Road to Damascus
I haven’t yet met a person who really didn't care what other people thought of them. Indeed, there were a lot of people who presented themselves as completely independent of other peoples’ opinions, but that was just a part of a well designed act. It was important for them that other people thought of them exactly the way they wanted. Truthfully, there are only a few people who always stay true to themselves. They are those who really don't give a damn about other people's opinions. However, sooner or later those unfortunate ones experience the fate of people who cannot set themselves free from already mentioned behavioral patterns.
Simply put, like many who’ve been terrified of being outed as stupid, uninventive, a plagiarist, or a stuffed bird that with its trivialities annoys everyone, this blog is the result of an internal battle and conquered fear. Whatever will be, will be! There are many people who have something to say in this world. A few can even teach us a lesson. However, too many of them are afraid to make the wrong impression and thus remain invisible. Since a reader has more choices than a theater-goer who disturbs half of the audience to save himself from a bad a play, the danger of the sort does not exist here: It would be enough to say “what a piece of crap” to oneself and by simply moving a finger the blog would be gone forever. According to this, the following words, sentences and thoughts are the result of such dialectics.
Getting ready
Sometime in December, I was at one of “those” gatherings, hanging out with the guys, the bikers. There was a feeling that we all share the same body with the same beating heart. Various cheers were outdone only by flatteries we addressed to each other while the spritzers were pouring into our bodies when Mladen said casually: “What the hell, let’s go to Damascus.”
The next day, when the playfulness of the night was taken over by daily routine and when we had already returned to our bodies, I was positive that this trip wasn’t going to happen, as many other earlier plans we had made while sharing the same body had failed. By then, I had already been on two, for me, serious bike trips: to Morocco, that same year in spring and Tunisia in November. Although I asked many friends to come with me, in the end I traveled with my sons. I went to Morocco with Marko after picking him up in Barcelona from where we continued the trip as travel buddies and to Tunisia with Filip who rode a V-Strom, while I strutted my feathers on a brand new BMW GSA.
Parents are well known and well experienced child abusers and, naturally, they are completely unaware of it. It’s difficult to say whether Marko and Filip joined their “old man” in a bike adventure because of the damaging effects of child abuse. Whatever the reason, I had a great time, like a parent who always feels great when they “ask“ their son to fetch them something “on the way”. Who knows, maybe the abuse cycle would have been broken sooner just by hearing: “Fuck off, get it yourself!” In that case, I would have taken both road trips alone, which isn’t nearly as fun as when you have company.
Nevertheless, things didn’t turn out so gloomy after all because during our next gathering (the body, heart and spritzers pouring into our bodies) approximate dates of our departure and return were set. Thereupon, week after week, as the months passed, January, February and March, things were becoming more tangible. Since I picked up an infinite number of useful information for my previous road trips on a bikers forum (www.ukgs.com) I posted on that site an open invitation to anyone who was interested in taking a “Road to Damascus” trip. Only a few days after I had posted the invitation, a Nigel Brook from London contacted me. One year before, he had been to Lebanon where his daughter studied Arabic, so he thought to himself: “Why not”. It was March, a month before our departure, and the rough itinerary was planned but I was hysterical as nothing worth mentioning had been happening, so I sat on my hog and drove off to England to meet Nigel. Although it was perfectly clear to me what it was all about (yet again, indescribable boredom!), a tentative explanation of my adrenalin rush had to be given to family, friends and colleagues.
First of all, the weather forecast was as expected; it was the beginning of March and there was snow in the Alps! One wouldn’t need short sleeves for many more months, not even where I was planning to go. To everyone who explicitly asked me “Well, what the f*** is wrong with you?” or to those who just gave me a certain look, I seriously explained that you don’t go to Syria with someone that you had just met online. Although it was, honestly, all the same to me, it wasn’t very likely that Nigel was a serial killer who was looking for a new prey through UKGS.com. Other drawbacks, if there were any, didn’t pose an obstacle to me.
From the moment I had decided to take a trip to England, till the moment of departure on a Saturday morning when a small window of opportunity for a moderately acceptable weather appeared and the morning forecast predicted zero and eight degrees centigrade at midday, the pre-trip anxiety, planning the route, checking sites with long term weather forecasts completely suppressed my earlier psychological states.
Every solo endeavor of such sort is accompanied by an unusual thrill, almost a trembling feeling. The tension that both feeds you and kills you at the same time makes you dive into an enormous field of uncertainty. Despite the preparations and supposedly excellent equipment according to manufacturer’s declaration, I shivered from the cold at seven degrees centigrade below zero while passing Jesenice (Slovenia) on that Saturday morning. When a wild gale made me swerve from right to left, with each gust bringing more frozen air under my helmet visor, I considered returning home just in time for a cup of coffee at Britanac square[1]. The stronger part of me fought against this sensible idea (“wimp”) and while having this dialogue, this dilemma, I slowly devoured one kilometer after another. Salzburg, Munich, Stuttgart…
Every solo endeavor of such sort is accompanied by an unusual thrill, almost a trembling feeling. The tension that both feeds you and kills you at the same time makes you dive into an enormous field of uncertainty. Despite the preparations and supposedly excellent equipment according to manufacturer’s declaration, I shivered from the cold at seven degrees centigrade below zero while passing Jesenice (Slovenia) on that Saturday morning. When a wild gale made me swerve from right to left, with each gust bringing more frozen air under my helmet visor, I considered returning home just in time for a cup of coffee at Britanac square[1]. The stronger part of me fought against this sensible idea (“wimp”) and while having this dialogue, this dilemma, I slowly devoured one kilometer after another. Salzburg, Munich, Stuttgart…
The crew
A thousand years ago when pope Urban II was trying to assemble a crew for the first Crusade that was to free the Holy Land, thousands of hungry, soaking wet and frozen people dressed in rags went on their mission. They took the same path we were going to take and their prospects weren’t promising. Nevertheless, as towns fell one after another, terrified by the spectacle of horrific sights in front of their walls, the Crusades became more frequent. During these brutal military campaigns heads were severed, rapes and looting were committed on dusty roads - all in the name of an irresistible catchphrase “rescue the Holy Land” - made Richard the Lionhearted and Prince Saladin legends of our times and they will remain to be so forever.
Our mission had as much in common with the events that took place almost a thousand years ago as the Zagreb’s funicular has to do with flights to the Moon. Regardless, it’s interesting how Road to Damascus will bring together otherwise completely different people.
An insurmountable problem comes up when you decide to describe events when those who actually took part in them are still alive. It’s easy for the solo riders. They can write whatever they want about anything; they don’t have to explain themselves to anyone. It’s also easy for those who add elements of fantasy to their story. And nothing happens! Simply put, if you want to be honest and write about something your buddies took part in, well, it could end up with them never wanting to even look at you, let alone ride with you again.
Mladen is an interesting person; he has the interest of a Renaissance man and his desire for knowledge has made him an inexhaustible source of information. When you’re standing next to him and listening to his stories 
you always get the same feeling. You’re back in school and the teacher gives him a gentle pat on the head and says without even looking at you: “Children, look at Mladen. See how he knows everything.” His character is reminiscent of a Ridgeback: balanced, cautious, quick and intuitive. Otherwise, a Ridgeback has a completely expressionless face. It never changes and you can’t see any change in mood. His black beard, black mustache and black hair make him more of a portrait than a person. In that portrait the two pieces of glass he wears in front of his eyes are the crosshairs that aim at you; just like an oil painting that never take its eyes off you. You have a feeling that you can only get close to him when he removes his glasses to see something up close. Even that he does the wrong way around: because, for us, the regular people, that’s when we put our glasses on…
you always get the same feeling. You’re back in school and the teacher gives him a gentle pat on the head and says without even looking at you: “Children, look at Mladen. See how he knows everything.” His character is reminiscent of a Ridgeback: balanced, cautious, quick and intuitive. Otherwise, a Ridgeback has a completely expressionless face. It never changes and you can’t see any change in mood. His black beard, black mustache and black hair make him more of a portrait than a person. In that portrait the two pieces of glass he wears in front of his eyes are the crosshairs that aim at you; just like an oil painting that never take its eyes off you. You have a feeling that you can only get close to him when he removes his glasses to see something up close. Even that he does the wrong way around: because, for us, the regular people, that’s when we put our glasses on…
Nenad is a Labrador rescued from a shelter. He’s basically good tempered, but since he struggled at the shelter, he’ll reveal himself as good natured only when he is absolutely certain that his foster carers aren’t going to give him any crap that he is otherwise accustomed to. So he’ll growl or even bite you with or without a cause. A Labrador needs five days to adjust. Once adjusted, he makes a good candidate for a general knowledge quiz.
My son Filip is a Bernese mountain dog. He is big and strong and easily takes things 
as they come. There are three dominant states that Filip can be in: a hungry state, a tired state and a both tired and hungry state. The third state explains why no one can forget the presence of a Bernese mountain dog, yet they will, for their own safety’s sake, check whether he has everything he needs. When he is fed and rested he is an amazing travel buddy. And he will cut the most important part of a moussaka mixture with bits of everything at the speed of light. It wasn’t for nothing that those who thought highly of themselves placed the bobble head Bernese mountain dogs toy figures on their cars’ rear parcel shelves.
as they come. There are three dominant states that Filip can be in: a hungry state, a tired state and a both tired and hungry state. The third state explains why no one can forget the presence of a Bernese mountain dog, yet they will, for their own safety’s sake, check whether he has everything he needs. When he is fed and rested he is an amazing travel buddy. And he will cut the most important part of a moussaka mixture with bits of everything at the speed of light. It wasn’t for nothing that those who thought highly of themselves placed the bobble head Bernese mountain dogs toy figures on their cars’ rear parcel shelves.
Nigel is a Yorkshire terrier. You could eat him alive because he is so small and cute! He is intelligent, educated and well mannered. But he’d rather have a Rottweiler’s reputation. Since he, clearly, can’t pull that off, he backs away into a basket and shows his incessant dissatisfaction with his position in the world by constantly muttering to himself: “nyhrm, nyhrm, nyhrm.”
