Four months across southeastern Europe and the Middle East
Approximate route (red there, blue back)
Part 1: Netherlands to Naples
All of it was made for you and me / 'Cause it just belongs to you and me / So let's take a ride and see what's mine (Iggy Pop, 1977)
I left home in August 2022, riding down through Germany and Switzerland and into the alps. I wanted to do a few hikes around the ski resorts that I normally only see in winter, and take some of the passes that I hadnāt so far, notably the Col Maddelena and the Col de la Bonnette. I came across the town of Roubion perched high on a hilltop. I spent a few days in Milan chilling with friends, then headed back up into the Alps to go around the usual suspects: Albula, Stelvio, and Bernina. Then south-east through Austria on the Silvretta and through the Brenner, taking the local road this time instead of the motorway, and then south-east by Cortina dāAmpezzo towards Venice. Iād never been to the canal city before, and I was surprised at the size of it. I had imagined something smaller, more bunched up, but it was far larger and more typically Italian than Iād thought. Dirty abandoned alleys alongside romantic canal side restaurants, beggars and dogs alongside tourists from pretty much all over the world. An interesting experience, but not nearly as spectacular as I had been made to believe.
From there on I turned east to visit friends in Hungary, and I got absolutely soaked the last few hours towards Balaton. It was a warm kind of rainstorm thankfully, so not terribly uncomfortable. We spent two days hiking and sailing around Balaton, before I took off again back towards Venice, stopping around Trieste, Rimini, Florence, and Pisa where I took the ferry to Corsica. Northern Italy is quite flat and boring at times, but between San Marino and Florence there are some gorgeous low mountain passes through thick forests and quiet little villages.
Corsica is my first real recommendation to anyone reading this. Itās French, but donāt say that too loud, the Corsicans are fiercely independent and anti-French graffiti and posters are everywhere. The island is basically a mountain range rising from the sea, with scarcely a straight road around. The coast is mostly rocky hills, with innumerable bridges, tunnels, and little seaside villages. Inland is a bit greener, with scavenging pigs all around and sweet hiking trails and a few beautiful mountain passes. It's moderately priced too, with affordable BnBās and hostels dotted around the cities, campsites throughout the interior, and a tasty twist on French Mediterranean cuisine. Itās quite small too, and easy to get around despite the curvy madness that is the roads. Whether you like riding, hiking, cycling or simply cruising around taking in the atmosphere, you canāt really go wrong with Corsica.
From Bonifacio in the south I took the ferry to Sardegna, which is much larger than Corsica, very Italian, but also culturally distinct from the mainland. The landscapes are a bit more varied, with gorgeous coastlines in the west, mountains in the east, and agricultural land and some larger cities in-between. Thereās more to see than just nature though: fascinating megalithic ruins known as the Nuraghi dot the landscape. Considered ancient ruins already in Roman times, they may have been fortress, house, storage room or temple, their exact purpose remains unknown but there are thousands of them in varying sizes and states of repair all over the island. I found one close to Cagliari that offered a gorgeous view of the city and the harbor. Around Sassari I did a day-long guided horseback tour. Not having brought my equipment I had to ride in my shorts which seemed like a terrible idea at first, but in the end it didnāt bother me much. We had an awesome time, riding through farmland across old gravel roads, by ancient churches, and murky pools full of giant tadpoles and salamanders.
In Cagliari I took the ferry to Palermo; a few hours before boarding I came across a French couple in the harbor on a large KTM adventure bike which had battery problems. Together with the Italian AAA we managed to get the bike loaded on a trailer and brought to the ship in time for our sailing. The 12 hour boat ride offered a gorgeous sunset and sunrise again not long after. Once in Palermo we pushed the KTM out the boat to the port where another AAA vehicle was waiting to take it to a garage.
Sicily I was not too impressed with. Palermo and Syracuse are decent enough cities with interesting sights, and here are some exceptional monuments around such as the Valley of the Temples, Taormina, Siracusa, and Piazza Armeria, but in between these highlights the island is poor and filthy. Infrastructure is in an abysmal state, the city peripheries are filthy and stifled with traffic, and lodging and food in the touristy areas is pretty expensive. Giant piles of garbage, plastic, and whatnot are everywhere, as are derelict buildings and abandoned farms and industry. I had a good time, especially the mosaics at Piazza Armeria are absolutely stunning, and climbing Etna was a unique experience but the entire island gave me a strong feeling of ālost potentialā. With just a little more effort and investment it could be an absolutely great destination, but we all know why that isnāt happening.
