Who Stole Our Bikes Book 2

By Pamela Bowman

Continuing the young retirees twenty two month unique, challenging and adventurous journey from England, Bill and Pam, known on the road as The Oldies, have to date relished cycling through Belgium, Luxemburg, Germany and Italy.

Varying their mission when in Greece they decided to venture further south for the summer, stopping off at Crete before cycling Israel where they were conronted by guns!

Why was it not advisable to ride further south and explore Sudan? Would they really have been in that much danger?

There were many nervous moments, some quite traumatic, as they journeyed through Egypt then back again to Israel.

With a desire to see more of Europe they ferried back to Rhodes where a visit to Turkey was recommended. So off they went into the deep unknown. They were enraptured, but time forced them away, away to a nerve-racking bus trip north to Austria, then further north through Germany to Amsterdam where they visited the Van Gogh Museum and ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pamela Bowman
• Release date: Feb 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310315756

Pamela Bowman

I am a 6th generation Australian born in 1945. I am married to William and have two wonderful surviving sons, David and Michael, Wayne having passed away in 1998. I have two beautiful grand children, Vickie and Eric and one adorable great grandson Hunter. My next love would be travel. If it weren't for my family I would be quite content just traveling with William around the world and experiencing different cultures.I've always had a keen interest in sporting activities. I loved and participated in school sports days and played netball until motherhood and waterskied until our cycling journey. Golf then became my passion until back injury forced me into passive sports such as swimming, yoga and Pilates. To this day I still make time to keep fit.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Dedicated to our sons

David and Michael and

in Memory of Wayne

Special thanks to my son David and father Ross

who helped with the initial editing, the

Mutton Family who helped with the initial proof reading and

to our many friends and relatives for their input and

encouragement to write this story

- - - - - - - Denotes Countries Cycled

Chapter 1: CRETE and RHODES

Our ferry trip from Githio to the Cretan port of Kastélli was unforgettable. The weather was wild and the waves huge and menacing as the ferry rolled dangerously from side to side. Many people were sick, Bill included. There was nowhere to retreat except in our cabin. The toilets were a no-go. But passengers had to use them. We wondered if we would survive, so serious was the situation.

We did not sleep.

Thankful for the morning light, and seeing land in the distance, we began to relax and thank the heavens for seeing the night through. Safely on land, we had a quick look around the wharf, and wanting to push on, we cycled all day along Crete’s northern coast. Camping grounds had long since closed and the few rooms or pensions that were open offered no hot water.

‘There doesn't seem to be any hotels around either,’ Bill said, after many kilometres. ‘They usually have hot water.'

'We may have to wild camp wild,' I said. 'And forego that lovely hot shower!'

By late afternoon, in breezy but dry conditions, we set up camp on a private level building site, which had been excavated out of a high and prominent cliff face. After a walk down to the beach we settled in to enjoy the evening. Looking up into the star-lit sky and listening to the placid lapping of the ocean Bill remarked, ‘Who needs to go south with beautiful weather like this?’

‘What more could one want?’ I answered dreamily.

By 11:30 p.m. all placidness had ceased and panic had set in. Outside, our Trangier and other miscellaneous items were being picked up and strewn about by the most ferocious winds we had yet encountered. Bill shot out of bed like a startled rabbit, closely followed by me, and fighting the wind’s force, we scurried after our flying belongings, picking up what we could and tossing them inside the tent. Once back inside the tent, I became worried. ‘That wind’s so powerful,’ I commented. ‘It feels like the tent and all will go.’

‘It’s a heart-stopper all right, my dear. But don’t worry. Our additional supports are holding us down.’ But while the supports held, one by one the tent’s rubbers broke.

‘Help!’ I cried, as the last one broke, ‘I can’t see.’

Bill couldn’t either, although he knew what had happened. The tent had fallen in on top of us and he had to do something. Fighting for the opening and braving the difficult conditions outside, he replaced the rubbers as best he could, an all night job, while the wind relentlessly pounded away at our tent. Thankful for dawn, and with the weather still gusty, we were quickly on the road. Yet, ironically, once away from that spot, we would never have known a fierce gale had been blown. All the same, our minds were made up. Crete was not for us. We would chase the sun and travel further south, to the Middle East as planned, perhaps even spend Christmas in Jerusalem.

