Istanbul, Turkey

Our final day of travelling (except for the long flight home) was an auspicious day in Turkey. National Youth Day occurs every 19th May, and is a national holiday. It commemorates the day in 1919 when Mustafa Kemal landed at Samsun after leaving Istanbul, and decided to disobey his Ottoman leaders to begin an uprising that lead to the Turkish War of Independence, and the Turkish nation being declared in 1923. As we drove from Safranbolu into Istanbul (a big day of over 500 kms), we saw thousands of the distinctive red Turkish flag and portraits of Ataturk draped from buildings, billboards, windows, cars, buses, service stations, offices, schools, flagpoles, even mountain tops. It was great to see a people proud of its history, independence and culture, with no political undertones. 

Going south and inland from the Black Sea, we drove through some beautiful forests, with canopies so thick that very little sunlight reaches the ground. Trees grew over the road to such an extent that we drove through tunnels of green. We also drove through tunnels of rock, as several hills had been penetrated by some incredibly engineered roads. Further on, the outskirts of Istanbul seemed to go on forever, it is a huge city. Being a holiday, there were crowds of people everywhere, and most of them were enjoying a day off. Many parks had families who’d set up a portable barbeque equipped with a wood fire, going by the tell-tale smoke.

We returned to the same hotel that we’d left three weeks ago, having negotiated nearly 4,000 kilometres. The tour concluded with a cruise to the head of the Bosphoros River at the Black Sea, followed by lunch, and the final night dinner on the top floor of the hotel with that fabulous view. It has been a fantastic holiday, but there was one last item on our agenda before closing out this chapter. We went to the hospital where we’d spent a month recovering from my motorcycle injury, and visited the orthopaedic surgeon who looked after us seven years ago. Dr Mik greeted us enthusiastically and listened intently on how the treatment had continued once we’d returned to Tasmania, and how my foot looked and felt today. His kindness, interest and compassion was remarkable, but not atypical of the Turkish spirit that we’d come to know.

We won’t miss the cigarette smoke in its restaurants, or the Call to Prayer at 4am, but this is a wonderful place for a holiday. Whilst in the Istanbul hospital seven years ago, I had a blood transfusion and I’ve always said that I’ve had a little bit of Turkey in me ever since. We’ve been overwhelmed by it again, and will always sing its praises.

Safranbolu, northern Turkey

In these final few days of our time away (nearly seven weeks now), we are making our way west back to Istanbul by following the Black Sea coast from Sinop. This sea is no different to the Med and Aegean, certainly not black at all, but we discovered that it’s not as warm after diving into it from our Sinop hotel’s private landing. It was cold, but at least we added another sea to the list of worldly swims. The Black Sea gets its name from its murky depths where the water has become anoxic, but at the surface it’s a bright blue and very clear. It was from Sinop that we left the tour seven years ago, when Barish and Yussuf drove us at 3am to Samsun airport, three hours to the east. So we had not seen any of these final few days’ scenery.
Driving along the coast, to our right was a vast sea, and to our left were high rolling mountains covered in thick, dense forests. The lush green foliage would usually extend right down to the water’s edge, but some of the steep slopes have succumbed to gravity and collapsed, creating precipitous cliffs of bare rock. Either way, the coastline was spectacular at every turn. The road had countless twists and turns, and Mike says that this is one of the most popular motorcycling roads of all of his tours. The downside was that the bus took three times as long as the motorbikes to travel the same distance. The coastline is so mountainous that vehicles must use all of their gears going up and down while negotiating tight hairpin bends, one after the other. Poor Yussuf, but the scenery was fantastic for the passengers.
The night after Sinop was at a delightful port town called Amasra, nestled snugly into a natural harbour, and understandably popular with tourists for its beautiful scenery and water views and activities. As with so many other Turkish cities and towns, Amasra has a Roman-built wall and castle, and we have almost become blasé about walking through two-thousand year old gates and arches.
Our next night was spent at Safranbolu, about a hundred kilometres inland from the Black Sea. Again like so many Turkish places, it has an Old City with the new city built around it, and has a UNESCO World Heritage listing. What’s unique about this place are the well-preserved Ottoman houses and architecture, and we even stayed in a 400-year-old hotel converted from one of these Ottoman houses. Quite a privilege, I must say.

Safranbolu really had a special charm about it, with so many interesting little streets and laneways. It’s famous for Turkish Delight, and several vendors walked about offering free samples of their wares. As the name implies, this town is also known for saffron, but there were no free samples of that, being so expensive. It was an important trading town over a thousand years ago on the Silk Road between China and Europe that lead to the interaction of cultures and people from the East and West. With only an afternoon to explore, Safranbolu begs for another visit.

Amasra, northern Turkey

There’s something  we need to talk about. In fact, the whole tour group have been discussing this since arriving in Turkey.

Our Australian Government’s official travel advice for Turkey is to “exercise extreme caution” and “reconsider your need to travel”. So, let’s be clear … we are under the watchful eye of some very experienced locals on this tour. Barish, Yussuf and Aberdin have travelled this country for many years, and they know it like it’s their home town. Even so, we have wandered through some very crowded places, such as the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, and been surrounded by thousands of people, any one of whom may have wanted to hurt us. 

We have never felt threatened or frightened by any place, situation or individual whilst being in Turkey. There is a constant police presence on the streets of every city we’ve visited. They are always armed, with either a pistol on their belt or a semi-automatic weapon draped over their shoulder. This does not bother us at all, in fact quite the opposite – it conveys a sense of reassurance.
The tour group all agree that our Government’s travel warning is not warranted for this country. In fact, it is doing the will of the terrorists, who want to spread fear and create hardship in this wonderful land. The Turks don’t deserve to have their tourist industry turned away by the over-reaction of foreign governments. Of course there is trouble in the extreme south-east near the Syrian border, but we are a thousand miles away from there, both geographically and symbolically.   
We’re also being told that Australia expects another terrorist attack, similar to the Lindt Café siege, at some time in the future. Accordingly, the travel warning for Australia should be to “exercise extreme caution” and “reconsider your need to travel”. Does that mean we cannot return home?

We say - don’t let the terrorists win, come and see this fabulous place, and experience the sights, the people, the culture, the food, the friendship. It is no more dangerous than anywhere else in the world. The other day we stopped for morning tea at a tiny village called  Agaccami. The café had a group of men sitting on its verandah. They beckoned me over, sat me in a chair, and I had to shake the hand of every one of ten of them. They asked where I was from. They were fascinated about Australia, and particularly Tasmania, and we had a good chat. Only thing was, they knew no English, and I knew no Turkish, but the conversation was between friends, kindred spirits, ordinary people just wishing to learn about the world we live in. As we were leaving, the café owner refused to take any payment for the 15 cups of tea. You don’t charge friends.
That’s the Turkey that awaits you.