From Sicily I took yet another ferry back to the Italian mainland, and slalomed through the nose of the boot towards Naples. Calabria is known for being under Mafia control to a huge degree, perhaps more so than Sicily. Itās a bit cleaner as well, and features many pretty mountaintop towns, even the odd ski resort, and huge forested hill ranges. Not an area of Italy I was very familiar with, itās definitely on my list to go back to one day. In Naples I had an appointment with the local Triumph dealer for some maintenance and storage, as I had to fly home for a few days to attend a wedding.
Part 2: Naples to Kuwait
Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command / Your old road is rapidly agin' (Bob Dylan, 1964)
While all of the above was happening, trouble broke out in Iran. I had my VISA pre-arranged for pickup in Ankara, but not wanting to wait for things to get out of control I decided to make my way there ASAP. The initial plan had been to spend 2-3 weeks going around Greece and Turkey, but that can wait for another time. From Naples again through southern Italy to Bari and Brindisi, and then the ferry to Igoumenitsa in Greece. Straight shot through Greece to Thessaloniki in the pouring rain, and then into Turkey to Gallipoli. The border was an interesting experience, itās basically a long, low bridge with guardhouses every few meters. Border formalities themselves were peanuts, but the sight on the bridge was interesting. The Turks and Greeks have a troubling history, and the guardhouses on each side were manned in full, young lads on the Greek side in full tacticool looking like something out of Call of Duty, whereas the Turks were dressed more like WW1 soldiers, old brown ragged uniforms. As you enter Turkey the differences grow steadily. Donkey carts and ancient tractors on the motor way, but also flashy modern cars. Expensive toll roads and gas stations with WIFI, but also tiny villages with what can best be described as huts with sat TV dishes and rusty bicycles.
In Gallipoli harbor with a great view of the absolutely enormous bridge across the Dardanelles I came across a statue of Piri Reis, one of the first scholars to draw up detailed maps of the Mediterranean. I also got to chat with a shopkeeper and one of his sons, who were extremely critical of Erdogan and his ridiculous social and economic policies. The old man proudly showed me the app he had been using to learn English, and he didnāt mince words. Erdogan is a wannabe dictator, whoās using religion to control his people. And everywhere you go itās there, even the tiniest 10-house village will have a shiny mosque, most likely built quite recently and subsidized by the government. Prayer call is everywhere, but the people in the cities are fed up with it. One of his sons was going off to Ankara to study civil engineering and he was already eyeing a job in Germany. According to them, the younger population is fed up with the conservative bullshit and dictatorial tendencies of the Erdogan and his cronies. They feel powerless however since he has strong support among the clergy and in the rural areas, so when they can they simply leave.
In Ankara I went to the Iranian embassy to pick up my visa, and everything there was working as usual. Pictures of Khamenei (the religious dictator) and Soleimani (the general assassinated at Baghdad airport by the CIA in January 2020) were all over the waiting room. As the visa had already been granted online there were no questions, just some waiting, payment (75 euros), and pickup.
From Ankara I went south, through Adana, Gaziantep, Mardin and eventually Yuksekova near the Iranian border. The highland around Ankara was cold and windy, the canyon down towards the coast was absolutely gorgeous. Orange trees and olive plantations were everywhere, little farming villages with people working the land and collecting fruits in the orchards. I felt like I had gone 50 years back in time. Heading east the landscape slowly turned desert, the border with first Syria and later Iraq reminding me of Berlin, with giant walls, guard posts, and large swathes of barbed-wire no-mans-land. Everywhere I went and stayed the people were extremely friendly, not all of them spoke English but with google translate as assistance we had many conversations. They echoed the same sentiments as the people in Gallipoli, then again I stayed mostly in the cities. With the collapse of the Turkish Lira (due to Erdogan being an idiot) everything was crazy cheap, and of course Turkish food has a reputation already, so I had a great and affordable time. South-Eastern Turkey between Cizre and Yuksekova felt desolate, but in a good way. Thereās hardly any traffic, the road winds round and round the cliffs and gorges that form the border with Iraq. The landscape is beautiful brown/green (copper?) rocks with oases around the places where water collects. Thereās occasional military bases and checkpoints on the hilltops and around the passes, but these soldiers were mostly bored and quite surprised to see a traveler come by. I got offered tea a lot, and they wanted to talk about football and other worldly affairs.
