De underbara människorna i Turkiet fortsatte göra min resa söderut genom landet lika lättsam som den i norr. Men längs med vägen från Ankara söderut till den syriska gränsen, är det som jag aldrig kommer att glömma den vackra regionen Capadoccia. Jag tog en mindre omväg for att se den delen av landet, tack vare ett tips från vännen Moulshri från Delhi (Indien). Hon skickade mig ett e-post brev någon månad tidigare och sa att jag måste besöka den platsen – ‘det lär vara helt magiskt’. Jag kan bara hålla med. Jag besökte två dalgångar i södra delen av regionen, och hoppade över det mer turistutvecklade norr. Mellan höga bergväggar: en klar flod och grönt land med odlingar. På bergväggarna i sin tur tusentals grottor och hundratals kyrkor, framhuggna av invånarna för flera hundra, ibland tusen, år sedan. Ett fåtal är fortfarande bebodda, fast med elektricitet osv, såklart.

Jag är nu i Latakia, nord östra Syrien, där jag vilar ut ett par dagar på grund av magsjuka. Jag kommer fortsätta söderut mot Damaskus snart, och därifrån också ha sett tillräckligt för att ge er min bild av Syrien.

After an easy cross to the Syrian side, I start making my way south. But the dizziness from the fumes of petrol from the past night soon grows into headache and general weakness. No appetite; no energy. I finally, after some thirty kilometers, have to hitchhike my way south to main city Latakia. It’s just another twenty or so kilometers away. There, I’m fortunate to have Hospitalityclub host Radwan waiting for me – although I don’t have time to say much more than hi before I vomit on the street outside. I will rest here for another night or two (already four nights as I write this), before I continue south. The cause of my problems turned out to be bacteria or something else affecting the stomach, according to the hospital. So for the first time of this trip (but certainly not the last), I get some pills.

Camp by the customs office just at the border post. Unfortunately, people turn out to use the nearby parking spot for trading the cheap Syrian petrol, filling it between the tanks to cars of Turkish owners. A lot of fuel is spilled on the ground, and then vaporized into fumes that fills my tent at night. A dizzy sleep, to say the least.

Long day, up and down a high mountain pass. Late evening camp at petrol station.

Just when I’m packed and ready to leave, Mesut comes by from his plantation shelter a kilometer west of ‘mine’ and invites me to eat breakfast with him. Omelette, bread, tomatoes and black olives. Coffee. Some pomegranates for the road.

In village Cardaik outside city Osmaniye, I stay with Ibrahim – cousin of Hospitalityclub contact Erdal and partly a Swedish resident. The house in which he stays together with a friend lies high up on a slope, with a beautiful view across the surrounding olive trees, the valley below and the blue mountains in the distance. Silence.

Leaving at noon, I find a restaurant in the industrial eastern outskirts that serves a wonderful Adana kebab. The town’s kebab is famous for how the meat is minced by hand, with knife.

Come night time, I meet farmer Mesut who invites me to sleep in a shelter by the entrance gate of a nearby lemon tree farm, himself staying in yet another one a kilometer away.

The small one-bed, one-table shelter is built of branches and dark green plastic sheets. Outside a wooden bench, shadowed by a roof of eucalyptus branches with dried leaves, and behind the house the grid of lemon trees. Across the road a cotton field.

The five dogs that guard the plantation keep me awake for a while, barking at every car, truck or motorcycle that passes by on the street outside.

Street kids sleeping sheltered from the rain neath the tracks of a railroad bridge, shouting at me as I passed by on the road below. Looking up, I could barely just see their eyes white shine through the darkness.

After a beautiful breakfast with mechanic Kudret, the table lit by a just rising sun, I continue my way south. The road winds down through valleys where small, green vine yards lie scattered randomly on else stony slopes.

I meet my Hospitalityclub host Mesut in central Adana, and he escorts me to his house in the outskirts of town. Come evening, he invites me to cheer the local football team. Although it is the country’s fourth largest city, the team hasn’t been in the highest league for more than a decade – this year no different. We are happy anyway to see a 2-1 win against supposedly superior Diyarbakir.

Continuing south from Pozantı, I climb the last hills of the Bolkar Mountains. From a 1,200 or so meter pass nearby Tekir, it’s again downhill towards the Mediterranean coast.

I get an early stay by noon at some workers’ house along the road. They invite me for lunch – potato and tomato soup with raw onions dipped in salt – and when asking for a place to camp they invite me to use a spare bed inside.

Tea throughout the afternoon – only one or two of the six or so workers are fasting.

Pine tree forests ever since I left Pozantı.

I leave Akif and his wonderful family after three great days. After having climbed the highest pass so far – 1,600 meters – the road winds down along a river for the rest of the day. The road is continuously lined by petrol stations and roadside restaurants – the heavy traffic making it feel unusually unsafe to camp at any of those. Instead I visit the local police in Pozantı, who allow me to put my tent just outside their gates. Slow evening chatting about; lots of tea.