Corum, central Turkey

Much of this trip is unfinished business, and perhaps the most important business item on this agenda was the hot air balloon ride over the fairy chimneys of Cappodocia that I missed seven years ago. The whole group eagerly signed up for the once-in-a-lifetime experience, despite the 4am start. The balloon company picked us up at 4:15, bussed us to the airfield and gave us breakfast, although I think I was too excited to eat much at all. As we finished, and were about to head to the take-off area, the announcement was made that the wind had come up, and the aviation authorities had cancelled all flights for that morning. "Devastated" was an understatement.
Anyway, life, and this journey, goes on. As we continued to head north towards the Black Sea, we stopped for the night in a large city called Corum, and on the way we were treated to more evidence of another ancient civilisation. This time it was the Hittites, who inhabited much of eastern Turkey and the Middle East from around 17th century BC to 12th century BC. They are famous for coming up with, supposedly, the very first Peace Treaty, which they made with the Egyptians. Written in stone, it is now in an Istanbul museum.  Their capital was the city of Hattusa, and although it is in ruins, there exists some remarkable examples of their culture and stone building skills. Again, being able-bodied this time allowed me to explore Hattusa properly.
We visited two open-air temples that were used by Hittites to worship their many hundreds of Gods, some of whom had been represented in rock carvings. These temples were simply narrow crevices in a rock canyon, and as we roamed them, with Barish’s expert commentary, we could hear a thunder storm brewing not far away. Being alone in this ancient and sacred place, with sound effects coming from the heavens, it had an eerie ambience.
Apart from rock foundations indicating where Hattusa’s buildings once stood, the most fascinating part of the city is its ramparts that used to protect the inner city. Some gates still exist in these walls, most famously the Lion Gate, with two lions carved in solid stone protecting the entrance. To actually touch the handiwork of a stonemason from 3,000 years ago was a solemn experience. A long tunnel still exists beneath this wall of stone and earth, lined with very carefully placed rocks to ensure the tunnel does not collapse. The fact that it’s still standing after 30 centuries, safe enough for us to walk through, is testament to the building skill of these people.
Very little is known of the Hittite civilisation, including its own unique language, Barish told us that there is only one person, a woman, who can understand this language, and she is 106 years old. Makes you think …

Cappadocia, central Turkey

Cappodocia is surely one of the most unique and interesting regions anywhere in the world. This time I was abled-bodied enough to actually see it. The geological anomaly that created this place is due to three volcanoes, now extinct, that form a triangle surrounding this highland plain, which is itself over 1,000 metres above sea level. Eons of volcanic activity has deposited layers of ash over the area, but the resultant rock is soft enough to be easily eroded and chiselled. The erosion is from centuries of weather, wind and rain, while the chiselling is from centuries of civilisations that have built underground cities into the hills. The erosion has shaped rock creations that can look like liquid that’s been frozen in time or some kind of natural pornography, and many of these rock formations have windows and doors carved into their facades. 

Amazingly enough, the features of Cappodocia could be epitomised by our hotel that’s been built into the side of a hill in the lovely little town of Urgup. Our room was encased in stone, with one wall being the actual rock of the hill itself. Such large, thick, stone walls make for a perfectly quiet space, great for sleeping and keeping an ambient temperature. The hotel was spread over several floors, the top floor giving a fantastic panorama in all directions, like all the hilltops in the region would also do.
At the very bottom of the hotel are several doors, most of them lead to accommodation rooms, but one door does not. It enters a tunnel that’s been chiselled out of the rock, just wide and high enough to walk through. A few metres down, after taking a 90-degee turn, it enters a room, again chiselled out of rock, with shelves specially carved to hold several hundred wine bottles for aging. The perfect wine cellar. The tunnel then continues from this room for several more metres, with motion-activated lights strategically placed. Daylight appears in the distance, and the tunnel eventually opens onto a veranda that’s been chiselled into the side of the hill. The view from this veranda looks out over the township of Urgup from about a hundred metres above, and is totally unexpected as you emerge from the tunnel. You’ve just walked through a hill of solid rock. Simply extraordinary.

There are countless tunnels, houses, even cities, carved into the rocky hills throughout the Cappodocia region. Dating from about the 6th century AD, some of these houses are still inhabited, while others have collapsed due to the ravages of time. Underground living was commonplace here over the centuries, and there’s no need to pay an entrance fee to see a museum. You can explore a centuries old underground house by simply walking around any of the towns. And then there are the weird fairy chimneys in the appropriately called Love Valley. It’s hard to imagine nature coming up with anything more obscene or pornographic than these rock formations.

I don’t think it’s possible to adequately describe in words or pictures the moonscape that is Cappadocia. I think tour participant Nick said it well - “Just tell everyone to get on a plane, get over here and see it for themselves.”

Silifke, southern Turkey

In my mind’s eye there’s a corner in southern Turkey where things changed seven years ago. It’s in my mind’s eye because the collision with the truck knocked me unconscious and I’ve had to rely on other people’s recollection and a few photos to recreate the scene. Yesterday we drove through that same area, and I learned a lot, most importantly that this infamous corner will have to remain in my mind’s eye.

The road follows the Med coastline from Antalya to Silifke, with the Mediterranean an ever-present vista to our right. Once past the large town of Alanya, Barish starts giving us commentary on the events of that day seven years ago. Bozyazi is another sizable town, and roadworks begin to appear. Several small villages like Telefki, Yenikas and Soguksu passed by as the roadworks picked up intensity, with gangs of men operating large trucks and diggers removing chunks of mountainside to enable the new road to progress with minimum corners and level gradients. On some occasions they haven’t cut into the side of the hill, they’ve actually cut right through it, and they haven’t just dug one tunnel, they've dug two, to enable a double carriageway in both directions. These are massive earthworks, to create some beautifully smooth roads.

In Aydincik (pronounced "Aiden-chick"), we passed its hospital, and Barish pointed out the emergency entrance. “That’s where we first bought you after the accident, that happened about 8 to 10 kilometres further on”. I didn’t realise that I'd come backwards to the first hospital. As the road ascended out of Aydincik into more hills, we could sometimes see the old road below us, and we’d watch as it disappeared under tonnes of newly deposited rocks and earth created by the new road.
Eventually Barish asked Yusuf to pull over and stop. We got out and walked along the road’s edge to view a corner of the old road that had escaped the advance of progress. It lay about ten metres below us. Barish doesn’t know if that’s the actual corner or not, but it’s probably not because it's heading down the hill, and the accident occurred on the crest of the hill. Looking up the hill, it was obvious that the majority of the old road, and my corner, no longer exists.

Further on is Silifke, and hospital #2. They didn’t have the facilities to operate on me (although they would do now, with a brand new hospital since being built), and I was taken on to Mercin further along the coast to hospital #3 for the operation to correct my foot. Our tour, however, does not go that far, and we stopped for the night just past Silifke at a little place called Kiskalesi.
Outside our hotel’s back door is a beach onto the Med, and about 300 metres offshore is a castle, built on a little island about a thousand years ago. I’ve always had vague memories of seeing this castle in the early morning light as we arrived at the same hotel at 5am after being discharged from the Mercin hospital. After checking in, the group went for a swim in the sea, and I decided to test my aquatic skills and swim out to the castle and back. I did it, and felt like I’d conquered a little self-imposed challenge. Mike shook my hand, saying I’d joined a small elite group from his tours to have swum it.
The rest of the tour will be new for us, and we will eagerly embrace it. The past is now buried under tonnes of rock and earthworks, and my swim proves that life goes on, there’s still more world to explore, and I’m glad to still be here to do it.

Antalya, southern Turkey

Further along the Mediterranean coast, east from Kas, the road is cut into the side of mountains that fall into the sea, giving the most incredible views at every turn. It is still the extravaganza of blue in both the sea and the sky that we saw yesterday. A huge city appears in the distance, announcing itself with an alarming panorama.
Antalya is a large sprawling city, the largest Turkish sea resort on the Med, population one and a quarter million. Its main attraction is an ancient Roman marina that is still surrounded by a protective Roman stone wall, and associated stone structures of a similar age. With a rest day in hand, we were treated to a 3-hour cruise from the harbour along the coast to the Lower Duden Falls. Dropping anchor adjacent to the falls, most of us jumped overboard for a swim in the beautiful warm waters of the Med Sea.
I didn't want to get out, it was a surreal time - swimming in clear, blue, deep, warm water, as a big boat with white wine on ice and a whole bunch of new and old friends waited for me. Passenger jets flew overhead every few minutes after taking off from the local international airport. Before me were high cliffs and a cascading waterfall that roared to make its presence known. In the distance across the wide bay, the Taurus Mountains provided a multilayered backdrop as its peaks faded into the distance. It's obvious why this city, known as the Turkish Riviera, is so popular with tourists.
Tomorrow we continue heading east along Turkey's south coast. Tomorrow, however, will also be a significant day, for it was this day seven years ago that my motorcycle circuit of Turkey came unstuck. Barish and I have discussed finding the offending corner where the accident happened, as apparently the road now bypasses these twisty bends. We’ll see how we go, but it will be a strange and confronting return.