The border with Iran was surprisingly easy. No sign of increased security or anything. I got to use the Carnet (import/export document for vehicles) for the first time, which was interesting. Thankfully the customs officer knew exactly what to do with it so the entire crossing was barely a 30-minute affair. Once in Iran I rode into Urmia to try and find a place to change some money, but it was a Friday, the Muslim rest day, so I was SOL since everything was closed. In one of the shopping centers I approached a group of young-ish guys (20-somethings?) and asked if they could help me out, and lo and behold after a short google-translate mediated conversation they arranged for about 50 euroās worth of Iranian Rials. Their currency is hilariously worthless, so it came down to about 25 million Rials, a stack the size of the LOTR single-volume.
Everywhere I went in Iran people warned me not to go to the big cities: Tabriz, Tehran et cetera were considered extremely dangerous, as the regime had resorted to outright shooting at the protesters by now. I ended up staying only 4 days in Iran which was a bloody shame, I basically followed the Iraqi border south towards Khorramshahr and then crossed into Iraq. Part of this was Iranian Kurdistan which has historically not been as closely aligned to Tehran (or Baghdad, or Istanbul for that matter) as the rest of the country. Out of dozens upon dozens of encounters with hotel employees, shopkeepers, students, even law enforcement, they all said the same thing more or less. They all want justice for Amini and the countless other killed or hurt by the regime, a lifting of the idiotic religious laws, and more freedoms and opportunities, especially the younger generation. One of the students installed a special VPN on my phone which allowed me to connect to the internet through his mobile hotspot, and at various restaurants and hotels through WIFI. Even then, the internet often went down for hours at a time. I also came across a rare sight, an Iranian Suzuki GSXR, a pretty decent racer. No plates, no helmet, no problem.
Walking around town, or just sitting in a restaurant I got latched on to by groups of younger people wanting to hear about the world and share their story. They feel trapped in their country by the regime, which is plundering the economy and enriching itself at the cost of the population. They donāt give a shit about Russia, Israel, or the USA, and many are quite moderate when it comes to religion. There werenāt nearly as many mosques around as in Turkey, and most of the students werenāt openly religious at all. It was shocking how eager they were to talk about these highly sensitive topics. It gave me a huge blocking feeling of helplessness, hearing these people lament their dictators, wishing, hoping, for a better future where theyād have a free life, work, be able to travel, be in touch with the world. Keep in mind though this was only in one particular area of the country, the west/northwest along the border with Iraq. I donāt know if this is representative for the population as a whole. The famous Arab hospitality is all around in Iran as well, multiple times in restaurants other guests stood up and wanted to pay for me, other times people bought me snacks and drinks just for talking to them for a while. I usually tried to accept gracefully and then sneak in payment any way.
In Sanandaj I asked my hotel if it was safe to walk into town to find a restaurant and the lady answered (in fluent English!) that it most certainly wasnāt, but she could call me a taxi and instruct him to take me by some restaurants? Which I happily agreed to. We drove around town for about two hours, conversing through google translate again. He showed me some monuments, and places were protests had escalated recently, burned out armored vehicles and cars lined the road. Around the main square there were 100+ police and soldiers with big guns (APCs and such) standing around, the giant roundabout next to them full of cars, honking incessantly as a provocation. Some of the drivers even yelled at the police, it was a frightening scene. We then went to a little restaurant to eat kebabs, and the driver showed me pictures of an older man from his neighborhood, who had been shot the week before during a protest. Some girl had lain injured in the street and the old guy (60, 70?) had ran out to help her and theyād just gunned down both of them. He told me that he didnāt expect these protests to die down easily, because so many people had been killed and hurt: every time they have a funeral, the victims friends and family gathers, and the anger flares up again. Same with the 40-day Shia mourning period, after which they meet again and the same thing happens. Later that night there were gunshots and explosions in town, about 1-2 miles from my hotel. My heart breaks for these people. Itās going to take a lot of bloodshed, but I hope they get the freedoms they so strongly desire, and are willing to die for.
