane headed in and began to handle logistics, which Scott and I drove off to find a place to park the car amidst the maze-like alleyways.

It seemed like we had only slept for two minutes when it was all of a sudden time to leave in order to adhere to the 11:00 am checkout rule. I scarfed down some bits of sandwich and some coffee in the lobby and then we headed out into the city.

Konya is an amazing place, highly recommended – one of my favorite that we had yet visited in Turkey. It was much poorer and much more Arabic than any Turkish city we’d been to yet, more like Syria. Scott and Diane went off to mail a package to a friend, while Claudia and I headed over to investigate a nearby event raising funds to support Muslim causes; it was broadcasting some entrancing Arabic music.

We wandered around looking at the gallery of posters explaining the fundraiser.

Most of the causes were things our government would describe as terrorism, but were here being presented as God’s work. It was a very interesting perspective to experience.

As Americans we felt totally welcome to visit the stand, and view the materials. When the fellows running the fund raiser found that Claudia could speak Arabic, they even gave us free lighters bearing the name of the Chechen Separatist Movement.

We spent a few more hours wandering around Konya, looking at some of the amazing goods for sale, like these variously shaped heating coils before getting in the car and heading off toward Cappadocia.

We stopped part way to Cappadocia to snack on some pide in the town of Aksaray, where we found an amazing place, featuring this fantastic poster illustrating the journey of man through life.

The place was run by goofy teenage boys and pide was delicious.

We stopped at a  small bakery for some sweets and the owner came outside to let us know that one of the tires on the Doblo was getting flat. So we stopped and filled it up a little more before splitting. We had to wait in line behind a man filling his bicycle tire while we did so. We felt proud.

Our next stop was a monument to all the leaders of Turkey. We wandered around viewing the busts of each leader. It was startling how many of them were Mongols. We took a moment to consider how important a place Mongolia was. We were excited to wheel the place. It was not far off now…

Meanwhile, imminent arrival in Cappadocia was being heralded by some very interesting changes in the surrounding geology, which continued to get stranger and stranger. Soon we were surrounded by giant towering phallic-like structures. This must be the place, we thought, as we pulled into the town of Göreme.

We pulled the Doblo into the center of town and turned into a construction site to investigate the lonely planet pdfs, and collect addresses and phone numbers of potential hotels. Scott raged on his computer while the rest of us lazed and attempted to look useful.

After some brief comparison shopping, we ended up checking into The Dora Motel.

After throwing our stuff down, we parted ways, Claudia and Diane heading off to do some shopping, and Scott and I heading out for a little inaugural wheel of Cappadocia.

The wheel consisted mostly of a savage uphill climb through the striking geology. These bizarre towers were all around us, and now that we could get a closer look, it was obvious that most of them had been carved into homes and businesses, evident from the windows and doors scraped out of the rock.

We wheeled all the way over to the next city, where we found plenty more hotels, both conventional and those which allowed people to rent carved out “cave” rooms. We also noticed this classic car, the brand of which has no Wikipedia page, hidden behind the window of a repair shop.

Anyone who can shed more light on this vehicle is heartily invited to do so in the comments.

We continued to wheel on, past ruins, “cave” houses, and finally through the town and back into the countryside.

With the sun setting, we decided it was time to call it a wheel and head back to reconvene with the rest of the TurkLaunch team.

That next morning we woke up to a beautiful view of the Çesme coastline, and a giant statue of a lady holding out an olive branch.

Our slumber in the Doblo had not been amazing, but not bad either. Regardless, we were excited to get back on the road. Claudia’s tooth was still causing pain but less than the day before. She took another azythromicin and we drove down into the city.

Back in town, we stopped at a restaurant specializing in a dish something in between a crepe and an omelet nearby Dost Pide. It was accompanied by a large green jug of delicious homemade salty yoghurt.

From there we drove outside of town to the beach. The water was choppy, but blue and crystal clear.