Kusadasi, western Turkey

A two night stay in Kusadadi enabled a spot of laundry, and Jim Baba’s familiarity with the town enabled us to forgo the expensive hotel laundry service to instead use a local family business. It was a nice to support the locals.
Kusadasi is well known to cruise ship exponents because it can accommodate large ocean-going vessels in the heart of the city, and these monsters disgorge huge numbers of tourists. The main attraction is the nearby Greek/Roman city of Ephesus, but Kusadasi also has a charm all to itself, with a beachside esplanade bustling with people, pubs and interesting sights.
Although this was our second visit, we explored Ephesus with the same fascination and astonishment as seven years ago. Considered the best-restored example of any Roman city on the Mediterranean, it covers a huge area and cannot possibly be seen in just a few hours. What’s even more extraordinary is that only a quarter of the city has been excavated, the other 75% still lies buried.
I think one thing we were able to discern this time around was those parts that had been restored and those parts that were genuinely 2,000 years old. After all, they didn’t have concrete in Roman days. Many of the buildings and archways had been reconstructed with a mixture of modern techniques and original stone blocks. Also Barish explained that many of the statues are replicas, the originals are in museums in Vienna and the British Museum – rewards for those countries paying for expensive excavations. However there is still so much work to be done, and we saw teams of workmen digging into the side of a hill, uncovering walls and floors as they worked. Apparently this recent spate of excavation is being paid for by some foreign private companies, as well as the Turkish government.
The grandest part of the city, for us, was the amphitheatre built into the side of a hill. Its steep, tiered, U-shaped seating had a capacity for 24,000 people, and indeed the acoustics are amazing even today. It was like walking into a time machine. There’s no doubt about it, the Romans were master builders in stone.
A big difference for us this time around, was the small numbers of visitors to Ephesus. Last time there were tens of thousands, delivered by hundreds of coaches and buses, coming from several cruise ships moored in Kusadasi. This day there were maybe just a few hundred, and there were no cruise ships in town. This was good for us, but the local economy must be hurting. Many restaurants in Kusadasi had no clients sitting at their tables. Our hotel staff told us that they are usually heavily booked at this time of year, but we seem to have our huge hotel to ourselves. It’s a very sad situation.

Kas, south-western Turkey

Next, south to the quaint little port town of Kas. First, however, we had to cross the Taurus Mountains. I think we may have been spoilt with Morocco’s mighty mountains, for the peaks of the Taurus were not as high or spectacular, but the views became outstanding as we drove higher. Fertile valleys were growing crops or grazing animals on little family unfenced plots. We eventually came down out of the mountains to hit the Mediterranean coast, and I use the word “hit” quite literally. Coming around a bend to be greeted by a deep blue expansive sea, it really does smack you in the face, causing a sharp intake of breathe. The Med was as we remembered it seven years ago, a brilliant blue, with every connotation on the word “blue” that you can think of. The water is so clear that the shallows reveal whatever lies on the bottom, but the sea floats to the horizon in a blue vastness until it gives way to a blue cloudless sky.
Our Kas hotel is built into the side of a hill (appropriately called the Aqua Princess), and therefore takes in a commanding view from the balcony, bar and restaurant. Your gaze is drawn out to sea. Just a few kilometres away is the Greek island of Meis, which is the closest of all the Greek Islands of the Turkish coast. After checking in and a swim in the Med from the hotel’s own landing, we walked a short way into the town square for yet another delicious Turkish meal (haven’t had a bad one yet). We then scouted the square for a pub, and were drawn towards the origin of some loud music. The pub attendant had his laptop sitting on the bar which was plugged into a sizable P.A. system, belting out some very recognisable rock tunes. The place was empty, so we sat at some tables outside with a drink.
Jim Baba made a request from the barman (Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water”), and he was invited to find it on Youtube. Then it was Mike’s turn, and he found Chris Rea’s “Josephine” in honour of Josie in our tour group. He then issued a challenge to play more songs with girl’s names, so I found Status Quo’s “Caroline”, Pete chose Elvis Costello’s “Alison”, Jim got Pavlov’s Dog’s “Julia”, I chose Richard Clapton’s “Angelou”, Nick played Stevie Wright’s “Evie”. We realised that we were attracting a crowd.
We learned that one couple were from Holland, so Mike played Golden Earring’s “Radar Love”, and I played Focus’ “Hocus Pocus”. The Dutchies were most impressed. The crowd had grown some more. The Dutch guy requested AC/DC "Whole Lotta Rosie", so we then got into a whole spate of Australian rock – Midnight Oil, The Angels, Rose Tattoo, Skyhooks, Russell Morris, Billy Thorpe, and a couple for Phil, the token New Zealander of our group, with Dragon and Crowded House. The place had become packed (admittedly it was a small space), and I reckon the guy behind the bar was very happy to have a bunch of crazy Australians commandeer his music. He was too busy serving drinks to care anyway. It was a surreal two hours, playing some great Oz rock ‘n’ roll to a small cross-section of the world’s population in southern Turkey. They'd probably never heard the songs before, but some were up dancing and several thanked us for the music. We felt some patriotic pride for flying the flag.

Pammakale, central-western Turkey

We headed west from Kusadasi, away from the coast and towards the central Turkish region called Antolia, with the small town of Pammakale as our destination for the night. Approaching Pammakale, we could see some white topped hills in the distance, about two hundred meters high and a kilometre long. Is that snow? As the view became closer and clearer, it became stranger. Are those hills actually painted white with a giant brush?
At the top of these hills is the ancient Roman city of Hierapolis, now in ruins but being excavated since the late 1950s. As Jim Baba would say, more crumblies. The Romans chose this location to build a city to take advantage of several hot water springs that seemed to have magical healing powers. We now know that this water is rich in minerals, especially calcium, and as it cascades over the hills it has left a white residue over the centuries. “Pammakale” means “cotton castle” and this weird geological phenomenon has become a huge tourist attraction, in conjunction with the Roman ruins surrounding it.
The highlight of Hierapolis is its amphitheatre. Smaller than the one at Ephesus, it is all the more impressive because its stage area is still intact. Large columns hold up facades and archways of stone, with intricate carvings and statues.  Entrances and exits are clearly visible at side of stage and also for the flat area at the very bottom of the structure, where animals would’ve been let loose, such as lions. Apparently many Christians met their demise here. The tiers for the seating were so steep it seemed that we were looking straight down to the performance area. The very top seats also had a commanding view beyond the ruined city, to the calcified hilltops and the large city of Denizli about 30 kilometres away. The horizon was dominated by the mighty Taurus Mountains, which we will cross tomorrow.
To complete our Pammakale experience, we went to the hilltop to get up close to these mystical waters. We removed our shoes and socks to walk over the smooth, white, limestone surface and wade in ankle-deep pools. The water was warm and invigorating. I wondered if it was performing its magic on my previously injured left foot? Surely, this place must be unique in the world.