I’m a wild boar and a coyote half-breed. I say wild boar because most of the time I amuse myself with harmless grunting and rummaging through things that I find along the way. However, I’ve seen him in action 
once. He didn’t have a reason, no one wanted to rummage through his leaves, let alone shoot him, when the wild boar blew up and turned into a furious beast gone wild. See, I was referring to that whimsicality… I say coyote because traveling huge distances and wandering alone are simply built into his operational system. It’s difficult, of course to be honest to yourself. This part will be amended by my fellow travelers. But I remember when we were having tea in Damascus with a Syrian biker blurted out: “You’re a spitting image of Silvio Berlusconi”. Since I’ve spent all my life firmly believing that I look like Harrison Ford, hearing this made the wild boar wake up inside of the whimsical part of me. But, just one look at the superior laughter of the Bernese mountain dog and Ridgeback’s two aiming machines, turned me into a soft baby pig.
once. He didn’t have a reason, no one wanted to rummage through his leaves, let alone shoot him, when the wild boar blew up and turned into a furious beast gone wild. See, I was referring to that whimsicality… I say coyote because traveling huge distances and wandering alone are simply built into his operational system. It’s difficult, of course to be honest to yourself. This part will be amended by my fellow travelers. But I remember when we were having tea in Damascus with a Syrian biker blurted out: “You’re a spitting image of Silvio Berlusconi”. Since I’ve spent all my life firmly believing that I look like Harrison Ford, hearing this made the wild boar wake up inside of the whimsical part of me. But, just one look at the superior laughter of the Bernese mountain dog and Ridgeback’s two aiming machines, turned me into a soft baby pig.
Departure
The pack gathered early in the morning happily wagging their tails around the Bernese dog’s house on Friday, April 18. Nobody had any experience riding in a line of five motorcycles. The organized Ridgeback put an end to all questions and dilemmas with a suggestion that the wild boar/coyote should take the lead and later we would see how things would go.
Nothing worth mentioning happened for the first hundreds of kilometers, except I felt that we were taking incomprehensibly too long to travel the distances, that our stops last inexplicably long, that the members of the pack had spread too far from each other on the highway and that the Labrador lingered at least a kilometer behind everybody else. I tried everything. I drove more slowly, faster, gave signals, but the line remained equally dispersed and completely different from everything I had thought it would be like earlier and from what I had seen how bikers acted while I was riding alone. Nevertheless, the coyote in me was happy and the wild boar was harmlessly grunting.
Rain and pain
In complete accordance with the weather forecast, having traveled 600 kilometers, the rain begins to fall in the southeast part of central Serbia. The road starts cutting in between the mountains. The highway is long gone; the traffic is dense and after a turn, soon comes another. Our normally dysfunctional line, stops being that; before everybody would drive alone and you would only occasionally see members of the group. We agreed previously that whenever someone in the line turns on their hazard lights the others would pull over unconditionally. The idea was that everybody should pay attention to, as much as it is possible, to the person in front of themselves and by looking at the bike’s rear view mirror to check for the person behind you. Yes, it was supposed to work in theory! When overtaking started and white lines and intermittent traffic from the opposite lane were never ending, this rule started making no sense.
Nigel was in the lead, I was behind him, then came Nenad and Mladen and Filip was in the back. Since I couldn’t see Filip and Mladen in my rear view mirror for a long time, it seemed to me it had been at least half an hour, I turned on my hazard lights expecting that Nigel would pull over at the first appropriate place. And nothing happened! I pressed the throttle, got close to his fender, my lights were still blinking, I pressed the horn… Nothing! I couldn’t go around him, there was a line of trucks in the opposite way, as they passed they splashed us with water; I’d say ten liters with every wheel that passed us by. Nigel kept going; he didn’t care about what was happening behind him. I gave up and made a turn to the first rest stop to wait for others.
It’s clear that with such bad weather and disgusting road conditions, everything I see that is different from the expected, in an instant makes me doubt whether something bad has happened. OK, Ridgeback! But the Bernese Mountain dog… I make a turn filled with dreary thoughts and expect Neno would follow me. Wrong! He rushes right past me as if nothing happened. At that point, he was, evidently, still in the phase of testing his new foster parents’ credibility: ”Why’s this one turning right now? Does he want to send me back to the shelter?” A few meters down the road another dilemma prevails within him: “Why is this one turning? Does he want to abandon me?” So he makes a skilful turn in that crazy traffic and slippery road. He manages to pass between trucks and returns, turn, pass, turn, vrooooom, to the rest stop where he lands on me hitting my BMW with his side case and my bike and I both land into an unusually large heap of shit, which, of course, I haven’t noticed at all before. It takes me exactly the same time to free myself from under the bike and out of the shit, as it does for Filip and Mladen to arrive at the rest stop. The BMW is still on the ground covered with shit. Later that day, while we were enjoying a moment of peace and quiet in a bar in Sofia, I realize that, in the meantime, Nigel had texted me a few times asking where we were and that he couldn’t see us, etc. (“nyhrm nyhrm, nyrhm…”)
Sofia
There is something constant all over the world. Wherever I have been, I can’t remember a single uninhabited part of Earth, that is to say, a part of Earth where mankind hasn’t intervened in any way whatsoever for which could be said that it lacks harmony. Nature is perfect. The golden ration in this esthetics can be seen everywhere. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a mountain, plain, desert, forest or sea… Other principles are applied to towns. In recent times, an example of golden ratio can be seen in man-made 19th century urbanization and architecture. No expertise is required in assessing something like that since an inhabitant and a traveler will always feel comfortable in the oldest parts of European towns; that is why the way you feel while wandering through Zapruđe[2] is completely different from what you feel while wandering through Zrinjevac[3] or Gornji grad[4].
The harmony of city architecture, unfortunately, diminishes the more eastward you go. There are no firm boundaries but the size of the city area where you’ll feel comfortable in Amsterdam, London, Barcelona or Saint Petersburg is disproportional to its longitude. In the west those areas are the largest while in the east there are only a few enclaves here and there. Of course, such an arrangement of the world is only a consequence of lack of money and not the division of people to the better ones/the westerners or easterners. And from Balzac’s claim a long time ago, that behind every great fortune lies a great crime, it’s clear that the English, Spanish, Germans and other conquerors built beautiful cities in their home lands assisted by the prosperity that lasted at least a thousand years. This doesn’t apply to Sofia (and probably not to Niš or Pirot).
We enter Sofia washed down by monsoon rain. The pure whiteness of hundreds of satellite dishes that resemble shields and point to the southern skies are in grotesque disharmony with the muddy chaos of an enormous Gypsy slum situated alongside the road long after a sign indicated that we are in Sofia. The paved road full of holes suddenly disappears; road construction work is in progress. We turn into the liquid mud of the turnpike. The search for the hotel takes us into the eastern outskirts of the city. We see rundown apartment blocks built in the era of socialist prosperity, family houses that serve only as shelters from the elements, mud, cobbled roads, a house or two with a pagoda roof and an ambitious message from the owner saying: “I’ve made it!”
We find a hotel with extremely kind staff and a guarded parking lot only when we return to the city. It won’t stop raining. We take a cab to a lively barbecue restaurant “Happy grill” which is full of cheerful sounds of clanking forks, knives, glasses and plates and noisy munching.
The East has a unique charm. The limits to what is allowed and what is possible are shifted towards a place that makes “proper” westerners nervous because they don’t know where the catch is. Everything is possible in the East. The moment we dive our heads into the plates filled with delicious roast meat and šopska[5] salad, we are approached by a slightly slouched guy with a shaved head speaking an original mixture of Serbian, Croatian, Macedonian and Bulgarian. He straightforwardly explains to us, without being secretive, that he owns all the waitresses that we can see and if we wanted one… We continue eating; pretending that nothing unusual is going on. Rubelj grill[6], Ferenčina[7] and Laura Antonelli go through our head. Nigel instantly understood what this is about, and only he is under the weather. The guy with the shaved head, in spite of our silence, continues his story and takes around a hundred of business cards out of his pocket. “Italians and Turks are the best customers. They don’t even ask about the price. Israelis are kinky. They want the p****** looking at them while they play pool. Buddy, I have a thousand clients and I’ve been in the business for only eight years”.
We chuckled while looking first at the waitresses, then at the guy’s shaved head and then at Nigel, not knowing, actually, what to do. The night ends chastely and the frustration caused by a conflict between what is possible and forbidden and moral and corrupted at the same time brings us to the hotel in complete silence. Nigel speaks first: “I’m ashamed. I should’ve punched that pig right in his snout.”
In the morning we lazily get going. Meandering through the streets of an utterly drab city brings us to the highway to Istanbul. When you put a helmet on your head, it’s as if a machine starts to run, like a connection to the computer-generated reality in The Matrix; mostly because of the silence that suddenly prevails and an illusion of distance that is made between you and the world. It is completely invisible when the roads are jammed with traffic, but it becomes active in a quiet ride on empty roads. The visor turns into a screen and the helmet prevents your inner self to go any further away from your true self. And then the dialogue of your thoughts begins. Sometimes it’s colorful and cheerful, other times it’s as gloomy as blues and another time it’s absolutely nothing. Five hundred years ago, B. Pascal, armed with incomparably better equipment than the one my helmet was supposed to protect, used to jot down “Today, nothing.” while writing his Pensées.
Our group, while galloping towards Turkey, starts riding in a formation. On the highway we take up the entire width of the right lane. The leader is on the left side of the lane, followed by the next one riding at a distance to the extreme right and the next one to the extreme left of the lane… Zigzag formation switches to a line only when we overtake someone and after that we go back to zigzagging. Driving in the rear, no one can stay indifferent to the choreography of a well coordinated team. You can even see it in the glances people give us as they pass us by. We are a Roman legion marching in a formation of five.
A couple of hours after we left Sofia, we enter Turkey. A complete change takes place. The highway is perfect, it has three lanes and there's no traffic. They bring us tea at the gas station. And it will stay like that for the rest of the journey. I can’t remember if there was ever a time that we didn't get any tea as we filled up our tanks on our way through Turkey and Syria. The idyllic ride goes on for hours on a completely empty highway and it ends as we approach Istanbul. The traffic is heavy, and crossing the bridge over the Bosporus strait is completely crazy. It's as if all the Turks decided to go from Istanbul to Asia at the same time. The four lane highway (in one direction only) which you take to cross the bridge is not wide enough for people crossing to the other side. Cars are jammed, drivers honk and yell at each other and behind me I can hear an ambulance or a police siren. Nobody cares because there isn’t anywhere to go than to follow the flow of cars. Stop, go, stop, go… We are crossing the bridge at a slow pace.
Asia
It takes a few hours to cross the border and to get through the Istanbul traffic jam so it's late in the afternoon when we get to Asia. We sleep in Izmit, a harbor and probably a summer resort in the Sea of Marmara. We stay at a super luxury hotel, breakfast included, at the price of an apartment in Šilo on the island of Krk (with a sea view). It would take us hours to systematically turn the covers on the food that is served for breakfast the following morning.
The towns we pass through on our way to Syria are just dots on the map because we don’t have time to go sight seeing in any of them. A thousand years ago, it took one hundred days for the crusaders to cross the same distance that took us only ten hours.