As for the riding, Iran is absolutely huge, and has hugely varied landscapes and Iāve only been to a small part of it. The northwest is a high plateau dotted with hills, mountains to the west in Turkey, and with a large salt lake next to Urmia. Due to climate change the once enormous lake is now little more than a huge salt flat with some wet spots. Towards the south are beautiful hills and mountain ranges, canyons, dry riverbeds, and occasional agriculture. As I went further south the landscape slowly became flatter, with large-scale agriculture and huge irrigation projects around. Even further south around the Persian Gulf it becomes a proper desert, scorching hot during the day, cool in the nights. Giant oil refineries tower over enormous featureless deserts, long roads with barely any traffic going seemingly nowhere, vanishing into the horizon. Infrastructure is generally good, roads are decent and thereās even AAA around, trucks with towing equipment providing roadside assistance (indicative of a fairly sophisticated society, in my book). Gas is only about 5 cents a liter, and every time you stop people want to make conversation, youāre offered tea, baclava, snacks, people want to take pictures with you ā but at the same time it maintains a certain kind of innocence. There arenāt a whole lot of tourists in Iran outside the main cities, and I had several people including gas station attendants come up to me shyly, asking in their best English where I was from, what I thought of their country, and if they could please take a photo with me? It was almost endearing at times. Gave me goosebumps, especially considering the international isolation, economic problems, and murderous dictatorship bullshit these people are going through. Not a single time did I feel unsafe, even the more serious looking Basiji/Revolutionary Guard checkpoints were generally courteous and speedy. One thing Iād like to add here is how forward-thinking the hospitality of many of these people was. From Turkey to Qatar all the way to Israel I got offered more than a dozen phone numbers, with the following reasoning: āHere, take my number. If youāre ever in front of someone who doesnāt speak English, call me, give them the phone, and I will translate for youā.
In Khorramabad I got spooked a bit, and decided not to stretch my luck and go straight to the Iraqi border and on to Kuwait the next day. Getting out of Iran was easy, but getting into Iraq ended up a crazy struggle with bureaucracy. I recorded the story later that night in my hotel in Kuwait. Itās a bit of a long sit at 30 minutes, but if you want to hear a crazy tale of foreign border crossings it might be worth it.
From the audio story: this is what the Kuwaiti highway 80 looked like after the chaotic Iraqi withdrawal during the Gulf War, during which their columns got annihilated by the USAF. Also, the Kuwaiti customs officials that helped me so nicely.
Part 3: Kuwait to Jordan
You see I've been through the desert on a horse with no name / It felt good to be out of the rain (America, 1971)
From Kuwait I went on through Saudi Arabia (KSA), to Bahrain and Qatar. Kuwait city wasnāt very appealing, the city is huge and nobody walks, everyone drives their giant fucking cars everywhere, even though gas isnāt particularly cheap at about 50 cents a liter. I spent some time around the water front and in the old markets, but walking around the city was a PITA because everything is designed around cars and cars only, they really took the wrong lessons from the Americans that stayed after the war. There are some monuments and minor other interesting buildings around, but apart from that it feels like the business district of any other major city. At least their money is very pretty. Two things happened in Kuwait that I want to describe in a little more detail.
When I pulled up to my hotel (City Tower Kuwait, at 80$ a night one of the cheapest hotels in town) a short man with a little black-and-white hat greets me enthusiastically, and gestures where he'd like me to park. Despite my best attempts to dissuade him he insists on carrying my bags to the elevator after I've checked in, and explains that I can use the wheelchair ramp to park the motorcycle right next to the entrance where the reception can keep an eye on it twenty-four-seven. Later, after I've showered the desert sand out of my hair I come across him taking note of the cars parked in front of the hotel in a little booklet. He's impressed with the motorcycle and brings me tea while I sit down to clean and grease the chain. His name is Bahad from Nepal, and he has been in Kuwait for five years now, working for the same hotel all that time. First as room service and cleaner, now as parking attendant and customer representative. The entire country runs on immigrant labor: native Kuwaiti people receive a handsome stipend from the government simply for existing, and as a result they tend not to do any labor. They own most of the businesses though, while people like Bahad do the actual work.
The next morning I went to the Yamaha dealership for an oil change. The service representative initially refuses because my bike is a Triumph and not a Yamaha, but since I got the new filter with me and oil is, well, oil, I convince him to call his boss for me. Essa, a Kuwaiti, raises his eyebrows after seeing my license plate, then shakes my hand warmly and assures me that everything will be alright. His mechanics will take good care of my bike he promises, and asks if I would prefer tea, coffee, or an iced beverage while I wait. I watch as the Indian mechanics roll the bike into the shop, and after receiving a mug of fresh coffee from the garage's bartender I follow them inside. The fully blind shop cat is purring away in the corner, while several machines are being worked on. A Yamaha racer stands gutted on one of the lifts, its engine being revised on the table next to it. Two workers are busy installing floodlights onto a shiny new dune buggy. After the oil change the Indian crew checks the tire pressure and fluids, then gives the bike a thorough wash outside in the courtyard, while I stroll around the showroom admiring all the latest motorcycles, generators, and golf carts that Yamaha has to offer. When it's finally time to leave I ask Essa if they accept VISA cards. "No", he says. "There's nothing to pay, this is a gift".