Cannakale, western Turkey

I’m sure that a visit to Gallipoli is confronting for any Australian, taking away many thoughts, impressions and emotions with you as you leave. Our guide Barish began the morning by stating that he would not be giving us any numbers, as he thinks it’s disrespectful. One death is as important as a thousand. I liked that reasoning, particularly when you consider that the death toll of this nine month campaign in 1915 was horrendous.
We saw Anzac Cove, Ari Burnu, Lone Pine, The Nek, Chunuk Bair, all the famous battle grounds from the Gallipoli campaign. Seeing these actual theatres of war brought home to us how impossible the task was, and how pointless all those deaths were. These areas are surprisingly small, the trenches would’ve only been metres apart, and it’s easy to imagine the stories of Anzacs chatting to the Turks and exchanging cigarettes and biscuits in between the fighting, they would’ve easily been within talking and throwing distance.
This place is important to Turkey as well, as they not only celebrate their victory but also the beginning of their path to becoming a republic in 1923. The guy who led the Turkish forces at Gallipoli, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, would go on to father the new nation, in a remarkable story of history. Some of our group were visibly moved by reading Ataturk’s famous speech - “Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives are now lying in the soil of a friendly country …”. It was a remarkable thing to say in 1934, less than 20 years after Australia, as the invader, was at war with Turkey. We learned of how Ataturk was shot during a Gallipoli battle, but the bullet struck his watch that was in his pocket sitting over his heart. If he’d not had his watch that day, we’d probably be visiting a very different Turkey today, especially if it were to go down the same path as neighbouring Syria.
A hundred years ago, this area was just beach and hilly scrubland. Now there are roads leading all over the peninsula to several cemeteries and memorials, encroaching onto the beaches and into the headlands. When these roads were widened a few years ago to help cope with the intense tourist numbers, it reportedly exposed many wartime skeletons. The new road work and its violation of the old terrain was evident as we drove into Anzac Cove, so it’s a little sad that this sacred ground is not as it was, solely because of the number of visitors.
I felt both sad and angry after our Anzac experience. For example I looked at a headstone for a 17 year old Australian guy, and wondered why did he have to die? Why were we even there in the first place? Yes, it helped shape our nation, but weren’t we just pawns for the British generals playing their wargames from London? They say we should learn from history, but have we learned anything from Anzac considering our recent involvement in overseas conflicts?
Leaving the Gallipoli Peninsula, we caught a ferry from Eceabat across the Dardanelles to Cannakale, effectively crossing from Europe into Asia. All of these little towns – Geribolu, Eceabat, Cannakale – are tourists centres for the Gallipoli battlefields, with hundreds of hotels and restaurants. Cannakale is also the closest city to another great Turkish historical treasure: the ruins of Troy. They’ve discovered a total of nine cities here, all built on top of each other, spanning 3,000 BC up to 500 AD. Barish led us around this remarkable city, relating its story that’s too long to even summarise here, but to stand amongst stone structures that were built 5,000 years ago was extraordinary.

Geribolu, western Turkey

After three days lounging around Istanbul, we leave for a three-week circumnavigation of the western half of Turkey. We have nine motorcycles in the group, with Anne and I in the bus bringing up the rear. With us are driver Yussuf, guide Baris and a motorbike mechanic. What’s so wonderful about this is that both Baris and Yussuf were on our 2009 tour, and they both played such an integral part in the traumatic events that unfolded back then. Greeting them both in the hotel carpark on today’s first morning was a special moment, and sharing the bus with them over the next three weeks will be a special part of this journey.
Driving out of Istanbul from a 9am start takes a couple of hours. It’s such a large city, the outskirts and suburbs seem to go on forever. We pass several large commercial centres, with immense shopping centres that drape a Turkish flag wherever they can. Eventually we reach the countryside after lunch, and it’s green, with rolling hills of pasture and agriculture such as vineyards and orchards. To our left is the Marmara Sea which narrows into the Dardanelles as we make our way onto the Gallipoli Peninsula. At one point we also have the Aegean Sea to our right. The houses all have a gabled roof made of terracotta, and are nestled into little bays on the coast.
Our destination for tonight is the seaport of Geribolu, and appropriately we dine that evening at a seafood restaurant on calamari and sea bass. Anne and I, Mike, Jim Baba and Baris finish with a nightcap of Raki, the traditional Turkish spirit with an aniseed flavour. Yes, we have returned to Turkey, surrounded by important people from our past and profoundly friendly locals, and tomorrow we visit a sacred site for Australians from a hundred years ago.

Istanbul, Turkey

And so, after three weeks and 4,800 kilometres exploring Morocco, we’ve made it to Istanbul. It was seven years ago, sitting in the back of a taxi heading for the airport with my left foot heavily bandaged, that I wondered if I’d ever get back here. It’s sometimes strange where life takes you.
After just 24 hours in this majestic city, one big difference to seven years ago is the police presence. The blue uniforms make themselves obvious all over the city, either on foot or horseback, motorcycle, Segway, car or armoured vehicle. In light of recent events, it is somewhat assuring for us to see them out and about. Locals are telling us that tourist numbers are down for this time of year. Hotels and restaurants are feeling the pinch.
Another difference in Istanbul that we’ve found to Morocco is that the street hawkers always apologise for interrupting as you walk past, and they are friendly and wish you well when you refuse them. They are polite at being annoying.
I think we still love Istanbul, as we grew to love it back then. It is a fascinating place – the largest city in Europe, only second to Shanghai in the world for the number of people who live within its city boundary (population 14 million). It is modern, has skyscrapers and state-of-the-art bridges and freeways. It also has old sections with buildings dating from Roman times and before. You can drive over a bridge and cross from Europe into Asia. The population is 99% muslim, and some women still wear traditional Islamic head cover, but the majority dress as women do in any Western city. The red Turkish flag flies from every building and vantage point. We arrived here on the Friday to have a few days before the tour starts to explore more of this great city. The rest of the tour participants arrive on Monday morning.
The evening after we’d arrived, there was a knock at our hotel door. We opened it to be greeted by tour member Jim, who’d also arrived early. Now, let me introduce you to Jim, because there’s no doubt he’ll be mentioned several times in this story. Jim lives in Sydney, and has been to Turkey on every one of Mike’s tours, so this is trip number 16, therefore he was on our 2009 tour. He loves this country, and he has become so well known to several locals that they call him Jim Baba – “Jim my brother”. When you’re with Jim in Turkey, you feel like you’re in his home. Mike arrived the following day, and so the four of us have had a couple of days to reconnoitre before the others arrive and the tour starts.

Morocco

As we leave this magical country, there’s some things that we will take with us…
The scenery: there’s a constant among the many fantastic sights we’ve seen – mountains. We’ve either been in the thick of them or sighting them in the distance. Rock is one of the hardest substances known to man, yet these mountains have been eroded and shaped by the weather gods over a mind-boggling time, to form what is now Morocco. Even in the desert, we were amongst mountains of sand.
Speaking of the desert, the Sahara sand was the finest sand I’ve ever had run through my fingers. It flowed like water, as though under some mystical spell that brings it to life. It was extraordinary, again created by the overwhelming passage of time.
Water: Abundant in the north, scarce in the south. Roads invariably cross rivers by dipping down into the river bed and crossing it with a concreted section. There’s no need to build a bridge when the river never flows. It hardly ever rains, but then again, there is always evidence of massive water movement at some time in the past, judging by the size of the river beds and flood plains, and the massive gorges and canyons. There are dams in the north that hold back vast volumes of water for irrigation and hydro power. The south-north contrast is noticeable.
Animals: Cats are everywhere throughout the country. They are tolerated but not domesticated. Their job is to keep the rodent vermin under control, and they do it very well - we saw no evidence of mice or rats anywhere. Storks are everywhere throughout the country, creating huge nests anywhere that’s high and out of human reach. Donkeys are common on both country roads and cities. Known as the medina taxi (a horse is a medina Mercedes), donkeys are an essential part of simple Moroccan life.  Sheep and goats are always grazing at the roadside, under the watchful eye of their shepherd. Your heart is always in your mouth as you drive past such a flock - all it takes is for one to break away from the flock and run in front of oncoming traffic.
Houses: people live in houses of concrete blocks or mud and straw, and most of them are only half finished. The bottom floor is inhabited, and the floors above are empty with reinforcing steelwork poking through the concrete framework. We learned that people don't pay tax while their house is under construction. So, they never finish. Aesthetics are never a consideration.
Satellite dishes: In Morocco, it only takes a once-off payment of 50 Euro to buy and install a satellite dish on your roof, to give you have access to hundreds of European and African channels. We saw the biggest concentration in Fez, where the numbers of dishes at roof level could only be described as a forest. Here’s a recommendation for a good business opportunity – become a satellite dish technician in Morocco.
The rubbish: sadly very disturbing in country areas. Plastic bags are like snow on the ground. Ugly, worrying, and very eco-unfriendly. 
The King: Mohammed VI is obviously a very popular monarch, after 17 years on the throne. Well educated, very wealthy and only 52 years of age, he could be described as progressive with some of his reforms. His picture is everywhere – shops, cafes and hotels, where he is either in a suit or at play with his young family. We only ever heard endearing comments about him.
Finally, the people: Always warm, friendly, welcoming … and Muslim. If only those people around the world who have come to distrust Islam in recent years, could experience the Moroccan hospitality and kindness, they would realise their folly. Yes, Moroccans are different – most women cover their heads, and do all the work; men only socialise with men and pray five times a day. Most live simple lives, doing whatever it takes to survivie, but they are eager to help, do not discriminate on race or creed, and will greet you with a smile.