I try to invite for something of what I’ve got – olives and grapes – but it’s useless. The Turks will impossibly accept anything that a guest brings. Instead, they usually interpret it as if saying that there isn’t enough food on the table. Soon, one of the policemen comes with a pomegranate for me, and more tea of course. I hope that they at least understand my thought, even if their pride and tradition hinders them from accepting it.

When I wake up, the trailer wheel is again flat. I find another puncture and fix it, but the wheel keeps deflating during the day so I have to pump it every two hours or so. With thirteen patches on the tube, I really need to find a new one now.

Then a couple of hours later, when reaching a petrol station, I find by back wheel flat, too. I discover that the same thorns that punctured the trailer have found their way to both the front and the back wheel. When I start to pull them out of the front wheel, which too goes pssst. And after examining the tyre more closely, I decide to change everything with the spare tyre that was intended for halfway – the current ones are full of thorns, some which are impossible to remove without using a knife to cut the tyre.

I reach Niĝde in the late afternoon, where I get to stay for two restful nights with Hospitalityclub host Mehmet. I can hopefully find some new spare tubes for the trailer, too.

Passing through Derinkuyu where an underground city is the main attraction, I quickly decide not to continue further north to the touristic centre of Cappadocia – Nevsehir, Göreme etc. – but to continue east to another valley similar to the at Belisırma. Derinkuyu is already too touristic for me – children asking for ‘money’ (the only English word they knew – who taught them?) – and locals being more concerned of selling their produce than to make me interested in visiting the underground city.

I reach Soğanlı late in the evening after another thirty or so kilometers from Derinkuyu. Another beautiful, green valley, with some even more beautiful rock-hewn churches than the I saw in Ihlara Valley (although I only visited 1% of them so there ought to be even greater ones around there, too).

Unfortunately I also get my very first puncture upon reaching. I have evidently pedaled through some terribly thorny bush, because I find no less than twelve punctures on the trailer wheel. Took the best part of the evening to fix. Then food and sleep. Camp outside restaurant.

Entering southwestern Cappadocia and the Ihlara Valley, consisting of the three villages Selime, Belisırma and Ihlara from west to east, is truly as magical as promised. The small, quiet villages set below rocks filled with carved-out churches (more than 100) and houses – it’s difficult to describe. I ride down the seemingly new road to Belisırma in the late afternoon, and stay at a quiet camping site. An American, two Germans and four Polish are there, too. The seemingly evergreen valley floor with the lively, clear river running through it like a snake. The high mountain walls on each side, with dark holes of rock-hewn churches and houses.

Sover återigen vid en bensinstation längs med vägen, denna gången ägd av en Mehmet som talar bra tyska (min mycket sämre än hans, men ändå åtminstone lite användbar).

Lämnar Helena (Samuel for till Istanbul igår) efter fyra underbara nätter. Givande möten, mycket Internet och total vila. Inga blickar över axeln när jag satt framför datorn; inga frågor om varför man inte upptäcker stan. Bara ren vila!

Ångrar mig snart för att jag inte tog något foto av dem tillsammans, eller Helena imorse åtminstone – inte första gången jag missar det.

Sover vid en bensinstation längs med vägen.

Från Istanbuls bustle n hustle följde två veckors cykling genom Turkiets gröna, lantliga norr. Svarta Havskusten var verkligen som utlovat överraskande oexploaterad – kanske tack vare ett något mindre klart och mindre varmt vatten än det i Medelhavet.

Från Izmit tog jag snart en av vägarna upp mot kusten, och varje dag bjöd på underbara möten. Först en natt hos en av byn Limanderes tre muhtar (ungefär bymästare/village headman). En kväll på byns chai saloon (tesalong) tillsammans med de andra äldre männen – cigaretter och te om vartannat – och snart kom också en inbjudan att skörda hasselnötter en dags cykling österut. I Acmabasi välkomnades jag av jämnåriga Erdem, som också pratade flytande engelska, och efter te, nötter, frukt och ‘Turkish delights’ på matta på gårdsplanen följde paketering av grannens hasselnötsskörd i 80-kilossäckar. Ett underbart lugn och en direkt känsla av att vara en med familjen. Vackra bergssluttningar tätt bevuxna av hasselnötsträd.

Två dagar senare möter jag Ahmet längs med en mindre kustväg. 70 år och aktiv fritidscyklist – denna dag från sommarhuset i Eregli – guidar han mig dagen ut längs ännu mindre, ännu mer kustnära vägar, som slingrar sig genom ömsom små byar; ömsom vacker grönska. Vid femtiden skiljs vi åt – ännu ett nära tårögt farväl – då Ahmet cyklar hem till Eregli och jag fortsätter österut.

Mina mål längs med vägen – beryktade ö-orten Amasra och välbevarade staden Safranbolu – är dock bägge besvikelser. Hotell och restauranger med turistpriser möter besökaren, och Safranbolu är fortfarande den enda orten hittills i vilken jag sett gatubarn. Det säger det mesta.

Istället blev det mötena längs med vägen som gav intryck och gjorde mödan värd. Camping med gendarmeriet i Ovacuma och tre nätters vila hos underbar familj i Karabük.