That night I meet Bahad again in the lobby. It's quiet, and he has time to chat. I ask him about his life in Nepal and his work here in Kuwait city, and he indulges my naivety with extreme politeness. He works five 10-hour shifts a week for 140 Kuwaiti Dinar or about 500 dollars a month. The hotel provides lodging and clothes, and the employees are allowed to take home any leftovers from the daily breakfast buffet. He much prefers the clean hotel environment over construction work, even though the latter pays better. Every day before heading to his little apartment he fills a jerrycan with drinking water from the giant filter in the hotel basement, greatly reducing his living expenses. He sends home most of his salary and the tips he receives. He's not married, but the money provides for his widowed sister and her three children. Nearly 5000 dollars in the past year he explains, beaming with pride.
Crossing from Kuwait into KSA was easy, Kuwait uses the Carnet but KSA has their own vehicle registration system. It took them a few minutes to correctly register my plate as the system kept trying to input it right-to-left the Arabic way, but overall it didnāt take long. I had my visa pre-arranged, the conditions of which were pretty awesome (140 dollars for a 12-month multiple entry visa including health insurance), and every KSA crossing I did had at least one person who spoke more than a bit of English. I got a lot of interested looks at these border posts, people wanting to take pictures, handing me water, and snacks. They only know my country as āHulandaā in Arabic, so I often had to explain what the NL on my plate stood for.
Bahrain is a fascinating place, a little island nation connected to KSA through a long causeway built in the 80āies by Dutch company Ballast Nedam. Bahrain discovered long ago that oil revenues donāt last forever, and they started attracting business and tourists with a huge financial sector, giant malls, and the GP of course. Saudis refer to it as the Las Vegas of the Middle East. Despite it being essentially a Muslim Emirate thereās pork, alcohol, night clubs, weird souvenirs, and even prostitution. KSA prohibits most of these things, and as a result Bahrain is filled to the brim with Saudi tourists coming over for a few days to have their fill, then heading off into piety again. It appears that KSA has significant control over the Bahraini government, and both are mostly happy with the arrangement. Riyadh knows that itās impossible to completely forbid these things, and they much prefer having them in a controlled environment just off the coast, behind a border, so they can keep up the pretense of purity for their own country.
As a result of all this tourism the KSA-Bahraini border is extremely efficient and speedy. Itās essentially a stop along the highway, which by definition means thereās no space or time for extended controls or theyāll just cause a massive traffic jam. Visa is on arrival, 5 bucks, and you can even pay by card lmao. The bike was a little more work, I had to walk into the customs office to get the Carnet stamped. An older officer pointed me to a desk with a very young girl in uniform behind it, she had never seen a Carnet before so me and the old guy talked her through it. Both spoke decent English and were very friendly, and I got the usual offerings of tea and bottled water.
The capital Manama is a strange place, it was murderously hot so walking around town I was ducking into air conditioned bus stops (!) and coffee shops to cool down. Everything is expensive but not terribly so, and at the same time thereās the same business-district-blandness to most of it. Except for the old town with numerous shops and markets, delicious food from all over the world, and lots of life in the street. I talked to some of the migrant workers in the restaurants and one of them told me loads of Saudis come to Manama to get wasted, then wreck their car drunk driving, but they just scrap it and buy a new one in Damman before heading back home. The scenes on the streets were more varied than in KSA or Kuwait, lots of families from different backgrounds. It was interesting to see that even Saudi men, wearing their Thawb, the formal white robe, have girlfriends or wives, and children that they show affection for when their environment allows for it. My stupid Western brain never really considered this. Dress for women ranged from all-covered for the pious Muslims to not covered at all for most tourists and migrant workers, and everything in between.
From Bahrain I rode back through KSA to Qatar. Too early for and not much to do with the World Cup, I just wanted to see the place I guess. Itās only a hundred miles as the crow flies from Manama to Doha, but thereās a huge bay in-between which means it took all day. KSA borders were friendly and efficient as before, but the Qatari customs messed with my Carnet, tore out an entire page and refused to elaborate. I took some pictures and a video and contacted ADAC that evening but they said it should be OK. The customs guys got really upset when while filming the Carnet, I lifted the camera up, and demanded I delete the footage. But they didnāt make me empty the recycle bin lol.