Fez, northern Morocco

Boumalne is a little town on the edge of a barren plateau in the middle of Morocco. Nothing much happens there, but it has some very decent 4 and 5 star hotels. When we stayed in one of them, there were several other tourists also doing so. In fact busloads of them. The reason why this place is so popular is two nearby gorges – Dades and Togra, and we did the loop to see them both. Those poor tourists would not have seen what we saw, because there’d be no way their immense buses could have negotiated the tight corners.
The Dades Gorge begins with a road running beside the small Dades River at the bottom of a narrow canyon. Soon we began to climb up the canyon wall, leaving the river far below. After a half-dozen zigs and the same number of zags, the hairpin bends leads us to the top of the canyon, where we stop at a strategically located café. Looking down makes you draw your breath, and you can’t help but hold it for a few seconds. Two wonders comes to mind – how on earth has Mother Nature created this, and how on earth have the Moroccans built that road that scales a sheer rock face?
Before moving on, there was a group consensus to recognise the date, and we all stood together while looking out over this magnificent scenery. I was quite relieved to be able to  remember the Anzac Oath (“They shall not grow old, as those who are left grow old …”), meaning that I didn’t yet have Alzheimers, and someone finished with “Lest we forget” before we had a minute’s silence. So a bunch of Aussies and Kiwis stood as one and had their own little private Anzac Day service in the middle of Morocco. The moment could be best described as poignant.
Further up into the gorge, the roads turn to gravel and become quite rough, but we soldiered on, and didn’t regret it. Looking from above, huge hands of mountain stretched out its fingers to create hundreds of separate canyons of rock. We’d never seen anything like it, and again we tried to comprehend how many eons it took to form this terrain. We eventually reach the Todra Gorge, which created by the Todra River, and like the Dades, this river is surely too small to have created this gigantic and freakish canyon. Sheer rock walls on both sides are only some ten metres apart and tower 160 metres above us. It was understandable why these gorges attract so many people from around the world. They were both incredible.
With just a few days left for our Moroccan journey, we have continued to head north, and the countryside has changed from rocky barren plains to lush green fields, orchards and forests. We are still surrounded by mountains; they either flank us directly or appear on the horizon in the distance. We have made it to Fez, Morocco’s second-largest city after Casablanca, and we spent the afternoon exploring its medina. This is believed to be the largest city area free of any motor vehicles, and supposedly contains 11,000 laneways. We found it more interesting than the medinas of Marrakesh and Essaouira, remarkably clean, and vibrant with shops of every kind. It has the oldest university on the world (859AD). Its historical significance is recognised by UNESCO, listing the medina as a world heritage site, and there were many 13th Century buildings being renovated, funded by UNESCO. We saw, and smelled, the famous leather tanneries, as well as hand-made ceramic tile and carpet weaving factories. We learned that Australia helped Fez’s ailing carpet industry a few decades ago by donating some fine micron merino wool.

Sahara desert, central Morocco

Following Mike to our Agdz riad, we were wondering what he was leading us into. Off the main street into a small laneway, then into an even smaller alley that the van was only able to negotiate due to Xavier’s precision driving. Maybe a centimetre to spare from both side mirrors. Through a high double gate into a small car park, we then walked through a door into the hotel grounds. Pathways wound their way around resplendent rose gardens, and a central fountain with its own resident tortoise. The owner was an ex-pat Frenchman who had renovated his old place by adding rooms and daubing them in the traditional adobe mud and straw. It was such a surprise to find down the alley to nowhere.
There have been several memorable days on this trip. The day after leaving Agdz will be one of the most memorable. Our destination was the large town of Arfoud. We stopped at a very opulent hotel called the Xaluca, but didn’t check in – this will be our accommodation for tomorrow night. Instead, we each filled a day pack with some overnight essentials, and stored the rest of our luggage in Xaluca’s storage room. We all piled into three 4WDs, were driven about an hour out of Arfoud across a very barren and rocky plain (no roads) to another hotel, behind which we could see large orange sand dunes.
Waiting for us out the back were camels, one for each of us, tended by men wearing traditional blue Berber robes and colourful head scarves. They helped us mount our camels, and we headed toward those large orange sand dunes. Within minutes, we’d been enveloped by hills of sand, and we were in the Sahara desert. Rising to the top of each dune revealed a sea of other dunes disappearing into the distance, indeed it was like being in a mountainous sea of orange water, frozen in time like a huge photograph. It was after 6pm, and the setting sun was changing the hues of the sand around us. The sheltered sides became darker in shadow, while the sunny sides became a deeper red-shade of orange. It was an ever-changing alien world.
Our destination a couple of hours later was an oasis, quite literally, at the foot of a mountain of sand. We socialised beneath an open-air canopy until being called into the dining room, ah – dining tent, for the delightful Moroccan meal that our camel drivers had prepared over a gas stove. The lighting was from solar panels, and water was from a well that only needed a depth of three meters to reach the water table. The evening finished with our Berber hosts playing drums for us, singing in their traditional Berber language about living in the desert, just as their ancestors had done for thousands of years. It was an honour for us to be invited to also bang a drum with them. It was nearly midnight when we retired to our own tent made from camel hair and a carpet floor. A full moon made the middle of the night look like a cloudy day, and it was eerie how much light was shining from the heavens above.
I woke the next morning just in time to see the sun rise. The actual event only took 30 seconds for the entire sun to poke its head above the distant mountain range, and then to be fully visible. The light, however, made the desert an ever changing picture show for an hour. It will be something I’ll never forget.
In contrast, we will quickly forget our tender behinds from riding the camels. They don’t believe in stirrups in Morocco – we should apply economic sanctions until they do. We also saw hundreds of others doing as we were, and of course they all require hotels to stay in. No wonder that Arfoud is  supposedly the tourist gateway to the Sahara desert.