Next morning, the rain keeps pouring down on us and continues to do so until Ankara. When we manage to pass the mountains above Izmit, the amazing two and three lane highway dives into the never-ending plains of Anatolia. We see pastures, blue mountains in the distance, a volcano, a salty lake and then, and all of a sudden, a town! I don’t remember its name, but the gaily colored skyscrapers of its neighborhoods and its parks, evidently built according to a development plan, appeared out of nowhere. There were no signs that we were approaching a town. There were no suburbs, no low buildings that elsewhere, usually, grow by the storey as you approach the center; the town simply showed up after making a turn. The same can be applied to Ankara, the only difference being that we were able to watch it grow, the closer we were.
The suburbs were obviously run down by the growing city, but you don’t have the feeling that something was violated. The architecture of new housing projects is more suitable for a modern age that favors height. A great part of the Anatolia plain is at an altitude of around 2000 meters. There are no forests, only pastures which sprawl as far as the eye can see, to blue volcanoes, painted with white snow. That is how towns in Anatolia, thanks to their harmonious urbanization interrupt the continuity of infinity in a nonviolent way.
The legion rides on a straight road almost completely alone. Thoughts: the Turks have a history of conquering, just like all great European nations. They ruled Asia for five hundred years and made camp outside Vienna. Experience in organizing a country was gained through time and they were successful at it, otherwise there wouldn’t have been so many conquests. Nowadays, Turkey is a modern country and their diligence and hospitality, based on what we experienced as passengers, cannot be compared with what we see at home. The roads are amazing. Turks want to join the European Union (EU) because they believe they belong there. Following this experience, I feel the same, even more so after seeing Bulgaria. There is no consistency in the policy on accepting new EU members. Croatia is like Switzerland when compared to Bulgaria, yet we have to ingratiate ourselves to the stuck-up European bureaucracy and prove that we belong to the same community of nations. What about Turkey? Supposedly, Austrians said that if Turkey joined the EU, they would leave! From my point of view, the door is wide open. Is this about a covert Christian fundamentalism that wages war in Afghanistan and Iraq and therefore doesn’t want to have a Muslim Trojan horse in its lap? How stupid! By integrating Turkey, Europe would actively be in touch with the rest of 1.6 billion Muslims worldwide. The reasons against Turkey joining the EU, Christian fundamentalism aside, aren’t perfectly clear to me; do they include their anti-Kurdish policies and genocide against Armenians? Wasn’t Europe bathing in blood for a thousand years, the last time being only seventy years ago? Where seems to be the problem? Are the Crusades still going on?
About 30% of world population is Christian and 25% is Muslim. According to research 40% of religious people practice their religion. Nonetheless, research proves that believers give false answers when questioned on how regularly they go to church. Does it make any sense to extrapolate, in this equation, only 20% of all religious people on both sides of the devout world as those who influence, on one hand, the making of radical decisions on the war in Iraq and Afghanistan or denying Turkey to join the EU and those who see jihad as the path to liberation? However, many have dedicated their lives to prove that there are many doctrinal differences between Islam and Christianity and many gave their lives for those doctrines. The dialogue I was having under my helmet didn’t stand a chance to reach anyone, let alone to influence anything.
And please: This blog is no Holy Scripture. A blog favors all kinds of comments. Thanks to modern times, it is a perfectly unique way of communication between the writer and the reader.
On Our Way to the Border
A passerby sees a beautiful watch in the window of a shop in a Jewish town and asks the owner how much it costs. The owner says drily: “The watch isn’t for sale. We do circumcisions.” “So why did you put a watch in the window?”- persisted the customer. “And what do you think, what were we supposed to put in the window?”- asks the owner. And that’s the point of marketing: to make you buy things you don’t need and which, thinking with a clear head, you know don’t have the advertised traits. That can be applied to the announcement: “I’m gonna get laid!” However, this is only a travelogue and not a porn shop. Since the blog has no window, the marketing scam serves the same purpose as anywhere else; to make you read something that you really don't need to!
From Ankara, we head to the south of central Anatolia, towards Adana. Since the road begins to leave that incredible and infinitely vast plain, we cross numerous viaducts and bridges over the abysses of mountains snow covered tops. We descend on a steep highway, again the traffic is heavy and the road is wet from light rain. We drive slowly, 60 to 70 km/h. I feel my rear wheel skid several times while changing gears. It’s a biker's nightmare! There’s a greasy, oily, God knows what kind of film on the road. We can’t see anything, it’s dusk, and cars and trucks chaotically rush around us, overtaking on the left and on the right. Since everybody is trying to fight for their life, the legion is dispersed and I can’t see anybody anymore. Last time we stopped at a gas station, we decided to spend the night in Tarsus, a small town not for from Adana, St. Paul’s home town.
Dark premonition again; a highway with three lanes, slippery road, steep down-hill, maniacs rushing at every single available piece of road like kamikaze, sirens, Asian chaos, the one who travels faster is stronger. Suddenly, in the dark behind me, I notice bike lights; Nenad storms by me; Filip follows suit. Are they racing? They rushed by at double the speed I have been riding. Ok, at least Filip is in one piece. But, what the hell. What's the hurry? We’ve already missed one of the exits for Tarsus. They don’t have maps, no navigation, no clue as to where we are heading. Mladen and Nigel are nowhere to be seen. Completely crazy from the tension created by concentrating on the driving and with questions that I have no answer to, I rush after them, overtake them, turn on the hazard lights and they follow me to the nearest rest stop. Mladen and Nigel also arrive.
Getting off the bike, I can feel that I’m still shaking. I yell at everyone like some kind of a madman on a conceptual stage lit by headlights. They’re quiet, nobody is saying anything. Mladen is laughing: “Man, that’s not good for your health…” OK, at least everybody is here. We go Tarsus, and the hotel is full. They give us the address of a hotel in Adana. Completely exhausted, we throw our things into the hotel rooms. Filip and I don’t even feel like changing our “uniforms”. As dusty as we are, we head to town with Mladen for an Adana-kebab. Nigel and Nenad fail to show. I guess everyone has their own way of dealing with a tumultuous and dangerous last part of that day’s trip.
Saul
Many conversions are not historically significant facts; people convert Dollars into Euros, they convert to another religion or become supporters of a different political party, the good convert to bad, but also, the bad convert to good. No one looks at a convert with a sympathetic eye. Nevertheless, the conversion of Saul of Tarsus is never taken as an example of a bad character. Saul was a Jew in the employ of the Roman Prefect, but he was also known for his zealous persecution of Christians during the 30s A.D. In the year 38 A.D., while traveling on duty from Jerusalem to Damascus to arrest the Christian minority, he heard the voice of God just as he was about to enter the city, and fell blind to the ground. His conversion was completed in a house in Straight Street in Damascus, where his followers had taken him, and where, by the grace of God, his sight was returned and he opened his eyes as Paul, a follower of Jesus of Nazareth.
In the Christian doctrine, the road which Paul took is called The Road to Damascus. Our adventure, on the other hand, had nothing to do with that, at least not in a doctrinal kind of way. The conversion of Zdravko Tomac[8] also made a big splash: from a follower of the cult of the SFRY (Socialist Federative Republic of Yugoslavia) to a bland Social Democrat, then to the extreme left, only to become a servant of God. Conversion to good should not raise any eyebrows; or would it be better for him to still be consistently advocating the SFRY? Or Thomas Becket under Henry II of England?
Syria
It is not far from Adana to the border, only a few hours’ ride. We ride mainly along the Mediterranean coast, along historical locations of antiquity. At the mouth of the river Pinarus, near the village of Issus, Alexander the Great defeated King Darius of Persia in the year 333 B.C. According to some historians, thousands of corpses formed a dam and stopped the flow of the river, and Darius fled, having come face to face with the unstoppable Alexander. This victory bolstered Alexander’s further advances deeper into Asia. The area from around here all the way to Iskenderun is today’s centre of heavy industry of southern Anatolia. Iskenderun is the Arabic name for Alexandretta, a city built under the orders of Alexander the Great after the battle with Darius. In spite of the winds blowing from the Mediterranean, the smog is thick and hundreds of furnace chimneys and the flames of refinery torches drive us away.
We cross the border at a place called Reyhanli. Crossing the border and entering a second or third world country is an exceptional event and I feel obliged to write a few lines about it. Not so long ago, in SFRY, the level of tension rose as you came nearer to the border. As you would approach a border patrol officer - a cold, arrogant and superior robot - would immediately start a police interrogation of the accused. And the crimes were always there; in the form of laundry detergent, coffee and shoes. “Where have you been? What did you buy? How much did you spend?” The plea was usually – not guilty (“Just some trinkets for the kids”). The man wouldn’t give up: “Open the trunk…” You stupidly, but with a benign look on your face, completely disarmed and helpless, stand by the car as your mind wanders from the image of Stjepan Filipović[9] and the cry “Death to Fascism! Freedom to the people!” to the strategy of a wet cat, as the man takes out a bag with valves in it and asks “Who has the central heating system?”
To enter Syria one must set aside four hours. Lebanon and Morocco are a bit more efficient with three hours, while Tunisia is over in just an hour and a half. There is an office window for checking passports, one for issuing visas, another for paying the entry fees, a window where you get forms for the temporary import of 
vehicles, a window for import fees, a window for the inspection of paid tourist fees, another for the inspection of accurately filled-out vehicle forms, one for the inspection of paid fees, a window for temporary vehicle insurance and, usually, a window for the inspection of everything mentioned above. Every one of these offices will confirm its operation with a stamp. There are at least a hundred vehicles on the border crossing and every vehicle is full of passengers; there is no queue of any kind, but rather, every vehicle is trying to inch its way closer to the border line. Meanwhile, the passengers from the vehicles are milling around the window offices trying to get the attention of bureaucrats by shouting and waving their documents in the air. The clerks, on the other hand, are brusque and whimsical. They take the documents according to their mood or simply get out of the booth and disappear. During that time you have no way of knowing whether you are standing in front of the window you are supposed to be standing in front. I have no clever advice to give to anyone who decides to tackle crossing the Syrian border, except maybe to seek the help of so-called fixers who stand around offering their services. These are the people who, for a small fee, “handle” the paperwork.
vehicles, a window for import fees, a window for the inspection of paid tourist fees, another for the inspection of accurately filled-out vehicle forms, one for the inspection of paid fees, a window for temporary vehicle insurance and, usually, a window for the inspection of everything mentioned above. Every one of these offices will confirm its operation with a stamp. There are at least a hundred vehicles on the border crossing and every vehicle is full of passengers; there is no queue of any kind, but rather, every vehicle is trying to inch its way closer to the border line. Meanwhile, the passengers from the vehicles are milling around the window offices trying to get the attention of bureaucrats by shouting and waving their documents in the air. The clerks, on the other hand, are brusque and whimsical. They take the documents according to their mood or simply get out of the booth and disappear. During that time you have no way of knowing whether you are standing in front of the window you are supposed to be standing in front. I have no clever advice to give to anyone who decides to tackle crossing the Syrian border, except maybe to seek the help of so-called fixers who stand around offering their services. These are the people who, for a small fee, “handle” the paperwork.