Qatar is largely similar to Kuwait, one single big city with not much around, cars everywhere. The Qataris themselves are rich, and migrants do all the work. Youāve seen the stories surrounding the world cup no doubt. Doha was also scorching hot, but thankfully a bit easier to walk around than Kuwait City. One month before the WC started there was construction going on everywhere, day and night. The stadiums were pretty much finished but they were still building hotels, walkways, parks, and god knows what else. I talked to some of the Indian workers and they confirmed pretty much everything the news has been saying about Qatar, but they also said they werenāt entirely unhappy with the situation. They make good money to send home, they get lots of breaks during the hottest parts of the day, and food and lodging is taken care of, depending on which company they work for. Itās hard work for (looking from the West) meagre pay, but they come here because itās much better than what theyād get back home. Doha again is a pretty bland city, the old Souk Waaqif is interesting to walk around with loads of little shops and craftsmen, but itās also extremely touristic and expensive. The best place to me was the Museum of Islamic Art, which had a lot of fascinating artefacts and stories from all over the Middle East. In Qatar I also came across a Saudi football fan who had been hiking through the desert for months to make it to Doha for the world cup. Even the police wanted to take pictures with him.
Now by the time I was in Doha I had started thinking of my return leg. I got some worrying messages that Ethiopia had pretty much closed its borders to foreign motor vehicles, demanding tens of thousands of dollars as collateral at the border. I had really wanted to go to Egypt, but that also was quite expensive to arrange, and then Iād have the problem of getting the bike out. Transport by air is crazy expensive (5000 to 7000 dollars, plus needs to be drained of all fluids), so I decided to dig into my contact list for an alternative option. Someone had suggested to me some time ago that itās possible to ship vehicles from Israel to Greece on a RORO transport (meaning vehicles only, no passengers), which is far cheaper than flying. So I got in touch with Rosenfeld Shipping in Haifa, who informed me they had a weekly service to Lavrion in Greece, which for a motorcycle would only be about 700 dollars. That seemed mighty fine to me, so off towards Haifa I went.
From Doha to the Jordan border is nearly 2000km, straight through the desert. It took me three days, first to Riyadh, then Hail, and lastly Qurayyat. I was carrying about 3L of water and some food, and even though I was drinking a lot in the desert I never got in trouble in KSA, thereās always a bit of traffic around and itās easy to stock up at gas stations. Although it was a similar desert to Western Sahara it felt much more ācivilizedā because of this. I really wish I couldāve stayed a bit longer in KSA because itās a fascinating place. Politically and religiously itās obviously a disgusting mess, but the landscapes are spectacular, the people are almost crazy friendly, and riding through the desert for so long really is a boring yet also fascinating experience. Hours upon hours of nothingness, even gas stations are rare, with sometimes 200+ km between them. There is occasional traffic, and the truck drivers honk and wave back. Giant power lines follow the roads and camels are everywhere. Concrete husks of old gas stations, guard posts and other things are occasionally seen on the side of the road. But above all there is sand, silence, and asphalt. I got lucky with the weather. It was hot but not outrageously so, around 30 degrees during the day, and I even caught a speck of rain around Hail. Also a sandstorm just west of Riyadh which was surreal, everything around you dark yellow and brown, the road below and the sky above covered in streams of sand and dust.
People in the street looked at me with great interest and wanted to talk a lot. In Hail I met a group of Saudi and Chinese visitors who worked in some manufacturing industry who fawned over the bike and wanted to know all about my trip. I ran out of Saudi Riyals in Qurayyat on Thursday evening, and walked into town trying to find a place to get something to eat. On the way a Saudi driver hailed me, guy in a big Pajero, traditional dress. He asked if I was a tourist (yes), and how I was enjoying KSA so far (fine). He asked if I needed anything? So I said well, I need to change some euroās for Riyals, about 50 euroās worth? He got out his phone and worked out that would be about 175 Riyals. So he took out his wallet and handed me 350 Riyals in exchange for my 50 euros. I tried to convince him otherwise but he wasnāt having it, so he literally just gave me 50 euroās for nothing. He just wanted me to have a good time and be able to buy food and pay for the fees at the border the next day. The hospitality of some of these people truly boggles the mind.
The border with Jordan was rather easy, if expensive. One Jordanian Dinar is about 1 euro 50, and it cost a small fortune to cross: visa (40JD), motorcycle (20JD), motorcycle insurance (36JD), SIM card (14JD). In Jordan I went down the length of the country towards Wadi Rum that same day, on highway 5 through the (Jordanian) Eastern Desert. Like KSA this part of the country was extremely sparsely populated, but at one point I randomly came across two dozen bikes parked on the side of the road and a bunch of guys having lunch. Turned out to be the Amman Motorcycle Club on their weekly tour. They even had a follow car with fuel, water, and a trailer for emergencies. As soon as I stopped I was swarmed by these jovial guys and they immediately handed me some water and snickers bars. We spent some time chatting and eating before going our separate ways.