Foum Zguid, central Morocco

Tafraoute is obviously in a strict Muslim area. Yesterday we had lunch at small hillside village, with a short main street of the usual shops and a couple of rows of houses in the back streets behind them. Sitting and observing whilst waiting for lunch, we did not see any women. Not a single female walked the main street. Hundreds of men tended their shops, did deliveries, walked and chatted with each other. The one-sided social populace was disheartening, but then again quite rare in our travels. We guessed that the women folk were housebound doing the chores, but they must’ve been around because we saw plenty of young children in the streets (all boys). The lunch of tagine and lentils from the tiny cafe, by the way, was delicious. It’s quite amusing for us to observe the chaos that we create when twelve hungry tourists rocking up to these small village cafes. They are never organised to cope for such a sudden influx, and the first thing they all do is rush nextdoor to the butcher to buy fresh meat and the baker for bread. We benefit, of course, by having the freshest lunch possible.
Leaving Tafraoute to travel further into the south-east of the country, we passed through more mountain passes. This is getting quite ridiculous. Even the “World on Wheels” travel notes for this tour apologises for Day 11 – “Sorry, but more picturesque riding on great roads, through more mountains”. I’m getting a callous on my right index finger from the constant pressing of my camera shutter. This scenery is beyond words, but I’ll try.
The morning to Igherm passes through, and over, another mountain range. We spend some time crossing a valley floor, before ascending a steep incline in twisting curves and then descending in similar fashion. There are mountains beside us that risk a cricked neck to look at their peaks. Almost close enough to reach out and touch, giant rocks rise up from the valley floor, in sharp relief from the rising morning sun. There are more mountains behind these ones, and still more beyond them, so we can see a three-dimensional painting of ranges that seem to go on forever.
In the afternoon, the landscape settles down to become a flat valley floor with steep cliffs on either side. The only vegetation is the occasional tree, about man-height, growing from an obviously sandy soil. The barren rocky terrain has given way to a barren sandy one. Soon we see a herd of wild camels, and we know that we’re in place that’s totally foreign. We stay the night in what must be termed an oasis in this harsh environment – a hotel about 5 kms outside the small village of Foum Zguid, and it has a swimming pool. While our brains try to decipher how this can be, our swim is oh so delightful in this thirty-degree heat.
The next day, tour guide Mike tells us that our next night’s stay, Agdz, is only an hour’s drive away, and that’s not proper use of valuable daylight hours, so let’s take the long way round and explore. What starts out as the shortest travel day becomes the longest of the trip so far – nearly 400 kms.  From Foum Zguid to Amzraou, Ouiad Drias, and finally lunch in a tiny village called Mhamid. Which is just as well because this is where the road ends – beyond this village is desert. Just over the hill, about 20 kms away, is the Algerian border. This is an oasis on the edge of the Sahara, and its café had delicious chicken kebabs, fresh bread, real orange juice, and WiFi. It was hard to believe. Our driver Javier described it quite aptly as the end of the world.

Tafraoute, western Morocco

Further south from Essaouira finds us in even warmer weather. The mighty Atlantic Ocean is to our right for the whole way. At the halfway point of our tour, we stay the night in Mirleft with a fantastic view of the ocean, then venture to Sidi Ifni, and inland to Guelmim, which is as far south and west as we will travel. We then start heading north and east to Tafraoute, for the return leg of our journey, passing through more mountain passes and rural country that is hilly, dry, rocky and barren. I say “rural” because we still see farmers tending flocks of sheep and goats by the roadside, or tilling the ground with hand-held implements. Dry stone fences are fashioned out of rocks (there’s no shortage of them in these parts). Houses are simple and basic, some are even tents, for we are in Berber country. A fascinating ethnic group indigenous to northern Africa for over a thousand years, Berbers are now mainly in Morocco and neighbouring Algeria. Famous soccer player and current coach of Real Madrid, Zinedine Zidane, was born to Berber parents in Algeria.
There is, however, absolutely no water here. We cross many bridges over non-existent rivers, where it looks like no water has flowed in years. We’re told that the rivers come in winter, fed by the seemingly endless procession of mountains around us. Most of these bridges have had their roadway bitumen destroyed and washed away, leaving them as dusty, rough patches of gravel.
Country folk only seem to do what’s necessary to live. They only grow plants to either eat or sell to eat. You never see anything ornamental growing, and therefore small rural towns are dust bowls. Tendering a garden around your home is not a good use of Morocco time. Houses don’t have fences, and herded animals eat grass from the side of the road; after all this is free feed. We see many flocks of about thirty sheep and goats being herded by a single man, sometimes a woman, grazing by the side of the road, where greenery seems to grow more readily that in parched paddocks. All the shepherds must do is stop their animals becoming road kill.
Why collect your rubbish when you can throw it into ditches? The countryside is adorned with decorated plants like its Christmas, but the decorations are empty plastic bags that have been blown by the wind from roadside rubbish dumps. Strewn household garbage in rural parts has become a disturbing regularity for us. At least bigger towns and cities have clean streets, parks and gardens. We even see town workers clearing and sweeping streets. It’s a pity those in isolated communities don’t do so as well.

Essaouira, western Morocco

As we bid farewell to Marrakesh, there’s many thoughts running through my mind. Graham Nash’s classic song from1969 “Marrakesh Express” is one. “Catch the train from Casablanca goin’ south, blowing smoke rings from the corner of my ma-ma-ma-ma-mouth.” Billy Thorpe’s final album to the world, “Tangier”, released a few years after his death, was inspired and recorded in Morocco, and the first song is entitled “Marrakesh”. As Billy’s song says, with children at play under the Marrakesh moon with nothing particular to do, we all shared some tasty Moroccan red wine and contemplated on the last two days.
Outside the medina is like any other modern city in the world, in fact it reminded me of St Kilda in Melbourne. But the old city inside the medina walls is special, with either large open spaces (such as Jamma El-fna) or very narrow laneways. They all contain tiny shops selling anything and everything. You walk down the middle of the laneways at your own peril, for small motor bikes shoot past at considerable speed. How they avoid collisions is amazing, but they are oh so very annoying – you must remember to keep right. The smell of two-stroke fuel reminds me of a lawn mower; indeed the engines in these motor bikes are no bigger than a lawnmower.
There are beggars in the streets. Most women wear hard scarves, some have their face fully covered. Men gather with other men, women with women. The sexes only mix as young families with children. Tourists are obvious, especially the young women who wear very little. I think it’s a pity they don’t pay respect to the local culture and cover up just a little bit more. Maybe I’m being a prude, but I want to respect these kind, friendly locals.
The medina is a maze of streets and laneways. Finding our hotel would’ve been interesting if it wasn’t for another “fixer”. Coming into Marrakesh, stopping at our first seriously busy intersection for traffic lights, there was a knock at my passenger side window. A guy wearing shabby clothes and riding a decrepit old motorbike that should’ve been in a museum, spoke to Javier in Arabic. Harvey replied in Spanish, and the guy immediately switched to Spanish, and asked which hotel. He’d seen our motorbikes, and the name on the van, and surmised correctly. On Javier's reply, the fixer said “Follow me” and took off. Javier looked at us, shrugged, and proceeded to follow. We eventually made it to the riad, and the fixer earned his tip because our hotel was surrounded by road surface works and closed streets, and would’ve been a nightmare to find. These are resourceful people, and are clever at recognising a potential business opportunity.
In the medina we saw snake charmers, horse-drawn carriages, street musicians, and hawkers flogging mobile phones or selfie sticks or watches. We heard the call-to-prayer several times a day, and Jamma El-Fna is surrounded several minarets attached to mosques. And cats. Everywhere in Morocco there are cats, and their population swells in big cities. They may be feral and homeless, although we saw several shopkeepers provide a bowl of water, but the cats are never fed. I imagine this is because they help keep the mouse and rat population at bay.
Next stop was Essaouira ("essa-where-ah"), a fishing town on the Atlantic coast in Morocco’s west. I’d heard a lot about Essaouira from the legends of 1960s rock. In fact our riad hotel had pictures of Jimi Hendrix on the wall in their restaurant. Essaouira also has a medina containing the old city, and our hotel is right in the middle amongst narrow laneways and a myriad of shops. It’s a short walk down to the wharf where the fishing boats had just come in and men were cleaning their catch in readiness for that night’s restaurant trade. All we had to do was follow the sea birds – a million of them hovered overhead in anticipation of some fishy entrails. What the birds didn’t get, the cats were cleaning up. We were careful not to step in discarded fish guts as we walked past some weird looking creatures for sale, many in the process of getting sliced and diced by gritty old men with facial stubble but steady hands. The smell was overpowering, and we didn’t hang around for long.
Today, heading further south, strangely (for us Taswegians) getting closer to the equator, and warmer.