When, at last, you get through the throng and to the slot, and if you are lucky enough that this is the slot in charge of the paper you have to give to the border patrol officer, then your passport and the paper requiring a stamp will be thrown on the side, on a pile of a hundred or so identical documents. You become aware of this just as you have pushed your way through to the window. After that you start going around the booths, where you lie in wait for your paper to be handled because when this is done, it is simply put on another pile. You can get it back only when you scream and shove your way back to the window and somehow explain to the man to give you back your passport, which he does with no enthusiasm whatsoever. Providing he does not ignore you. Peering through the window from the outside, you realize that everyone who made their way to the window and handed over their passport had attached within their documents a bank note which is skillfully extracted on the other side of the window and immediately slipped into the pocket of the border patrolman.
Whatever business you might have with civil service in second and third world countries, a special reward paid to the official is a common form of behavior. It seems to me that this reward will not cause him to be any more polite or make him do his work faster, but rather, that he will finish the job by the end of office hours. Only the fixers get through this faster, as their hand doesn’t move from the window until they get back what they had handed to the clerk with all the necessary stamps. I suppose they have a special arrangement, as I didn’t see any money change hands while peering through various windows.
As expected, along with the indispensable mega billboards of president Bashar al-Assad striking various poses and the sign saying Welcome, there are also a lot of Warnings for guests signs posted all around. These state that Syria is a country with zero tolerance for corruption and listed are phone numbers of the Ministry of Police, the head of the border crossing and others, which you call to report any such incident. Corruption starts when you stand on a crossroad in the middle of the night, when there isn’t a ghost on the street, let alone traffic, and you decide to cross the road in spite of the red pedestrian light. Corruptus is the past perfect tense of the verb corrumpo, corrumpere – to destroy, to destruct, to break. Waiting for the light to turn green when there is no traffic is as absurd as insisting that an upturned chair has a function as furniture. Nevertheless, unlike the upturned chair, ignoring the red light signifies a departure from the norm, which, on an individual level, is a departure from the principles of a state based on law, because it destroys and corrupts it (corruptio). And how many such departures are done each day by many? In the unkempt countries of the third world such departures go unnoticed, despite the number of “regulated crossings”. However, if you find yourself in Stockholm and do the same thing you will feel the surprised look of the local witnesses on your back, if there are any. And so, bit by bit, persecuted by fire and sword, in the sorted-out part of the world, corrumpere disappeared from the streets to settle in the higher echelons, mainly between government officials. And here, in the dust of poverty it reigns from the very bottom up to any form of government.
Aleppo
Thrilled that the final stamp had been acquired, we slowly ride to Aleppo, the second largest city in Syria. Roman ruins are scattered everywhere beside the road. Some have hovels leaning against them and ancient window arches and walls turned into fences of humble estates make the sight look surreal. But also full of life because even the Palace of Emperor Diocletian (Split) after he had died was also converted to provided shelter for many.
In Syria, the satellite navigation no longer works so we stop as we enter the city and ask for directions. We find the hotel Baron without any trouble and after a short dispute over non-available rooms which are actually 
available we enter the cult location of the Syrian hotel business. T. E. Lawrence, later known as Lawrence of Arabia, stayed here at the beginning of his Arabian adventure, probably in the summer of 1909. As a student he visited the fortifications from the crusades in Syria on foot and during three months he walked 1600 km. As an employee of the British Foreign Office and with a reputation of an expert in the area of Syria, fluent in both spoken and written Arabic, he joined the uprising of the Arabs against the Turks at the beginning of World War I. He commanded many battles alongside King Faisal, liberated Aqaba and entered victorious into liberated Damascus in 1918. Faisal’s dream - as well as his promise to the Arabs - that the victorious world powers will enable the 
formation of a large Arab State (as it was one of the goals of the Great war), was betrayed by England and France which divided Arabia according to their zones of influence. At the time Lawrence didn’t know that in 1916, in the heat of the Arabian uprising, England and France had formed an agreement according to which southeastern Turkey, northern Iraq, Syria and Lebanon went to France, while Jordan, southern Iraq and the area around Haifa went to Great Britain. Betrayed and disgraced, he retired to England where he described his adventures in the book Seven Pillars of Wisdom. He died in a motorcycle accident in 1935. Also in this hotel, Agatha Christie began or finished her novel Murder on the Orient Express which, at the time, was claimed to be the fastest and most comfortable way to travel between London and Baghdad. The trip took seven days and the train stopped in Zagreb.
available we enter the cult location of the Syrian hotel business. T. E. Lawrence, later known as Lawrence of Arabia, stayed here at the beginning of his Arabian adventure, probably in the summer of 1909. As a student he visited the fortifications from the crusades in Syria on foot and during three months he walked 1600 km. As an employee of the British Foreign Office and with a reputation of an expert in the area of Syria, fluent in both spoken and written Arabic, he joined the uprising of the Arabs against the Turks at the beginning of World War I. He commanded many battles alongside King Faisal, liberated Aqaba and entered victorious into liberated Damascus in 1918. Faisal’s dream - as well as his promise to the Arabs - that the victorious world powers will enable the 
formation of a large Arab State (as it was one of the goals of the Great war), was betrayed by England and France which divided Arabia according to their zones of influence. At the time Lawrence didn’t know that in 1916, in the heat of the Arabian uprising, England and France had formed an agreement according to which southeastern Turkey, northern Iraq, Syria and Lebanon went to France, while Jordan, southern Iraq and the area around Haifa went to Great Britain. Betrayed and disgraced, he retired to England where he described his adventures in the book Seven Pillars of Wisdom. He died in a motorcycle accident in 1935. Also in this hotel, Agatha Christie began or finished her novel Murder on the Orient Express which, at the time, was claimed to be the fastest and most comfortable way to travel between London and Baghdad. The trip took seven days and the train stopped in Zagreb. 
The Hotel Baron used to be a very elegant hotel and still has some of its old glow. Although it is run down, it is still a frequent destination for the few foreigners that come to Aleppo because of its historical significance.
Gin and tonic instead of beer, we thought, on the terrace of this hotel at the close of our first day in Syria, is a far more adequate way of paying respect to this brave and unique Englishman, a fellow biker, whose life was a first-rate 
adventure and his role a key one in the unification of Arabs. Conditioned by prejudice of the dangers of Muslim fundamentalism picked up through life on CNN and the debates in the European Parliament about burkas, about covered faces and about building mosques in Europe, we happily conclude that there is an unusually high number of Christian temples.
According to official Syrian demographics, 10% of the Syrian population is Christian .JPG)
and they participate in government and hold important positions in the military. Multiculturalism is present at every corner; some of the women are completely covered, you can’t even see their eyes, others are covered but their eyes are visible, some have only the head covered, and then there are some who glide through the city in jeans and tank tops.
and they participate in government and hold important positions in the military. Multiculturalism is present at every corner; some of the women are completely covered, you can’t even see their eyes, others are covered but their eyes are visible, some have only the head covered, and then there are some who glide through the city in jeans and tank tops.
The Sound and the Fury
Life in Arabian cities is comparable to stream-of-consciousness novels inasmuch as it is a continuous stream of smells, sounds and a wild nervousness that prevails in the city. European cities are odorless. All clean and neat, they smell of aftershave.
At the Suq al Atiq bazaar, thousands of bales of tea, pepper, cinnamon, vanilla and freshly slaughtered lamb hung so that their blood would drain away, sheep’s heads, living plucked chickens which shiver featherless and wait for their turn to become someone’s lunch with a soundtrack of hellish noise made by vendors, mopeds, porters, and customers in their endless bargaining make this colorful world exciting for only a moment. The bustle of every city, like the intersection of Vukovarska and Miramarska[10], or the Christmas atmosphere of Avenue Mall[11], invites you to do some irrational activity, because nor can you sit and enjoy your gin and tonic at the intersection – you cross it and move on; neither is Avenue Mall the place to stop and think about your destiny in this world. Nevertheless, Avenue Mall in its most active is like the Congressional Library compared to the bazaar.
At the Suq al Atiq bazaar, thousands of bales of tea, pepper, cinnamon, vanilla and freshly slaughtered lamb hung so that their blood would drain away, sheep’s heads, living plucked chickens which shiver featherless and wait for their turn to become someone’s lunch with a soundtrack of hellish noise made by vendors, mopeds, porters, and customers in their endless bargaining make this colorful world exciting for only a moment. The bustle of every city, like the intersection of Vukovarska and Miramarska[10], or the Christmas atmosphere of Avenue Mall[11], invites you to do some irrational activity, because nor can you sit and enjoy your gin and tonic at the intersection – you cross it and move on; neither is Avenue Mall the place to stop and think about your destiny in this world. Nevertheless, Avenue Mall in its most active is like the Congressional Library compared to the bazaar.
The Desert
We get out of Aleppo with the help of the manager of the Baron who showed us the way by leading the succession in an ancient American limousine. Burdened with water, each of us with about 5 liters, we ride through the valley of Euphrates a few hundred kilometers to the medieval fort of Qualat Jabar, which used to 
be right on the bank of Euphrates, but now stands on the bank of Asad, an artificial lake.
be right on the bank of Euphrates, but now stands on the bank of Asad, an artificial lake.
According to the statistics on my navigational device, we did 7497.2 kilometers in 91 hours (counts only when the motor was running), with an average speed of 59 km/h. That time was spent in meditation; almost four days and four nights.
As we move away from the green valley of Euphrates the world around us turns ocher. The road is narrow and at times covered in sand blown across the asphalt by the winds. But the ride is easy, careless.
Thirty years ago, the Negev desert represented the 
first encounter with the universal mystique that the desert possesses and an experience which will inevitably be brought home by anyone who has ever stepped foot into any desert.
