A deluge of motorcycles,
grapes and water

With round bellies and pink cheeks of all the vegetables and fruit we get on our bicycles. We just cannot take all the gifts we received yesterday with us. The six melons alone weigh about ten kilo. Everything we cannot carry we lay in an elegant heap on the lawn for passers-by to take away.

In the beautiful interior of Turkey time doesn't seem to exist: aged villages, the simple agrarian life, decorated carts, donkeys, chicken, narrow unpaved roads, calling children and waving people, peppers and paprika's that hang drying in the sun, tobacco-leaves strung on twine. Bare mountains dotted with green trees are alternated with zinc-green rocks, pink granitic formations and amorphous white limestone hills.

In Selendi a hundred pairs of eyes stare at us while we're doing our shopping. In this region we see dozens of ancient motorcycles combinations, like once there was an irresistible free offer here. Only here. In the combinations people transport anything: people, vegetables, sheet metal, firewood, even grandmothers are in for it. We put our tent on the remains of the vulcano Divlit. This sounds braver then it is, because the vulcano has long ago stopped being active.

Two days later and 200 kilometres southwards we cycle between thousands of grapes hanging on bunches waiting to be picked. A farmer notices our approach and calls something. We stop and call back: "Merhaba, nasilsiniz?" He laughs, points at his plants and asks: "Uzum?" Would we like to have some grapes? Of course, grapes are always nice. He searches for a bunch that's ripe, we think. We thought wrong though. He is searching the biggest bunch, because moments later he gives us a bunch as big as a moderate shopping bag. Incredible, we've never seen something like it. Of course the farmer doesn't want to accept any money for it. "Tessekur ederim!" With an extra three-kilo load we cycle direction Yasluk. At the outskirts of the village we put up our tent, next to a dilapidated stone house. We hope to be out of sight just enough for the local people not to detect us, to prevent a repetition of the vegetable-scene a few days ago. We almost succeed. A farmer spots us; at first he sends his son with a big bunch of white grapes as welcome, later on he brings one himself as well. That's a total of five kilos of white grapes. We'd better start eating.

At once summer seems far away in Turkey. It's cold and rainy when we get on our bicycles to reach today's goal: the limestone terraces of Pamukkale. Two men offer us to take shelter in their home and drink tea. We decline the offer. If we would accept every offer for 'cay' here in Turkey, we'd spend the rest of our lives here. We drop out of the mountains and land on a plain. Behind us the sky gets blacker every minute, before us the sky is light greyish. A stormy wind starts blowing in our backs. With a speed of about 55 kilometres per hour and gale force six or seven we are blown forward. Cycling was never easier. The sky looks more threatening every minute, after ten minutes it's almost dark. The snow-white cottonwool on the plants around us seem to be luminous. Cars ignite their lights; the windforce increases even more. We have to find shelter somewhere; something dreadful is about to happen. At a murdering speed we reach the village of Saraykoy.

On the right-hand-side of the road we perceive a restaurant. We steer our bicycles there and even before we have put them under a lean-to it starts pouring with rain. Together with the staff we look outside. It's out of this world what's happening there. Roads and garden are flooded within fifteen minutes. Then rain and wind decline. In order to pass the time we have a wonderful lunch. Two hours later it's dry again. Major parts of the roads are still flooded, but we have a good time cycling through it (thanks to our waterproof Ortlieb-panniers). We discover a new and enticing kind of fruit on the wild trees next to the road: pomegranate. Pamukkale seems to have dodged the heavy rain the other villages received; the campsite is reasonably dry. We're tired and very glad to be here: after having cycled continuously for seven days we've deserved two days of rest.

The famous limestone-terraces are even half September quite well visited. With our home-made studentcards we get a 75% discount, not bad. We saved hundreds of Euro by now thanks to them.
Barefoot we walk through the lukewarm water. The limestone that seems snow-white from a distance turns out to be grey from up close and shows the most beautiful shapes you can imagine. The chalky water flows over the flanks of the mountain and leaves her white traces every where. The Turks cultivated the phenomenon to attract more tourists. They extended the natural terraces by building new ones next to them, with concrete. Unfortunately it's hard not to notice it when you're not blind. In the village of Pamukkale every hotel has a swimming pool that's being heated by the warm spring water. A lot of the terraces on the mountain are dry because of this, which can't be good for this fantastic prodigy of nature. Somewhere in the back we see no tourists, but there are water-filled terraces with a stunning view.

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We undress, which reveals our bathing suits and enjoy the lovely water. In the channel, that transports the water to the swimming pools in the village, the water is even warmer. Half an hour later our bodies are completely white. In the meantime more visitors discovers our little paradise, so it's time to move on.

A few days later two studs with which Peter's rear luggage carrier is fastened break off. Welding isn't possible where we are now, so Peter makes an emergency dressing of wire.
The dressing isn't perfectly stable: when the road surfacing is bad and when Peter makes side-movements his rear panniers sway to and fro and it's hard for him to keep his balance.

The population of Turkey is fantastic. Never before during our trip did we receive so much hospitality, even though we thought we'd be used to it by now. We camp between the fields with paprika's, melons and tomatoes when a number of farmers with very sharp eyesight detect us. Immediately they bring us fruit and vegetables. The next night we want to put our tent in an orchard, when farmer Hassan Yalcin arrives and takes us to his home. His wife and children think it's great we are there and prepare a great meal for us. In the company of the whole family we eat our meal the Islamic way: sitting on the floor, a cloth over our knees whilst the lady of the house serves the most delicious dishes. We have a carefree night in the children's bedroom on a mattress as hard as a brick. Grateful for their hospitality we give them a deck of Dutch playing cards.

The last day of our crossing the country from north to south we experience a long descent and arrive in Antalya at a campsite full of follies. This strange campsite belongs to captain Ali Baba. We plan to take a few days off here and repair everything that needs to be repaired. Our tent and bicycles have been calling for our attention the last days; we feel it's better not to ignore that call.