Marrakesh, Morocco

Riding through yet more Atlas gorges and canyons on our way to Marrakesh, it gets me thinking that there’s always people by the side of the road doing nothing at all, probably thinking to themselves “This is a nice place to sit, I might stay here for a few minutes”, which means a couple of hours in Morocco time. Then, “I'll cross the road to sit under that tree over there. Oh look, here comes a white van while I’m still half way across. It’s got a Spanish driver and two Australian passengers. But I’m in no hurry because I’m on Morocco time, so they will have to wait for me.” And so poor Javier has to avoid people dawdling across the road, for they’re in no hurry. Neither is the farmer herding his sheep along the road, or the horse-drawn cart with the whole family on board. They are all on Morocco time. So we have learned that if the restaurant says your food will be ready in 5 minutes, they mean 15. If breakfast is for 7:30, expect it at 8. If you ask a Moroccan for the time, they look up at the sun and answer “half past April”.
I’ve been to cities that never close down (ref: Peter Allen), but I’ve never been anywhere like Marrakesh. After just a few hours here, Marrakesh can only be described as a chaotic, frantic frenzy of people, cars, motorbikes, bicycles and donkeys. Everyone is going somewhere in a hurry, in contrast to the last few days. The old part of the city is called the “Medina”, and is located behind a wall that surrounds it. Our hotel is the middle of the Medina, and is therefore surrounded by the aforementioned bedlam. Just to venture outside the front door is like entering some strange ceremonial pageant of a very foreign culture. Our hotel is another Dar or Riad, what used to be a grand house is now a quaint hotel. Rooms are small, but decorated in traditional Moroccan architecture. It just adds to the Moroccan experience.
At night we strolled along to the Jamma el-Fna, an old town square that becomes a nightly throng of people seeking a meal or a bargain. Nothing has prepared us for Jamma el-Fna. It is a throbbing mass of humanity, thousands upon thousands of people of every nationality, crowded together within a few hundred square meters. The crazy cacophony of sound is broken by the rhythms of street bands singing in Arabic to the playing of simple yet pulsating percussive music. Street stalls sell food of every description. You are hassled to come spend your money at their stall, and if you have a joke with them, they will laugh with you, shake your hand, and move onto their next victim.
I can see why Marrakesh has inspired so many artists, particularly rock musicians, since the 1960s. This is an exciting place. And we have a rest day from the tour to explore it.

Ait Benhaddou, northern Morocco

Night two was in a town called Ifrane, which couldn’t have been any more different than the night before. Unlike Chefchaouen, this Alpine village was only built in the 1930s, at 1600 meters, to capitalise on abundant ski fields in winter months. To cope with high snowfall, each house has a steep-sloped roof, giving Ifrane the apt description of “Switzerland in Morocco”. On the way to Ifrane, we stopped to explore the ruins of Volubilis, what was the southwestern-most outpost of the Roman Empire two thousand years ago. We drove through some spectacular hilly country, but as Mike explained, these were only the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. More, and even more spectacular, was to come.
Night three was in a region more than a town, Bin el Ouidane, and our hotel was perched on a hill overlooking an expansive lake that’s been created by the construction, in the early 1950s, of a large concrete dam. Firstly, we had to cross a mountain range, part of the Atlas mountains. We passed the hydro power station on the way up the mountain, and we followed the water pipeline going up. The view from the top of the mountain seemed to give a panorama of the whole of western Morocco. This country sure does have some seriously high mountains.
Night four was in a little village called Ait Benhaddou, near Ouarzazate (“wa-za-zut”). This area is known for film making, such as “Lawrence of Arabia” and “Gladiator”. But to get there we had to cross more of the Atlas Mountains, and it was a journey to remember. Being a motor cycle tour, we tend to take the road less travelled, providing riders with the thrill of windy roads and plenty of corners. Maybe not so easy, however, for passengers travelling in a van. Javier's van fits three people across the front quite comfortably, and the twisting, narrow roads may have had us rolling around the cabin, but the ever-changing view demanded our full attention. With a different outlook at each corner, we were mesmerised at every turn. Peaks in the distance were decorated with snow. Below were deep ravines and gorges, on an unimaginable scale, and we were driving through them. The United States may have the Grand Canyon, but Morocco has the grandest of them all.
Barren rock cliffs, with our road cut into its side, going on into the distance, darting in and out of ravines and out of view, before re-appearing a few kilometres on. And occasionally, we would spy a house, made of rudimentary mud and stone over a timber frame. People actually live here! The family car would be tethered at the front door, a donkey. This elementary lifestyle may be deceiving, however, as a second look would reveal a satellite dish on the roof. Fertile ground at the bottom of the canyon would always be growing a crop of some sort, with easy access to water. Access to the bottom, however, was never easy. What we were seeing defied our imagination.
Coming down from the mountains lands us in a barren, rocky desert. Our Ait Benhaddou accommodation was an authentic dar, a glamorous guesthouse in Morocco, made of genuine adobe walls – mud and straw mixed together. Arched doorways that you have to bend to walk through. Over the back of the hotel is the hillside palace, actual living quarters for people but also used in many movies over the years, including “The Living Daylights”, “The Mummy”, “Jewel of the Nile”. It looks like a magic kingdom from our window, and it was to roam through. And this place is in the middle of desert. This is such a long way from home.

Chefchaouen, northern Morocco

Today I felt like Christopher Columbus discovering the New World, for we’d never seen anything like what we saw on our first day in Morocco. But first of all we had to get through Border Control. I learned that there’s a little piece of Spain in Africa, as the ferry departed from Algeciras on mainland Europe to Cueta on mainland Africa, sailing right past the Rock of Gibraltar. Cueta is a little town near Tangier but is still part of Spain, and our touring party of a van plus eight motor bikes alighted from the ferry and drove a few kilometres along the coast before crossing the border into Morocco. The scene at the border checkpoint could only be described as chaotic.
There were hundreds of people milling around a series of booths, but only about one-tenth were actual border officials. The rest were locals, itinerants, beggars, men and women, young and old, with absolutely nothing else to do than sit, stand, chat, stare, beg, argue, sleep, and wander aimlessly. Some of them, however, are “fixers”. They offer to help you with your paperwork in crossing the border. Our driver Xavier (we call him Harvey) was well accustomed with fixers, and he befriended a guy who stayed with us for the entire two hours. Two hours filling out forms, getting them stamped, getting the motor bikes checked, inspecting the back of the van, more stamps, then signatures, then lining up at a window to eventually get a lady to type your details into a computer on MS-DOS, using just one finger for the “hunt-and-peck” method. If her mobile phone rang, it meant more delay as the computer would time out and she’d have to start all over again. Proceed to the next checkpoint, inspect passports, more scribbles and stamps, while trying to avoid getting run over by cars, bikes and bicycles, most of them completely unroadworthy and carrying anything from bulging bags of groceries or cement to old lounge suites and mattresses, all tied down with packing tape. When finally we got through, Harvey rewarded our fixer with 10 euros and we were on our way. Apparently only two hours is good for this border crossing. Harvey has had 5 hour waits in the past.
And so Anne and I set foot in Africa for the first time. With the Mediterranean Sea to our left, and the Riff Mountains soaring to our right, we sat in Harvey’s van as we followed the motor bikes along the coast past Tetouan before turning south and inland. Driving through the Riff mountains, we were looking up at sheer cliffs of solid rock, peaks towered above us like huge spires, some were shrouded in cloud. Eventually we arrived in the hillside town of Chefchaouen, driving uphill through the town as far as the narrowing streets would allow us. The final two hundred meters to our hotel had to be done on foot. As if this ascent wasn’t enough, our assigned room was on the top floor, up three flights of stairs.
By the time we’d reached our first night’s accommodation in Morocco, we’d become overwhelmed by what we’d seen. Chefchaouen is known as The Blue Town, due to the predominate colour that most of its houses. Founded in the 1400s, the small dwellings and cobblestone streets were obviously very old, and we felt as though we’d walked through a time portal. Men wore the djellaba, a loose fitting robe with a pointed hood (George Lucas dressed his Star Wars character Obi Wan Kenobi in a djellaba), and women wore a hijab in some brilliant colours. Doorways were small archways leading to small rooms with exposed beams of thick timber. Floors were tiled mosaics of many colours and patterns. Windows were arched, with patterns carved into wooden shutters. To top it all off, the Riff mountains gazes down on Chefchaouen.
As Anne and I stared at this scenery, seemingly at the top of the world, we felt that world away from little Tasmania.