Jordan is the second recommendation I'd like to make. The country is small, the parts worth visiting are relatively close together. Wadi Rum and Petra have long been famous and they are worth every second and every penny. It is truly a wonderful, elating feeling to ride around the desert between the colossal red mesa-like rocks in all sorts of fascinating shapes at Wadi Rum. Petra instead is human made, āthe rose-colored city half as old as time itselfā. Already famous in Roman times its location was ālostā for a bit until being rediscovered last century. An entire city worth of buildings, caves, dwellings, temples carved out of red sandstone, with a fascinating water management system and a huge amphitheater to top it off. From Petra on I rode north following the Dead Sea. The roads across the central Jordanian mountain range were very pretty and very quiet. Further north there were lots of kitschy shops selling Dead Sea sand, mud, face masks, all that jazz. Closer to Amman there suddenly was a lot of traffic, and the city itself is massive and sprawling, thereās not a lot of high rise so with 4 million people it covers a mind-boggling area. I spent a few days there and around Jerash. Amman has loads of interesting sights as well as a pretty decent street and night life, I went to see the Jordan Museum which had some really nice exhibitions and historical artifacts, the Hejaz railway station, and the Citadel which offers great views of the city center. Jerash has a huge archaeological park with a well preserved Roman street, and the surrounding hills are dotted with villages and olive orchards.
Part 4: From Jordan back home
Your never ending spree of death and violence and hate / is gonna tie your own rope, tie your own rope yeah (The Offspring, 1994)
From Amman I rode west, first to King Hussein bridge to try and cross into the West Bank. The border was in decent shape and super busy, but after some asking around it turns out I wasnāt allowed to cross here with the bike and instead would have to go up north to the Jordan River crossing, a 2-hour detour. I had heard many crazy stories about people being detained for hours by Israeli immigration because theyād been to one of many Arab countries, or just for having a German sounding name, so I was a bit nervous. Exiting Jordan was super easy, both immigration and customs were friendly and expedient. The Israeli side of the border was manned by a bunch of very young conscripts. First station I had to stop at I was approached by a young woman with a security uniform who wrote down some details about the bike, she was new at this and I had to help her figure out the forms which resulted in some hilarity and really took the edge off things. Then I had go to immigration. A somewhat older lady asked about where Iād been, and how long Iād stayed in Iran and Iraq but it was a short conversation, I guess I seemed innocent enough. The bike and luggage got a thorough inspection but that also didnāt take too long, and after about an hour and a half I was free to go. Surprisingly easy, after all. South along the road on the West Bank towards Jerusalem were loads of villages, Palestinian ones with farmland and animals, and Israeli ones with barbed wire. Some of the junctions had signs saying who was allowed to get off here. In some places the road itself also had huge fences around it, but at the same time towards the south it had gorgeous views down the Dead Sea valley. Interesting, to say the least.
I spent a few days in Jerusalem taking in the sights. The old town is extremely touristy and extremely expensive. It felt a bit like an open-air asylum at times, with religious lunatics sometimes literally crawling around on their knees. In one alley I came across a tour group whose guide confidently explained that this was where Jesus had dragged the cross around and how he had leaned against this particular wall to catch his breath or something. Some of the tourists started crying and praying, dragging their knuckles across the wall. I just stood there trying to take in the lunacy, and Iām still amazed by it. The city has a lot of security, police and soldiers everywhere. In one busy alley were three soldiers standing behind some low fences while the crowd shuffled past. Fully tacticool, the sergeant even had his blood type on his backpack strap. Walking a little behind me were two guys, about 20 or so, who looked a little swarthier than me. They were just kids, one of them had a can of red bull in his hand, the other was smoking. Sgt calls out, they have to come over to the side. He takes their IDās and their phones, one of the other soldiers pats them down. Sgt whips out a tablet to scan their IDās and browses through their phones while they stand there, humiliated in front of a huge crowd. I really wish Iād had the guts to take pictures cause it was a truly pathetic scene. Outside of Jerusalem center it was quieter, and I was surprised to find the grave of Oskar Schindler without signage and without anyone else there. I wouldāve expected it to be more famous perhaps.