I don’t know what the elements of the desert’s mystique are, but as you think about it, you think about notions, or rather, ideas in the Platonic sense: purity, harmony, the beginning of existence or its end, the harmony of the inner (you) with the external (desert). You merely have to cut the engine only to be overcome by the motionless silence of the ocher in which you, a trembling desert mouse, suspect that it’s telling you something about the spiral of human existence, the beginning of which, or the end, is right here
where you are standing. But you can’t hear well, you’ve been deafened by the noise of previous experiences, so you scream demanding evidence, “black on white”, and of course, as always, it’s in vain… And here, it becomes clear to you why Jesus, Mohammed and Abraham took the inspiration which was needed to change the world from the desert.
first encounter with the universal mystique that the desert possesses and an experience which will inevitably be brought home by anyone who has ever stepped foot into any desert. I don’t know what the elements of the desert’s mystique are, but as you think about it, you think about notions, or rather, ideas in the Platonic sense: purity, harmony, the beginning of existence or its end, the harmony of the inner (you) with the external (desert). You merely have to cut the engine only to be overcome by the motionless silence of the ocher in which you, a trembling desert mouse, suspect that it’s telling you something about the spiral of human existence, the beginning of which, or the end, is right here
where you are standing. But you can’t hear well, you’ve been deafened by the noise of previous experiences, so you scream demanding evidence, “black on white”, and of course, as always, it’s in vain… And here, it becomes clear to you why Jesus, Mohammed and Abraham took the inspiration which was needed to change the world from the desert.
We don’t belong here; we are intruders, just like the one Wenders made of Harry Dean Stanton in (LINK!) Paris, Texas. We bring noise and filth. We ride frantically, as if conquering the territory, kilometers go by, and like Harry Dean Stanton we don’t have the “Other” from (LINK!) Eliot's poem with us, visible only to me, and not to the others.
The Touaregs, a nomadic desert people we occasionally come across, truly belong to this world where they roam with their goats and camels in search of scant pastures. When they are not travelling, they sit in front of their tents and sip tea. They exist wholly in the present, and the future is irrelevant to them. We regard the present as the time to make plans for the future. This is why it sometimes seems that you don’t have any present because you spend your time making plans, and the future does not belong to you by pure reason of the case. So where are we?
The Touaregs, a nomadic desert people we occasionally come across, truly belong to this world where they roam with their goats and camels in search of scant pastures. When they are not travelling, they sit in front of their tents and sip tea. They exist wholly in the present, and the future is irrelevant to them. We regard the present as the time to make plans for the future. This is why it sometimes seems that you don’t have any present because you spend your time making plans, and the future does not belong to you by pure reason of the case. So where are we?
We ride through the ocher for hours. We make a quick stop in the middle of the desert, at the ruins of the immense Roman military camp Al Resafa where extensive excavation has yet to begin. We want to reach Palmyra by nightfall. We don’t listen to the advice of a shepherd, a Touareg boy, or even of a driver of 
some overloaded van because we know better so we end up making a wrong turn and end up 200 km to the east. This is an area of activity of the American Expeditionary Forces in Iraq, which we earlier decided to avoid lest we became the target of some projectile guided from outer space. In spite of a certain tension this navigational error had caused we spent the day riding along a winding asphalt line through the southeastern part of the Syrian Desert, back to the valley of Euphrates, to the cheerful town of Dayr az Zawr, located only a 100 km from the Iraqi border.
some overloaded van because we know better so we end up making a wrong turn and end up 200 km to the east. This is an area of activity of the American Expeditionary Forces in Iraq, which we earlier decided to avoid lest we became the target of some projectile guided from outer space. In spite of a certain tension this navigational error had caused we spent the day riding along a winding asphalt line through the southeastern part of the Syrian Desert, back to the valley of Euphrates, to the cheerful town of Dayr az Zawr, located only a 100 km from the Iraqi border.
Palmyra
Googling Palmyra yielded unexpected results: Palmyra, an uninhabited atoll in the Pacific, a town in the state of New York, a town in the state of Pennsylvania currently celebrating its two hundred and fiftieth anniversary, a four-star hotel in Greece, an excavation site of an ancient city in Syria, (a world heritage site) and a type of tall Asian palm tree.
If I had known the results provided by Google on that hot morning when we set of from Dayr az Zawr and headed west, I would probably amuse myself under my helmet by thinking about the uninhabited Pacific atoll, ignoring both towns in the USA and the four-star hotel. If I had known the options, I’m convinced that I wouldn’t have devoted a single thought of my under-helmet soliloquy to the ruins but my imagination would take me to the south seas and the small uninhabited atoll. Perhaps I would have thought of Christian Fletcher, the first mate of the Bounty and the leader of the mutiny against Captain Bligh. I would probably wonder what went through his head when he named his son, born on Pitcairn Island in 1790, Thursday October.
Wandering the seas in a ship and wandering the land on a bike is in many respects similar: both activities have the irresistible smell of adventure about them. The rudder and the handlebars are, in fact, two very similar devices; there isn’t a helmsman or a biker in the world who will claim that you can have complete control over the ship or bike by relying solely on the rudder or handlebar. The boat is governed by the element in which it is immersed and by the wind that aerates it. The rudder is here to give it a gentle and unpretentious nudge in order for it to change direction. An experienced helmsman will test the boundaries of possible turns only in dire need. The motorcycle, in a similar way, has a life of its own: sometimes completely detached from the will of the driver if found on an unpaved road. Rock, dirt and sand under the wheels fling it from side to side. Someone who enjoys navigating a ship in conditions when the sea is anything other than calm will probably also enjoy riding a bike through the woods, off the beaten path.
Wandering the seas in a ship and wandering the land on a bike is in many respects similar: both activities have the irresistible smell of adventure about them. The rudder and the handlebars are, in fact, two very similar devices; there isn’t a helmsman or a biker in the world who will claim that you can have complete control over the ship or bike by relying solely on the rudder or handlebar. The boat is governed by the element in which it is immersed and by the wind that aerates it. The rudder is here to give it a gentle and unpretentious nudge in order for it to change direction. An experienced helmsman will test the boundaries of possible turns only in dire need. The motorcycle, in a similar way, has a life of its own: sometimes completely detached from the will of the driver if found on an unpaved road. Rock, dirt and sand under the wheels fling it from side to side. Someone who enjoys navigating a ship in conditions when the sea is anything other than calm will probably also enjoy riding a bike through the woods, off the beaten path.
We arrive at Palmyra’s forest of Corinthian columns around noon. Palmyra is an ancient city supposedly founded by King Solomon. Located on a caravan trade route towards the Mediterranean, it peaked in the first and second centuries A.D. when it was presumably the wealthiest city of the ancient world. The monumental remains of this huge city still astonish, primarily by the sheer size of the main thoroughfare, probably the shopping mall of the time where people are dwarfed by the size of the columns. And indeed, a few days later when we were sitting on the steps of the temple of Jupiter in Baalbek, Mladen was right to say that by looking at the remains of such beauty and architectural harmony he was overcome by sadness rather than joy.
It would seem that even three thousand years is not enough for people to learn anything. The ancient 
civilizations of Egyptians, Chinese, Sumerians, Persians, Incas, Mayans, ancient Greeks, Roman, Byzantines, Ottoman Turks, who could count them all, were all wiped out without a trace, apart from a few historical 
facts, practices and myths. What would the world be like today if the development of human civilization had been a continuum and not a hysterical graph with only a few ascending lines? Palmyra is a vast city; it stretches further than the eye can see. Just the main thoroughfare, the shopping mall, which is now reduced only to columns and the stone slabs it was paved with, is more than a kilometer long. A theater, temples, baths, remains of residential buildings. It’s all here.
civilizations of Egyptians, Chinese, Sumerians, Persians, Incas, Mayans, ancient Greeks, Roman, Byzantines, Ottoman Turks, who could count them all, were all wiped out without a trace, apart from a few historical 
facts, practices and myths. What would the world be like today if the development of human civilization had been a continuum and not a hysterical graph with only a few ascending lines? Palmyra is a vast city; it stretches further than the eye can see. Just the main thoroughfare, the shopping mall, which is now reduced only to columns and the stone slabs it was paved with, is more than a kilometer long. A theater, temples, baths, remains of residential buildings. It’s all here.
Of Gasoline and Existentialism; Desert Storm
The day was on fire. It was unbearably hot and we could hardly wait to get on our bikes and move on. The plan was to reach the Lebanese border by dark. The road was good, the traffic non-existent, so we raced south. The wind in your face can quickly get the heat down.
Because we have different bikes the mileage also differs so we had to fill the tanks at different times. Early stops cause tension with others who have to stop later, and the other way around. It took a few thousand kilometers for us to get into sync and in order to save time it was decided that everyone should fill up when the first one of us ran out of fuel. A deceptive unity was in the air but with every stop each one of us, glancing at the gauge, was repeating the mantra “When do you stop for gas? Is it when you come across a gas station or when the tank is empty and you have to look for one?” The next in the series of existential dilemmas is “When do you eat? When you have food (in the fridge, for example) or when you are hungry?” In the later case, speaking for myself, I never had a doubt that the right answer was - I eat when there is food. Gasoline is a different matter, because I’d rather fill up when I’m empty, rather than when I see a station. Luckily we are in the desert and subsequently we fill up as soon as we come across a station.
A few more words about filling stations! A tired, frozen or drenched biker considers a station, whatever it may be like, a sanctuary, a safe haven from the wild elements. Once I rode from Zagreb to Barcelona in one piece, 1700 km. If there hadn’t have been stations I would have gone mental. With the destination ahead, your adrenaline fueled life force starts to fade as your spine, hands and, of course, your behind become stiff. You catch yourself in an argument between the corruptible “you” inclined to comfort, and the stern and capricious “you” who taunts the weak one with “we’re going to the next one, 50 kilometers to go.” After the 50 kilometers you stop and you don’t jump off in the dazzling style of a young Clint Eastwood, but slowly lower your trembling legs until they touch the asphalt and slowly straighten yourself until all your limbs start working properly again and then it’s a quick limp to the warmth of a sweet-smelling shelter. Once inside you lay low at first, breathing in deeply the smell of warmth, the light and the delicacies in the showcase. And the diversity between stations is amazing! There are luxuriously baroque ones, minimalist modern ones, small and simple ones: gasoline, coffee, light bulbs, sprays… As you don’t know what kind you’ll get, you spend the 50 km intently thinking about what it will be like and what awaits you there.