As we drove along for kilometers, we saw people swimming in the water or walking along the coastline. It seemed the residents of each neighborhood had their own little piece of beach and were taking advantage of it.

We decided this was the place to go wheeling. So we unfolded the cycles. There were, of course, only three Dahons however, and four of us. Diane volunteered to stay back and read by the beach while we three fools wheeled the coastline.

And wheel we did, making our way along the coast, stopping from time to time to head down to the water and investigate little inlets and coves. The water was very clean and inviting. So clear was it, in fact, that we could see the bottom just littered with spiny urchins. These urchins were the only things keeping us from taking a dip some dozen times during the wheel.

We wheeled on past stunning rocks and sea, past layers sedimentary rock and majestic arcs of coastline. It was almost too beautiful, almost cheesy in its idyllic glory.

Finally, we found a public swimming dock that was so crowded we felt there must be a way to swim without being urchined to death, so we went in. The water was colder than expected, but quite refreshing.

From that beach, we wheeled uphill into a small hilltop development, from which we were able to catch a long downhill back to where Diane was waiting for us. It was a short, but very sweet wheel.

We then climbed back in the Doblo and headed onward toward the next seaside town. We stopped partway there to buy and then eat a giant picnic lunch of olives, bread, oil, cheeses, and tiny fish.

We reached Güzelçamlı just as the sun was setting and checked into the Ecer Pension, a small family run guesthouse, where none of the rooms had locks. A large family style breakfast was included with our rate, and we were given an entire floor to ourselves.

We woke up the next morning in Assos, and Claudia’s tooth was no better. She had woken up a number of times during the night in such pain that she was unable to sleep.  We had administered some painkillers, and over breakfast Scott, Diane, and I were discussing what the best next action was. We decided that it was worth getting in touch with insurance and finding a dentist. Just as we were about to leave to go try and find Internet in this one horse town, Claudia appeared, looking none too hot.

She nibbled on some bread, but didn’t eat much. I hung back with her while Scott and Diane went to go find the Internet. As we were discussing her swollen face, a man appeared. He introduced himself, and asked us about ourselves. Claudia did a good job of sucking up the pain and being cordial. Once we had explained AsiaWheeling, and to the owners of the hotel (who showed up half way through the conversation) that indeed there were still cowboys in the USA (though you needed to go outside the cities to find them), we asked our new acquaintance about his own life and profession.

Low and behold, the man was a dentist.  We asked, most humbly, if he might look into Claudia’s mouth. And so he did, spending some time poking around and examining the issue from all angles. In the end, he explained that all she needed was some antibiotics. We asked him what kind. “Azithromycin,” he said. I ran back to our room and sure enough we had them ready to go in the mobile pharmacy.

Claudia took her first one, and we headed out to find Scott and Diane to deliver the good news. All concerned were happy to hear that we had a solution that did not involve us all driving to an unscheduled city and Claudia going under the knife.

From there we drove up to an outcropping overlooking the sea.

The Mediterranean lay beautiful and blue beneath us as we followed the winding road down to the water.

Part way down the hill, we parked the Doblo, and headed out on foot to investigate the water more closely.

We cut through a resort and began exploring the rocky coastline.

Eventually, we decided to just strip down to our Exofficios and jump in.

The water was cool, crystal clear, and beautiful. We climbed out quite refreshed and headed back up to the car.

A little way down the road, we stopped at another beach-side restaurant for a delicious meal of fish, fresh bread and vinegary salad.

These tiny, eat-em-whole, deep fried Turkish fish were really becoming some of my favorite food of the entire trip.

We bought a bunch of giant bottles of water not far from the restaurant, and kept rolling.

I was driving through gorgeous Turkish semi-arid agricultural land; Scott and Claudia were snoozing; and Diane was reading to me aloud from the Wikipedia article about the Armenian genocide.

I could not have asked for more. Giant statues of Ataturk were everywhere, along with huge patriotic Turkish flags.

