A French-speaking little bitch

Often the untidiest campsite is the nicest. The owners of our campsite in Cinarcik are just as untidy and fun as their property. After chatting for a while with them on the campsite's terrace we are asked to accompany them to their tent annex wooden shack a few metres back. They're having a fish- and vegetable-barbecue outside, with a bunch of friends. Besides the food we all enjoy the booze, not everybody here lives according to the religious rules of the Islam. When it starts raining very hard we move the long table inside the small wooden house, that fortunately is covered with canvas. The raki flows abundant, then Hussein and Serab start singing beautiful Turkish songs. The melancholic gutteral sounds in the stifling shed sound like a philharmonic orchestra in a concert-hall. We try to sing something as well, but after this talented whirlstorm we don't stand a chance. Half past ten it stops raining and we wade cheerfully back to our tent. The Turkish clay contains an excellent kind of glue the soles of our shoes are absolutely fond of. Tired we reach our tent and fall into a deep sleep.

At our departure the next day the campsite still is impassable. With some extra kilos from the sticky mud, a bracelet given to me by the owner of the campsite and the promise that we'll return one day, we cycle alongside the coast direction Armutlu. The sun has returned and there are beautiful vistas in the picturesque landscape. Our moods get higher with every metre we climb and descend. When we arrive in the village of Kaplica, we stop to study our map. Immediatly a very small woman approaches and starts talking to us:
"Bonjour, comment ca va? Vous avez un probleme. Donnez moi la carte."
That's strange, somebody who speaks French, while we're really in the middle of Turkey. Peter answers nicely: "Mais non, nous seulement voulons voire la carte pour la direction. Pas de probleme, merci."
She doesn't take no for an answer though.
"Mais je peux vous aider, c'est mon plaisir."
She insists to help us, even if we don't need any help at all.
"Non merci, ca va tres bien."
We look at her and see an unsightly, but desperately driven little woman, completely dressed in black, who's absolutely not willing to let go of her prey. Why we are the prey is a complete mystery to us, but the triumphant glance in her eyes betrays that she's not ready with us yet.
"Ah, je pense vous allez a Armutlu donc, ce n'est pas un probleme. Donnez moi la carte."
"Excusez?"
Without asking the dwarf jerks the map out of our hands and starts studying it. We've never experienced such cheek. She determines how and where we will go today. Unwearying she carries on.
"Ici, vous etes a Kaplica, c'est ici sur la carte." She points out something on the map but we're both too flabbergasted to pay attention.
"Quand vous allez a droite et donc toute a cette direction, vous arrivez a Armutlu dans une heure. C'est tres simple, voila."
"Mais nous vou…" I don't even get the chance to finish my sentence.
"Non, ecoute moi, je seulement veux vous aider. Pas de probleme."
Quickly we get on our bicycles, before the spirited dwarf drags us along to her house where she will take care of us the rest of our lives whether we want it or not.
"Merci et au revoir!"
In ten minutes time we've developed a lot of sympathy for the noble sport of dwarf throwing.

At a stiff pace we cycle out of the village, once in a while looking back in fear whether we're being followed by a small dinky toy or not. Luckily this is not the case and relieved we enter Armutlu an hour later. After doing some shopping we start looking for a campsite in Armutlu. Strangely enough there isn't one here. We cycle on and find one in the hamlet of Fistikli, a few kilometres further.

Via a supersteep concrete slope we descend to sea, where a campsite annex restaurant is established: Kuzenler et Mangal & Play. It's the beginning of September and we're the only customers, the season is over. The campsite, run by three men, is situated in a small bay on an unequalled beautiful and quiet spot. It's only eight days since we left Istanbul, in fact too early for another vacation, but this spot is too beautiful and too cheap to leave too soon. We stay here for four days. The outmust obliging men bring us a cup of tea and figs in the mornings and afternoons. We buy our vegetables, bread and drinks from them. After breakfast we dive into the sea and study the jellyfish that look like wallets, catch a see-needle, see fish that are sunbathing and follow a squirrel at two metres (that's on the land). We laze about. We eat a lot of fruit and Turkish biscuits and enjoy the sun, sea and free tea and figs. At the end of this short holiday we take our supper at the campsite's restaurant that's almost empty. The three great men deserve the customers, including tip and drink.

a lot of tiny mosquitoes on this campsite

Then we're on the road again. We have to walk the steep concrete path from the campsite to the road. We cycle over a shelving road in a wonderful sun towards Bursa. Left and right we see orchards with olives that are almost ripe. In Gemlik we order our favorite drink: ayran, a light sour thin buttermilk that tastes very refreshing. The fresher we can get it the better.
With 80 kilometres on our counter we reach Bursa, after a long and hot climb. We're recuperating a little bit, when a young student starts talking to us. She's delirious with joy and radiates with enthousiasme, only because she sees and meets us. She's an English student and tells that she's a fanatic cyclist, but that cycling in Turkey is a big problem for women. Meeting us is a dream come true for her. She shows us the tourist information bureau, where they tell us that there is no campsite in the area. We say goodbye to our fan and wish her and all female Turkish cyclists all the best
It takes a lot of effort to find the way out of town. Then we can finally start looking for a place to spend the night. Steering around the deep pits in the road we finally reach the big road direction Inegol. A truck stops and asks us whether we would like a ride. Thanks, but no thanks. We are tired, but not that tired.

Hidden deep into a peach-orchard we find a deadly quiet place for the night. A pity of those peaches though. They've all been picked already.