At one moment we stop in the middle of the road because the desert seems to have risen ahead of us. The sky on the horizon has been completely replaced by an opaque mass of ocher and in the distance our road is 
beginning to disappear. In the next few moments the whole horizon around us was in a beige tone and the dark parts of the ocher were coming toward us with dramatic speed. As a boy I had read in the prose of Henryk Sienkiewicz about desert storms which cover living people. We jumped off our bikes and hastily covered them with tarpaulin and we, with our helmets on our heads, took shelter in the wreck of a bus by the side of the road. The wind threw the cold ocher in 
our faces, wrapped it around the cabin of the bus and the world became a two-dimensional sfumato for the next hour. When we noticed the first signs of traffic crawling past us we realized that the drama was over. Nevertheless, we spent the next hour waiting for Syria to regain its sharp edges.
beginning to disappear. In the next few moments the whole horizon around us was in a beige tone and the dark parts of the ocher were coming toward us with dramatic speed. As a boy I had read in the prose of Henryk Sienkiewicz about desert storms which cover living people. We jumped off our bikes and hastily covered them with tarpaulin and we, with our helmets on our heads, took shelter in the wreck of a bus by the side of the road. The wind threw the cold ocher in 
our faces, wrapped it around the cabin of the bus and the world became a two-dimensional sfumato for the next hour. When we noticed the first signs of traffic crawling past us we realized that the drama was over. Nevertheless, we spent the next hour waiting for Syria to regain its sharp edges.
Advancing much slower now, because of the wind threatening to fling us off the road, it became clear that Lebanon was too far away to reach by dark. Never mind, we’ll ride to the next town and look for accommodation there. We found our shelter for the night with the Touaregs, in Caffe Baghdad. A typical, humble low-rise, more of a garage actually, which was covered in cozy carpets and low furniture. The friendly hosts bring us tea as they struggle with the screeching door that the howling northern wind is constantly opening. In the meantime, Mladen’s bike was
knocked down on the hard sand by a violent gust of wind. The host offers us accommodation on the carpets of the hovel next to this one, because, apparently, even the doctor sleeps there when he is around.
knocked down on the hard sand by a violent gust of wind. The host offers us accommodation on the carpets of the hovel next to this one, because, apparently, even the doctor sleeps there when he is around.
Encounters in the desert are very unusual: it’s as if primal kindness replaces the law. In our world, everything is regulated: strangers sleep in hotels and eat in restaurants; familiar people come only after they’ve announced their arrival. Everything else is considered inappropriate. This summer, an Irish biker had lost the drive on his bike in the Mongolian Desert. He camped by the bike for two days and two nights hoping that someone would come along. And when someone did appear, they loaded his bike onto a truck and drove him a thousand kilometers (1000 km!) to the next town, through wastelands we can’t even conceive of as there are no roads in Mongolia apart from those around cities. His trip took four days and four nights. A shake of the hand and – Salam Alaikum! Without asking for a penny. (http://backtobroke.blogspot.com/2010/03/that-i-may-die-roaming.html)
As the sun set, without even asking us, the hosts began to take out pots which contained a modest but delicious dinner. They waited for us to finish eating and then they, themselves, the whole family of about ten, 
sat down on the carpets. Some sort of tranquility occupied the garage as they slowly ate and talked. Haste is impolite in Touareg culture. We observe them, and although it may seem that we have also become calm, it is evident that we belong to a different world. The nervous restlessness, concerns, plans; it’s all going wild inside us while they talk slowly and for a long time, immersed in the desert, about an uneventful day, apart perhaps from the storm.
sat down on the carpets. Some sort of tranquility occupied the garage as they slowly ate and talked. Haste is impolite in Touareg culture. We observe them, and although it may seem that we have also become calm, it is evident that we belong to a different world. The nervous restlessness, concerns, plans; it’s all going wild inside us while they talk slowly and for a long time, immersed in the desert, about an uneventful day, apart perhaps from the storm.
Beirut
I have no idea, actually, what we were hoping for when we left for Beirut. I’m not even sure what peoples’ hopes are when they decide to travel. But, when you look closely at the faces of people, tourists who get off a cruiser, or the faces of people who follow their guide’s colorful umbrella, then those faces exude apathy and boredom. I’m convinced that, if it could be seen, the expression on their face would be ridden with joyful enthusiasm and happiness when they were planning the trip that so deeply disappointed them.
Trips cost money and demand sacrifices. Many reasons are given for those sacrifices: “we’re tired, we need change”, “we want to get some rest”, “we’ll experience cultural diversity…” and endless variations on the same theme. Each reason, somehow, relies on the human soul that supposedly wants change, rest, and new experiences. But it seems that exactly because of this misconception many get disappointed: a human soul won’t change in any way whatsoever by traveling; if it’s tired and fed up with the monotony of life, it will return even sicker from that trip, a common symptom easily visible to anyone who takes a look at tourists’ faces. And it takes very little time for tourists to figure out that they won’t get what they were hoping for when they arrive to their destination. The path to happiness is a bit harder to find.
According to Epicurus, one needs to strive hard to find it, whereas Alain de Botton says that all who think that they would by going on a trip return happy - even though it’s supposed to be a dream trip to the most exotic place you can imagine where no autumn or fog ever comes down - are mistaken. People travel, naively believing that their anxiety ridden state will be blown away by the winds of the southern seas. Wrong! Everything you take with you to the tourist paradise, will come back home with you. With a few extras: debts, mosquito bites, diarrhea...
We approach Beirut by crossing a huge viaduct over the Bekaa Valley and only one side of the viaduct is 
open for traffic. It was demolished during the last attack by the Israelis on Hezbollah camps a few years ago. It has been reconstructed but not completely. We found a place to stay in a small resort in the Chouf mountains, southeast of Beirut not far from the small town of Zahlé. That part of Lebanon is predominantly Christian, but they are divided into three churches: Maronite Church, Armenian Orthodox (aka Gregorian) Church and Greek Catholic Church. Sunnis and Shiites inhabit the northern part of the Bekaa Valley, and the Shiites who live in that part of the world were made famous by Hezbollah, a political and paramilitary organization with radical Islamic goals. Abandoned machine-gun nests, fortifications and an occasional tank left to rust can be seen everywhere.
open for traffic. It was demolished during the last attack by the Israelis on Hezbollah camps a few years ago. It has been reconstructed but not completely. We found a place to stay in a small resort in the Chouf mountains, southeast of Beirut not far from the small town of Zahlé. That part of Lebanon is predominantly Christian, but they are divided into three churches: Maronite Church, Armenian Orthodox (aka Gregorian) Church and Greek Catholic Church. Sunnis and Shiites inhabit the northern part of the Bekaa Valley, and the Shiites who live in that part of the world were made famous by Hezbollah, a political and paramilitary organization with radical Islamic goals. Abandoned machine-gun nests, fortifications and an occasional tank left to rust can be seen everywhere.
Since we spend most of the day in our bike saddles anyway when we arrive the day’s more than 12 hour ride hasn’t made us feel too tired, we have already got into quickly get into our “long distance” travel shape. We quickly get into our “long distance” travel shape. We take a cab to Beirut, which is 30 kilometers .jpg)
away, a miniature Hyundai that took five of us, plus the driver, from the mountains to town. On the way, we get stopped by the army at a few check points hidden behind bunkers made of sand bags and barbed wire. What can we expect? Vukovar? The civil war raged in Beirut for fifteen years. Christian Phalanges, Shiite militia, Sunni militia, Druze, PLO (Palestine Liberation Organization), East and West Beirut, Israeli invasion, Sabra and Shatila massacres, Syrian invasion, US bombing, peace core, one hundred thousand people killed, almost a million people displaced from their homes, the 2005 Rafik Hariri assassination with explosives equivalent to around 1000 kilograms of TNT that completely destroyed the surrounding buildings, up to Waltz with Bashir, an Israeli animated documentary about the occupation of Beirut and the sufferings of those who were there at the time.
away, a miniature Hyundai that took five of us, plus the driver, from the mountains to town. On the way, we get stopped by the army at a few check points hidden behind bunkers made of sand bags and barbed wire. What can we expect? Vukovar? The civil war raged in Beirut for fifteen years. Christian Phalanges, Shiite militia, Sunni militia, Druze, PLO (Palestine Liberation Organization), East and West Beirut, Israeli invasion, Sabra and Shatila massacres, Syrian invasion, US bombing, peace core, one hundred thousand people killed, almost a million people displaced from their homes, the 2005 Rafik Hariri assassination with explosives equivalent to around 1000 kilograms of TNT that completely destroyed the surrounding buildings, up to Waltz with Bashir, an Israeli animated documentary about the occupation of Beirut and the sufferings of those who were there at the time.
The freshly washed face of the new Beirut leaves us flabbergasted. Anywhere, absolutely anywhere, we can’t see the agony the town went through. On the contrary! Shiny glass skyscrapers, fancy stores, restaurants, 
people walking, rollerblading, jogging on a kilometer long granite paved promenade alongside the Mediterranean shore. It’s a city that lacks character but looks like it can pass as Nice or any other town on the other side of the Mediterranean sea. There is no Middle East in this city! According to research by New York Times, Beirut was rated #1 Tourist Destination in 2009. Lonely Planet added a few additional preposterous attributes.
people walking, rollerblading, jogging on a kilometer long granite paved promenade alongside the Mediterranean shore. It’s a city that lacks character but looks like it can pass as Nice or any other town on the other side of the Mediterranean sea. There is no Middle East in this city! According to research by New York Times, Beirut was rated #1 Tourist Destination in 2009. Lonely Planet added a few additional preposterous attributes.
We’re aimlessly wandering the streets of Beirut and dragging our feet on the promenade looking for anything that could make our dreams come true. Nothing! Yet, the true horror starts as the sun sets. In an intermittent line of hundreds of Ferraris, Lambourghinis, Rolls Royces, Aston Martins and custom made two seaters, not to mention Porsches, Mercedes, BMWs and Jeeps, ostentatiously cruise the streets of Beirut. Shaved heads, necks adorned with thick gold chains and their dressed up dates are enjoying the deafening sounds of pseudo folk that are coming from their cars. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? We found a safe place in a restaurant that was recommended in one of the guidebooks similar to Lonely Planet; “A pleasant restaurant with an original atmosphere and excellent food.” The food wasn’t better nor worse than what we had already tried elsewhere without any recommendations: typical eastern Mediterranean food; plenty of chopped braised vegetables and small pieces of meat with salad. The “original atmosphere” was created by the owner who would, in an intervals of every 10 minutes or so, go to the entrance door and shriek a hoarse “Welcome”, making more customers fall into the trap.
Ridden with boredom, with the same facial expressions as tourists on a cruiser, we grab a cab and escape to the mountains. On our way through the center of the city, across the Martyrs’ Square, we observe the silent symbols of the fragile peace: one next to the other, brightly lit, Mohammad al-Amin mosque built in 2002 and a Maronite cathedral.
Ridden with boredom, with the same facial expressions as tourists on a cruiser, we grab a cab and escape to the mountains. On our way through the center of the city, across the Martyrs’ Square, we observe the silent symbols of the fragile peace: one next to the other, brightly lit, Mohammad al-Amin mosque built in 2002 and a Maronite cathedral.