As the sun was setting, we pulled into the town of Çesme. It turned out we had arrived at some kind of tourist peak time for the city, which boded poorly for our ability to find a hotel. Even the filthy flophouse we found was holding out, trying to sell its last room for US$75. A normal, none too fancy hotel that we wandered into was asking for over US$1,000 for a night. This was maniacal and hilarious.

Luckily we had an ace up the sleeve.  One we had hid in the Gulf and pulled out more than a few times.  We decided it was high time to pilot the Hotel Doblo. But first we needed to eat. Alp directed us via phone to his favorite Pide Place, Dost Pide.

Pide is a kind of Turkish baked flatbread. It can be filled with cheese, or meat, or both.

With bellies full and the sun long down, it was time now to sleep.

We drove outside the city and up to the surrounding hills. When we found an empty clearing of talc soil, we folded down all the seats, locked our bikes and bags to a rim of the car, and crawled into the womb of the Doblo.

It was no Previa, believe you me. But sleep we did.

We woke up bright and early once again, and rushed upstairs for a quick, olive heavy breakfast before heading down to find our new Fiat Doblo waiting for us. We’d had Prevlaunch. Now it was time for Turklaunch 2010. So we loaded our stuff in the back, a tight, but manageable squeeze, and we were off.

I took the first shift driving and piloted us toward the Kazakh Embassy. Part way through the drive, we realized the tank was completely empty and pulled over to fill up. That was our first encounter with Turkish gas prices, which are some of the highest in the world. We paid well over US$120 to fill the 50 liter tank. Admittedly, we were buying some more expensive variant called Euro-Diesel, but that’s really no excuse. We just hoped this tank would hold us for a while. The Doblo reportedly got amazing gas mileage… we’d have to see.

We got to the Kazakh Embassy and dropped our stuff off. This time we were introduced to the Kazakh Consulate General himself, who also coincidentally favored pink shirts, and personally reviewed our papers to see that they were in order. He decided they were and thanked us for our submission. We resisted the urge to give him a huge high five, and left.

Back on the road, we spent some hours battling Istanbul-related traffic before we hit the open road. The Doblo had a CD deck and we were listening to Wu Tang’s Enter the 36 Chambers like the good old days, and just letting the little 1.3 liter engine of the Fiat Doblo eat road.

We stopped for lunch at a little roadside diner, where we were treated to our first affordable Turkish meal of rice pilaf, kebabs and salad.

Claudia’s incoming wisdom teeth were becoming infected. We’d been monitoring it for some time. It had been waxing and waning in its severity, but today it was getting bad. Her face was beginning to puff up, and she was quickly chewing through the AsiaWheeling supply of pain killers. She was, unsurprisingly, no big eater at that meal. When we headed over to a nearby grocery shop to find some more painkillers, we unfortunately found none and were forced to resist the temptation to just fill the entire excess capacity of the Doblo with Vitaminli drink.

So teeth swollen and stomachs full, we pulled back onto the road.

We began driving through sunflower country, just endless fields of sunflowers in every direction for hundreds of kilometers. It was enchanting.

When we reached the city of Gelibolu, we purchased tickets for the Doblo on the ferry to Lapseki and began our crawl across the sparkling blue Marmara Sea, toward Asia Minor.

Once we hit land again, we worked our way across some more sunflower country until we reached the coast. We stopped for dinner that night at an amazing restaurant attached to a small seaside guest house. We feasted on fresh fish, octopus, squid, and salad, and watched the sun set into the sea. The bread was a little moldy, but so good were the sauces on the rest of the dishes that we all happily sopped them up and ate heartily. The lights periodically went on and off as we ate, which also helped us ignore the mold. We considered briefly staying there, but decided to move on into the night.

It was plenty late by the time we crawled into the cobblestoned town of Assos, where we were able to find a room at a small guest house called the Siday Pansiyon.

We had successfully made our way into Turkish wine country.