Granada, southern Spain

Our only venture outside Malaga was for a day tour to Granada.  The two hour bus drive took us through the Montes de Malaga (the Mountains of Malaga). This is a serious mountain range that goes right across the south of Spain and towers over several cities, including Malaga. It also creates the valley that guided us to Granada. Steep, rocky, tree-less slopes were in sharp relief in the early morning sun, with the occasional village sitting in the lower foothills. The summits have snow on them, which has dismayed the locals, as it only snowed in recent days and they were hoping they'd seen the last of winter. The main crop in these parts is olives and some asparagus, with the entire valley floor taken over by parallel rows of olive trees.
A visit to Granada must include the Alhambra, a palace and fortress complex dating from the 13th Century. What makes this place interesting, over and above the excellent carvings and mosaics, is that it spans both Islamic and Christian periods of Spanish history, and it was where Christopher Columbus received royal endorsement from Spain’s Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand to sail west and discover the Americas (in fact we stood in the very room where he was received his orders). It’s amazing to think that this place was ignored for hundreds of years, and even lived in by squatters, until the defeat of Napoleon in the early 1800s. It’s now a UNESCO site and one of Spain’s most visited tourist attractions. We certainly found that out – it was as though every Spanish tourist was at Alhambra with us. It was well worth seeing, and having a tour guide to explain the history of each room added to the experience, but it was hard to not feel like we were cattle being herded.
Another interesting fact, as related to us by our Granada tour guide, Paco. Malaga was the birthplace for three very famous people: Pablo Picasso, Antonio Banderas, and Paco the tour guide.
We had a much more pleasant experience yesterday exploring Malaga’s Gibralfaro, another hilltop fortress but not as big a tourist attraction. It gave fantastic views of this wonderful city, and we wandered its parapets without hassling crowds. Just up the road from our apartment is a genuine Spanish bullring, and we were given an excellent view of it from the Gibralfaro. It’s actually only used twice a year, and I hope that’s due to a decline in its popularity. Talking to some local teenagers, bullfighting may well be a short-lived tradition in Spain.

Malaga, southern Spain

Mike is a long-time friend from my childhood (we were next door neighbours from age two), and runs a company called “World on Wheels”, leading motorcycle tours of several countries around the world. Yesterday we met Mike for lunch in the Malaga marina – he is here to finalise his tour preparations before Monday’s departure. As he lives in Sydney, we don’t get many opportunities to catch up, so it was crazy to greet each other in a city in southern Spain. Right now he’s also our tour lead, and you will no doubt hear more about him in coming weeks.
After lunch, Mike and I both fulfilled a long-held goal. We rode a Segway. We each hired one of these electric-powered two-wheeled marvels and “drove” around the streets of Malaga for an hour, lead by a pretty young guide called Gabi. These machines are amazing – it was as though we were as one with our Segway. We only had to think of direction and speed and it obeyed, when in actual fact it was the gyros simply responding to our subtle manipulation of the handle bars. In Australia they are banned from public places and on public roads, but here we ducked in and out of people on Malaga's footpaths. I can’t see me ever owning one however – my Segway cost 8,500 Euros, more expensive than a motorbike.
As we prepare to leave Spain after a very short time, it strikes me that these adventures are meant to be crossing things of our list of life-long goals. But our four days here have only made us determined to return and explore Spain proper. This place is too alluring and beautiful to cross it off the list after only four days. The departure from our rented apartment was a fine example of what we’ve experienced in Malaga. Our host Filippo insisted on driving us to our hotel, instead of us catching a taxi. His flat was in a perfect location, walking distance to the beach and the city centre, on a bus route, and with a million-dollar view over the Med. His kindness was an added bonus.
So tomorrow we leave for Morocco with a dozen other Australians and Kiwis, and our Spanish driver. We will finish that tour in three weeks by returning to this same hotel.

Malaga, southern Spain

After leaving home at 1:30pm on Monday, we finally made it to Malaga at 3pm on the Wednesday, which was actually 11pm our time. Two and a half days to get to our first day of the tour was a perfect excuse for an early night, our lights went out at 8:30. The journey, however, wasn’t just frustrating delays – we met some interesting people along the way. The elderly Swiss couple on the plane who’d just toured Oz and NZ, and the store owner at Zurich airport whose shop sold fresh fruit and veg to hungry travellers. The lady selling caviar (do people really pay those prices?)
The final person we met on the journey was key to our travels. He’s our landlord while in Malaga. We chose Fillipo’s place on the Air B&B website, and he welcomed us with a friendly smile and sympathy for our lost night. His unit is at the end of a dead-end street that winds up the hill from the main road. The climb may be a test of our fitness, but it affords the same view that the website promised. The Mediterranean Sea stretches out before us, dominating the panorama from extreme left to right. Wide, blue, busy, ever-changing. Malaga is obviously a major port, with water traffic of all kinds coming and going, right in front of us. We can see two large cruise ships in dock.
Thoughts on Malaga after the first day – motorbikes and scooters, little toy dogs being walked by little old ladies, restaurants and palm trees. Reminded us of St Kilda in Melbourne. The streets are very clean, people obviously use the many rubbish and recycle bins. The prominent feature, however, are the Mountains of Malaga, that seem to keep the city to the coast and stop it encroaching to the north. Resourceful house builders have defied this, however, and built their homes on steep slopes on the side of the mountain, naturally taking in the view. Everywhere you go in Malaga there are mountain slopes, and its resident inhabitants, looking down on you.

Melbourne, Australia

So, not a good start. What began as a ten minute delay in Launceston for the shortest leg of our journey, due to a “very minor mechanical problem”, then became a 30 minute delay. Then an hour. Every ten minutes came an update announcement that there was no update. After one and a half hours, we were getting concerned that we might not make our connecting international flight. Finally boarding two hours overdue, our late arrival in Melbourne confirmed our concerns.
Virgin paid for the night’s accommodation at a Tullamarine hotel and the evening’s meal, plus re-scheduled flights for tomorrow, but does that compensate for a whole day lost from our holiday?
We certainly were not expecting to have a night in Melbourne. I'm reminded of seven years to what my good friend and tour guide Mike said after a certain motorbike accident, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”. John Lennon’s famous song lyric
is haunting me today.

Launceston, Tasmania

Another journey to the northern hemisphere beckons - this time the focus will a return to Turkey to complete the same Ferris Wheels (now called "World on Wheels") tour that was so rudely interrupted in 2009. Anne and I had always vowed to return. There will no doubt be some emotional moments when we confront what was a traumatic time in our lives, but those moments, however, will be overshadowed by the joy of being back in this fantastic country. The recent bombings only make us more determined - no brainless lunatic will stop us doing what we love.
Our tour guide and bus driver will again be the wonderful Barish and Yussuf, who saved our sanity 7 years ago by looking after us above and beyond the call of duty. We also plan to visit the Istanbul hospital where we spent a month saving my foot, and we will catch up with Dr Myk, the surgeon who operated on my injury - he's told me by email that he well remembers looking after us, and he still has our fluffy kangaroo, given as a gift, on his desk.
By chance, the 2016 World on Wheels schedule offered the opportunity to tour Morocco before Turkey. Not only that, but this tour starts and ends in the south of Spain - both countries on our list of must-see places. Too good an opportunity to miss.
And don't worry - I won't be on a motor bike. Anne and I will travel in the air-conditioned comfort of the support bus.