Baalbek
Approximately a hundred kilometers west of Beirut, there are Roman ruins of a giant temple of Jupiter. But to get there you have to go through several villages, small towns and cities that are controlled by the Hezbollah. As we enter that territory the scenery changes: dust clouds from cars and cattle on a completely pitted road that is under some kind of reconstruction brings us back to Asia, while the images of the extremely boring Beirut are suppressed by the anxiety that lasts for the entire duration of the trip. Hassan Nasrallah or Abas al Musawi posters in military uniforms, both of them armed and dangerous, are looking at us. The latter was assassinated in 1992. Since they look alike, you can’t really tell who is who. They seem thrilled, AK-47 in their right, mildly 
raised hand, celebrating their victory over the Israelis in the latest armed conflict. There is something threatening in the air! A bit further down, in the middle of the road, a monument representing a bullet riddled Israeli tank lifted high up in the air, and again, one of those two, stands victoriously. The atmosphere remains tense till we enter the temple.
The size of the temple takes our breath away. There are many theories on how it was made. It seems that the Greeks were the first to use the foundations of the temple of god Baal and having built their shrine the Romans used the remaining parts of their temple and built what has remained to this day making it eternal as one of the World wonders. The Pax Romana territory (peace inside the Roman Empire) was fairly fragile so they had to build something as imposing in its size to bear witness to the power of the builders and discourage potential invaders. The complex of the temples of Jupiter, Venus and Bacchus surpass in size alone everything the Romans have ever built, including in Rome itself. There are pillars that are the size of a six-story building! We climb the stairs struggling as though we were hobbits and dive into the shadow of Goliath’s pillars.
Our attention is drawn by the graffiti that is carved into the granite surface by the first tourists several hundred years ago. Messy doodles breathe life into these silent and timeless remains of Roman glory thus making the anonymous vandals enjoy the honors someone else was entitled to in the past.
May the Force Be with You
Lebanon is as far to the east as we’ll go on this trip. It’s morning, we start the trip back. We’ll see Damascus on the way. The mood under the helmet, if it were musical, would be some sort of a mixture of an energetic solo by Alvin Lee and the larger than life rhythm that follows it (LINK: Ten Years After, I'm coming home) but also an elegiac Tom Jones (LINK: Tom Jones, I am coming home).
On the Lebanese – Syrian border we encounter the usual chaos. But we are experienced now and do everything alone; we don’t need fixers to help us. Each of us is in charge of a different task and that way we’re more efficient: assertive Nenad with the noise that he makes and his decisiveness is the first to stand in line in front of each booth. Nobody dares to stand up to a Great White Man. Mladen is on the lookout for possible mistakes in the protocol; Filip brings us tea that is sold by an old man; I take care of the bikes. A young man approaches me and asks if these are our bikes. He says he’s from Beirut, that he’s a biker himself, that he’s on his way to Damascus by car and asks whether he could help us out somehow. I ask him for advice on where to spend the night in Damascus to which he readily answers that he’ll arrange everything with the bikers from Damascus with whom he is in touch and text me the directions. And so it is, right after crossing the border, Wael texts me the address where the Syrians will be waiting for us.
On the Lebanese – Syrian border we encounter the usual chaos. But we are experienced now and do everything alone; we don’t need fixers to help us. Each of us is in charge of a different task and that way we’re more efficient: assertive Nenad with the noise that he makes and his decisiveness is the first to stand in line in front of each booth. Nobody dares to stand up to a Great White Man. Mladen is on the lookout for possible mistakes in the protocol; Filip brings us tea that is sold by an old man; I take care of the bikes. A young man approaches me and asks if these are our bikes. He says he’s from Beirut, that he’s a biker himself, that he’s on his way to Damascus by car and asks whether he could help us out somehow. I ask him for advice on where to spend the night in Damascus to which he readily answers that he’ll arrange everything with the bikers from Damascus with whom he is in touch and text me the directions. And so it is, right after crossing the border, Wael texts me the address where the Syrians will be waiting for us.
It doesn’t take more than ninety minutes of an easy ride to get from the border to Damascus. Following the instructions, we enter the city. Asia, according to our first impressions, doesn’t live here either: modern multi-lane roads, beautiful buildings and mansions, well kept trees lining the streets. We, naturally, have no .JPG)
idea where we are but we easily find the café where we were instructed to go. It was boiling hot so we gratefully throw ourselves into the arm chairs in the whiteness of the air- conditioned café. Everything is spotlessly clean. This café could be anywhere in the world: a few young customers are on their laptops; an American rock jazz is playing and the espresso costs more than in Zagreb. What kind of a city is it? Where have we arrived?
idea where we are but we easily find the café where we were instructed to go. It was boiling hot so we gratefully throw ourselves into the arm chairs in the whiteness of the air- conditioned café. Everything is spotlessly clean. This café could be anywhere in the world: a few young customers are on their laptops; an American rock jazz is playing and the espresso costs more than in Zagreb. What kind of a city is it? Where have we arrived?
Since we, just like Luke Skywalker, took Obi-Wan Kenobi’s advice (“Use the Force, Luke”, “The Force will be with you, always.”), we just casually took it easy and were open to new experiences… Outside, The Force appeared soon and in the form of Luey, a robust looking man of average height with a shaved head and a neck adorned with a thick gold chain. He was joined by a friend, a little shorter and with less jewellery. Luey aptly jumps out of his white Mercedes convertible and looks at his huge watch on his left wrist and says: “Sorry friends for being late; there’s been a traffic jam.” No questions asked, he orders another round of what we were already having. While the rest of the pack was lounging lazily on the sofas of the white café I was already sitting in his convertible, breathing in the scent of brand new plastics and checking countless dashboard gauges and small displays. A few traffic lights and turns later, we were already in the lobby of a hyper luxurious hotel.
“Wait a little bit for me here, I’m going to check whether there are any vacancies.” While I was tallying my impressions of previous experiences: Hotel Baron, dozens of irrelevant places mostly with clean sheets where we spent the night, a night in the desert, sleeping on the carpets with the Touaregs and this gold-plated hotel lobby. He returned after a few moments: “There are vacancies, but they charge 250 dollars for a room. We won’t pay that much, let’s see the manager.” I followed him as he walked briskly. Everybody was greeting him cordially. We passed through the secretary’s office as though we were invisible, except for a few casual chitchats as he was opening the door to the manager’s office, habla, habla, habla… Darth Vader, whom I thought would be running this luxurious hotel, was actually an extremely beautiful woman, dressed in European clothes and was sincerely glad to receive unexpected visitors. Five minutes later we got the rooms for a quarter of the previous price. “The Force” was evidently with us.
Damascus
Luey disappeared, and left the other trustee of the Force, the nice Ammar, to take care of us. He checked whether we were all comfortable in our lavish nest and gave us directions to the best restaurant in town. He also scheduled a meeting for the next day to take us to see less known sights in Damascus.
Luey disappeared, and left the other trustee of the Force, the nice Ammar, to take care of us. He checked whether we were all comfortable in our lavish nest and gave us directions to the best restaurant in town. He also scheduled a meeting for the next day to take us to see less known sights in Damascus.
Damascus is a town with thousands of years of history. According to historians, it is the oldest continually inhabited city in the world. Somehow we didn’t feel like leaving the comforts of our hotel, huge marble bathrooms where we, slowly and thoroughly, removed the accumulated dirt and dust. But we managed to leave the hotel at sunset and spent some time bogged down with thousands of other vehicles in a traffic jam half way to the Old Town. We decided to leave the cab and quickly crossed the broad avenue of modern Damascus on foot and entered the Old Town through former city gates that once served as the entrance to the city. The old Damascus seems rundown and it’s not likely that it will manage to withhold the pressure of a modern and overpopulated city that wants to rise to the sky. It’s late and the souq (an Arab market place) is already closing shops. The roof of the spice souq hasn’t been refurbished for at least a hundred years. The holes in the roof were made back in 1917 when Lawrence of Arabia victoriously rode into the city with King Faisal and the army that euphorically fired bullets into the roof. We pinpoint the places that we planned to go sightseeing tomorrow: Hammam and Umayyad mosque; We then rush through the Straight Street where Saint Paul completed his conversion to the Naranj Restaurant with its roof terrace where we look over over dozens of plates filled with Middle Eastern specialties. From the terrace we enjoy the view of minarets and towers of Christian churches.
The morning started early, Ammar is waiting for us in the lobby and he manages to squeeze all of us into his enormous jeep. He speaks English fluently and he learned it, as he says, in California where he lived for several years. Now he works as a pilot for a Syrian airline company and flies an Airbus. He bought us breakfast in a traditional diner where the staff never stops serving extremely delicious food. Stomachs full, the pack separated: Mladen, Nenad and Nigel go exploring the historical remains of the Old Town while Filip and I go to a glass manufacturing plant where people still blow glass dishes in the old-fashioned way, at a 
temperature of 70 degrees centigrade.
Ammar leaves soon and we drag ourselves lazily around town moving away from the mercurial bazaar, with its smells and sounds, to the spacious yard of Umayyad mosque, which is one of the oldest ones in the world. Transcendental peace dominates the spacious yard where a few visitors walk around barefoot. We’re lying in the yard and daydreaming. Unlike us, who will leave soon, rested, at this exact spot, the unstoppable Turkish leader Saladin, the nightmare of King Richard the Lionhearted, found his final resting place.
temperature of 70 degrees centigrade. Ammar leaves soon and we drag ourselves lazily around town moving away from the mercurial bazaar, with its smells and sounds, to the spacious yard of Umayyad mosque, which is one of the oldest ones in the world. Transcendental peace dominates the spacious yard where a few visitors walk around barefoot. We’re lying in the yard and daydreaming. Unlike us, who will leave soon, rested, at this exact spot, the unstoppable Turkish leader Saladin, the nightmare of King Richard the Lionhearted, found his final resting place.
Hammam
We all met at the hammam late in the afternoon. There, as well as at other places that we’ve seen by now, it’s as if someone turned back the clock at least 600 years. Everything but the service at the hammam stayed exactly the same as it was in the Middle Ages. The intense feeling of “being stuck in a time warp” is not an obvious byproduct of a city policy to preserve the city’s heritage. It sometimes felt even older than it was exactly as a consequence of the absence of such a policy. Well, that’s Asia. Parts of old Damascus have been irretrievably lost and replaced with roads or modern buildings. That is exactly the reason why the UN put the Old Damascus on the World Heritage list, but Syrians couldn’t care less about that.