Together with two Swiss guys from the hostel I took the bus to Ramallah on the West Bank one morning. The way there was uneventful, but seeing the giant border wall and associated security was impressive, as well as some of the graffiti on the Palestinian side. Ramallah itself was like many other Arab cities, quite lively in the streets, loads of little shops and restaurants. We visited some local museums, had godly kebabs at an absolute bargain, and talked to the local police. On the way back to Jerusalem the bus was rather full, mostly women and children with us. At the border two soldiers entered, first guy collects the ID cards and passports, the other uses the barrel of his rifle to go through the overhead luggage racks. Theyāre gone for a few minutes, then the first guy returns. He stands at the front of the bus, clinches his rifle and yells something in Arabic. Someone is talking rapidly on the other end of his walkie talkie. The people around us, even the kids, sit frozen in their seats staring straight ahead. Finally we all get our IDās back except for one woman in a pink headscarf. She gets escorted off the bus, and with a firm hand is guided into the office next to the road. The bus driver sighs, takes a sip of water, and closed the doors.
Later that day I rode towards Haifa. The highway from Jerusalem west and then north follows the border wall with the West Bank. I noticed a distinct lack of Palestinian license plates on the road. At a gas station I come across a vehicle with American Embassy livery. The guy is curious about the bike so we talk for a bit, and I ask him about the plates. According to him the Palestinians are technically allowed to come into Israel but the border doesnāt make it very easy on them which is why they are so rare. The next morning I went to the Rosenfeld Shipping office. They have most of the forms ready and after paying one of their guys tells me to follow him to the harbor. We spent about an hour going through the formalities and he helps me at every step. Meanwhile we chat a bit. Heās worked in shipping his whole life and has seen every port on the Mediterranean. Now heās a bit older and just does the paperwork here in Haifa. Heās worried about the recent elections, Netanyahu (yes, him again) will probably return, backed by some far right parties (the āone Jewish state for Jews onlyā kind). Heās worried about the civil rights of the many Arab Christians (many of his coworkers) and Muslims (part of his extended family) living in Israel, to say nothing of the relations with neighboring countries and the Palestinians. After we wrap up the paperwork I park the bike at the transit dock of the port and he drops me off at the train station. After three months on the road it feels very odd, traveling with only a little backpack. But Iām really happy to have found an affordable way to get the bike back into the Schengen area.
At Tel Aviv Savidor station thereās a girl playing an upbeat Ave Maria on the public piano. Next to her is a giant duffle bag, an M4 bobs nonchalantly on her shoulder while she plays. I talked to some Israelis about the insane amount of security on the streets, and explained that back home I could live for days, sometimes weeks without seeing a uniform. Without exception they replied that it was for their own safety, but it didnāt make me feel very safe. It made me suspicious mostly, because a society that requires this kind of safety has some fundamental questions to answer.
From Haifa I flew home to the Netherlands, load up my winter equipment, and later that week head back to Athens to pick up the motorcycle. While waiting for the bus at Athens airport I called the port, and a stressed lady complains to me that they have zero paperwork for my motorcycle and they donāt know what to do with it. In a rare twist of fate it is my turn to tell customs to relax and that everything will be alright, and I ask her for an email address to send the documents from my phone. Once I arrive at the port in Lavrion a few hours later everything is in order, and it only takes one signature to formally receive the bike again. Theyāve left it parked inside the ship because it was raining all of yesterday, sympathetic. I gingerly walk into this giant cargo vessel, waving to the loading crews as I go, then ride it outside, get dressed, and head off to Athens. I had planned to spend a few days going around Greece but sadly it was raining all the time, so I went and played city tourist instead. My thirst for ancient history and old stones still not satisfied after all these months I dove straight for Athensā jewels, and boy do they not disappoint. The rest of my return trip was rather uneventful. I rode to Patras in the pouring rain, caught the ferry to Venice (35 hours!) and spent two nights watching football with the many Greek truck drivers onboard. From Venice I rode on to Milan, then up into the alps to the Gotthard Tunnel around which it froze and snowed, an interesting change of scenery and pretty hard on the toes. I finally arrived back home early December after 101 days and 22.000km on the road.
It took a week or so to get everything sorted: unpack the luggage, visit Dutch customs to complete the Carnet and then return it, and making an inventory of upcoming maintenance. Overall the bike held really well with no issues, but itās bound to have suffered a little after so many desert miles. For the short term it just needed a wash and an oil change, but in spring Iāll be looking at the air filter and valves, as well as overhauling the suspension and swapping out some rusty bolts and other worn parts.