“Spa” in the modern language only seemingly has the same meaning as “hammam”. Both share the notion of “public bathhouse”, yet “spa” implies that there is an additional offer of a pretentious hotel or a classy “beauty center” service. Hammam, where we met with the rest of the group that day, has an important social component: it’s a place where men and women go, except to take baths and get massages, to meet in their separate sections. After we have removed our clothes, we got fresh towels to cover up our nudity and disappear in the labyrinth of spacious halls and niches filled with dense clouds of hot steam. Hot and cold water is flowing everywhere. I haven’t seen anybody from the team for a whole hour, except for an occasional apparition wrapped in a towel. “Hot room” is actually a sauna in a marble room with an arched ceiling. In the dark, barely visible through the steam, I see two men who won’t stop talking scrubbing each other’s back with a loofah sponge. Then one of them turned around and pointed to my back, offering the same service, to whom I thanked clumsily and went on my way soaking wet from sweat and steam, and perhaps panic. In the tremendously big and well lit “warm room”, through the fog I see a few men sitting on the floor. Some are scrubbing their feet; others just sit there and let the water coming from the wall, fall on them. There are niches around to ensure privacy; some use them to shave their private parts there, which is common among Muslims. I scrubbed myself with a loofah and that caused a burst of laughter from one of the men watching me. He readily stood up and reached for my back with a loofah he took from a nearby basket. I signal to him that I’m incredibly grateful and rush away. A man is lying on a marble table, on his stomach. There is no nudity. Everybody is wrapped in towels and a giant man of huge proportions with a shaved head and Nietzsche’s mustache towers above him. Somebody is having a massage during which the body of that person is jumping back and forth and banging against the stone table to the rhythm of Goliath’s hands. One can hear cries.
This brings back the memory of the torture that Lawrence of Arabia underwent when he was caught by the Turks. While writing this story, I looked up his description in Seven Pillars of Wisdom: “To keep my mind in control I numbered the blows, but after twenty lost count, and could feel only the shapeless weight of pain, not tearing claws, for which I had prepared, but a gradual cracking apart of my whole being by some too-great force whose waves rolled up my spine till they were pent within my brain, to clash terribly together. Somewhere in the place a cheap clock ticked loudly, and it distressed me that their beating was not in its time. I writhed and twisted, but was held so tightly that my struggles were useless. After the corporal ceased, the men took up, very deliberately, giving me so many, and then an interval, during which they would squabble for the next turn, ease themselves, and play unspeakably with me. This was repeated often, for what may have been no more than ten minutes. Always for the first of every new series, my head would be pulled round, to see how a hard white ridge, like a railway, darkening slowly into crimson, leaped over my skin at the instant of each stroke, with a bead of blood where two ridges crossed. As the punishment proceeded the whip fell more and more upon existing weals, biting blacker or more wet, till my flesh quivered with accumulated pain, and with terror of the next blow coming. They soon conquered my determination not to cry, but while my will ruled my lips I used only Arabic, and before the end a merciful sickness choked my utterance.”
This brings back the memory of the torture that Lawrence of Arabia underwent when he was caught by the Turks. While writing this story, I looked up his description in Seven Pillars of Wisdom: “To keep my mind in control I numbered the blows, but after twenty lost count, and could feel only the shapeless weight of pain, not tearing claws, for which I had prepared, but a gradual cracking apart of my whole being by some too-great force whose waves rolled up my spine till they were pent within my brain, to clash terribly together. Somewhere in the place a cheap clock ticked loudly, and it distressed me that their beating was not in its time. I writhed and twisted, but was held so tightly that my struggles were useless. After the corporal ceased, the men took up, very deliberately, giving me so many, and then an interval, during which they would squabble for the next turn, ease themselves, and play unspeakably with me. This was repeated often, for what may have been no more than ten minutes. Always for the first of every new series, my head would be pulled round, to see how a hard white ridge, like a railway, darkening slowly into crimson, leaped over my skin at the instant of each stroke, with a bead of blood where two ridges crossed. As the punishment proceeded the whip fell more and more upon existing weals, biting blacker or more wet, till my flesh quivered with accumulated pain, and with terror of the next blow coming. They soon conquered my determination not to cry, but while my will ruled my lips I used only Arabic, and before the end a merciful sickness choked my utterance.”
I enter the “cold room” where everybody is lounging about on the carpets and sipping on jasmine tea brought by the staff.
Heading home
It is early morning in Damascus. The legion is ready to leave before sunrise. The city barely awake, the roads are not congested. From today onwards, we’re on our way back home. Everybody is happy and excited. We’re going home: “ It’s journey into a childhood, walks with old friends that are no longer here; conversations with former lovers, therefore, it’s the journey to the hearthstone” (H. Hesse, The Journey to the East). There is no traffic in the Syrian province so we glide through the desert, then valleys, a village here and there, mountains, I react automatically, can’t even hear the bike, I’m listening to opera on my iPod. It takes us hours to get to Crac des Chevaliers, a Crusaders’ fort that even 
Saladin failed to conquer. A hundred years later a trick had to be played for the castle to be taken. Crusaders, followed by the Templars ruled here for two hundred years. And they left their mark: as we pass the villages around the fort, we notice that most of the inhabitants there have a fairer, European complexion, and that many are blonde or redheaded. There are churches in the villages. Regardless of the war brutalities, severed heads, sieges lasting for months at a time, life will always take its path.
Early in the afternoon, we arrive to the Turkish border, to a town called Kassab, a small border crossing. Unlike the entrance to the country, it takes only a few minutes to leave Syria. Several hours later we get to Adana and stay at the same hotel. A Captain’s dinner and Adana-kebab is on the menu.
The next two days that it took us to return home, were filled mostly with driving; the legion marches in a formation of five, we were already home in our minds.
Epilogue (Does travel change people?)
If Magellan had made another decision in the morning of April 27, 1521, and if he hadn’t disembarked on a small and completely irrelevant island in the Philippine Archipelago where he tried to christen the chieftain and his subjects by force (which he had been doing successfully till then) he would’ve come back to Spain alive where he would have spent the rest of his life enjoying his fame and well-being as, probably, one of the richest Spaniards. Magellan’s incredible adventure started in 1519 when he set sail westwards across the Atlantic on five old, slow and partially reconstructed caravels with a crew of 237 men convinced there was another ocean far in the West of which stories had been told and which would take him, if he found the way to it, to the Spice Islands (now called Moluc Islands). This journey was incredible, to that extent that he, using basic navigational instruments and no maps whatsoever discovered a passage through South America - the Strait of Magellan that was named in his honor (incidentally, he was also the one to name the Pacific Ocean, Tepre Pacificum). He survived unthinkable storms, loss of ships, hunger, mutiny, polar cold, stood motionless with his fleet for months in the Pacific, baptized the inhabitants of many an island and then made a stupid decision to place yet another tribe under the protection of the Christian god. This reckless decision cost him his life. Magellan was severed with knives and pierced with spears; the only thing he could do while he was dying, according to the testimonies of the survivors, is to see his ship set off in full sail. Only 18 men returned to Spain after this epic journey.
David Livingston was made a national hero in England because of his successful work in exploring Africa where he spent most of his life. His journey started in 1840 when he first disembarked on African soil as a missionary and doctor. He was the first European to see the Victoria Falls in 1855. Livingston started a new expedition in 1864, when he was 53 years old, still searching for the source of Nile. Then, during that expedition, all contact with him was lost. For seven years nothing had been heard of him in his home country. The public was alarmed and the news that he was lost had already crossed the Atlantic. Journalist Henry Stanley accepted New York Herald’s proposal to organize an expedition and set out to find Livingston. After two years of searching, in 1871, guided by stories told by the natives about “a white man with a grey beard”, Stanley found Livingstone in Ujiji, in the heart of Africa. Livingstone welcomed the expedition sitting on a leather mat in front of a muddy hut wearing a tweed suit and a turban on his head from a worn-out shirt surrounded by natives. Appalled by his neglected appearance and the sight in general, Stanley, trying to hide his euphoria at finding the explorer alive, feigned the dignified demeanor of the English and approached Livingstone: “Dr Livingstone, I presume!”. Stanley stayed with Livingston for one more year and returned to his home country, unable to convince the famous explorer to return home. Livingstone decided to finish what he had started. A year later, Livingston died of malaria, and his body was carried for two thousand kilometers by his loyal attendants in their arms to give it to his family.
Both of these tragic stories about the lives of ultimate travelers speak more of ideals than of journeys. Travel will change a traveler in much the same way as any other event significant to human existence: birth, love, sickness, betrayal or death. With no ideals life would be unbearably empty and would look like a cage with a gerbil’s wheel.
The bar is set a little bit higher every day. Who runs, needs to run an extra stretch. Climbers, therefore, climb higher. Who gives, has to give more. And vice versa: who restrains, has to try harder. Without it, the anxiety of repetition will prevail. Consequently, so did we, in our little Universe, during the trip accomplish both more and less at the same time, attaining the ideals of pleasure, friendship, knowledge and suffering. That is exactly what our journey was all about.
Next travelogue: 5.200 km trip to Ireland with Ana and crisp French bread with butter
[1] A coloquial name for a famous square in Zagreb called Britanski trg (Croatian for British square)
[2] First modern neighbourhood unit in Zagreb built in the 1960s
[3] A park in the center of Zagreb
[4] Croatian for Upper Town which is one of the oldest parts of Zagreb
[5] A very tasty salad made with fresh cucumbers, tomatoes, feta cheese, red onion, paprika, oil and vinegar
[6] A Croatian chain of fast food restaurants serving ćevapi and pizza
[7] A restaurant in Zagreb called Laščinska klet
[8] A prominent Croatian politician and author, also a former member of the Croatian Parliament
[9] S. Filipović (1916-1942) was a Yugoslav Partisan who was executed during World War II and posthumously declared a People's Hero of Yugoslavia
[10] A very busy intersection in Zagreb. A place where traffic jams occur frequently
[11] A shopping mall in the new part of Zagreb
A very erudite and enjoyable read? Also very impressive given that English seems not to be your native language. In 2006 I made a trip through Syria, my last backpacking trip before I switched to my own wheels. I am looking forward to returning in the not-too-distant future.
ReplyDeleteI love your description of the difference between a European city and a Middle Eastern one. It's often hard for me to articulate to people that, to me, European cities are generally just piles of bricks, while cities such as Istanbul, Aleppo, Damascus, Jerusalem, Cairo etc seem almost like living organisms.
An interesting point you make about tourists not finding happiness. I try to avoid meetings with tour groups but am familiar with the faces you describe. Somewhere there is a blurry boundary between tourist and traveller. Long term travel certainly makes me happy, at least until I get back to the mundanity of Europe.
Thanks for sharing your adventure. Good luck with your future trips.
One small correction; the people you met in the desert may have been Bedouins, who are not the same as Touaregs.