First, we had to reach Agios Nikolaos, the only port, we believed, where off-season ferries travelled to our proposed destination. Our decision made, and with perfect weather for cycling, we reached Iraklion that day and booked into the comfortable Blue Sky Hotel for two days. We needed the break. We had ridden for nine consecutive days. During our breather we wrote letters and generally unwound. Shopping always helped and Bill often went by himself if I was busy with the pen. On our second day there, Bill went in search of bread. Gone were the countries where packaged sliced bread was freely available. In Greece it was usually baked in the shop using the original brick or stone-built wood-burning oven, and it was always fresh.

Bill was looking forward to a fresh loaf, and although communicating with the baker was a problem at first, he was confident. But when the baker grabbed a loaf, put it on the scales and weighed it, he was confused. And when the baker grabbed another new loaf, put that on the scales, cut off a piece two inches thick and put that in the bag with the first loaf, he was speechless. Not wanting to make a fuss though, he quietly paid and exited the shop, his head still shaking in disbelief.

Two days later we arrived at Agios Nikolaos, the little port we had enjoyed so much with my parents. Our first task was to inquire about ferries and we were in luck. ‘Yes, there’s a ferry departing for Rhodes tomorrow,’ the booking clerk told us. ‘It will connect you with the ferry leaving for Cyprus and Israel.’

‘Then that means we’ll be in Israel before the twenty-fifth,’ I said with excitement.

‘Yes, but you must check with our office tomorrow morning. The sea has been rough and your ferry may be late.’

‘But there will still be more ferries leaving Rhodes though, won’t there?’ Bill asked.

‘Yes, the next ferry is due to leave on the twenty-seventh of December. The service only runs once a week in the winter.’

‘Just hope our ferry makes it tomorrow,’ I said to Bill as we departed the booking office.

‘She’ll be right. So far, so good. Now let’s find ourselves somewhere to sleep tonight.’

Instead of booking in with Mein Host on the esplanade we booked into a basic pension handy to the city centre. Refreshed after hot water showers we soon found ourselves sharing laughs and conversation with other guests. Two were fellow Australians - Alex and Julie. Their travelling companions were Americans - Shaun and Mary. Unlike us, each couple had their own kombi van. ‘But there’s nothing like a good old fashioned bed from time to time,’ one admitted. A third couple - Margaret and Don - were backpacking Canadians, and the only couple not booked to go to Israel. Not minding the cold, they intended staying in Crete for the winter. The rest of us were looking forward to the sun and thrilled with the opportunity of a Christmas in the Holy Land.

‘The sea is still too rough,’ the young lady said the next day. ‘It would not be safe. Please check in again tomorrow morning.’

Understanding, we were still disappointed. We had built our hopes up, but our safety was paramount. ‘We can still make it a good Christmas in Rhodes though,’ was Bill’s contribution.

‘Probably find it hard getting a bed in Jerusalem anyway.’

‘You’re right,’ everyone agreed, and we bunkered down to enjoying the wait.

At midnight Friday 20th December our ferry departed Crete. One and a half days later, with the company of newly found friends, we arrived at Rhodes. Exiting the ferry’s hold we experienced a peculiar feeling as we looked about us. ‘I must be dreaming,’ I said to Bill. ‘Can this be real?’ In front of our eyes was a massive stone-built wall dominating the wharf. Oviously ancient.

‘It’s real all right.’ he replied, ‘Imagine the hours of labour that went into this one.’

‘Heaps I guess,’ I said with emotion, ‘But where is everything? Where on earth are we supposed to start from?’

‘I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to follow the crowd until something turns up.’ Our friends, having their own vehicles, had gone their own way. They were self-sufficient and we envied them at that moment. They could go for kilometres in the wrong direction and it wouldn’t matter. But as for us cyclists, well, that did matter, we had to have a starting point.

We hadn’t gone far, no further than dockside actually, when we spotted a tourist bureau and hurried towards it. After securing our bikes, we entered. Inside was a-buzz with action and we had no trouble communicating with the first friendly assistant that came to our aid. ‘Can you help us?’ Bill asked in anticipation. ‘We need some information on camping grounds.’

‘I am sorry,’ she replied, ‘but all the camping grounds have closed.’

We were speechless, momentarily. We could understand the colder European countries closing for winter but Rhodes was renowned as a holiday destination with a temperate climate. ‘Where can we stay then?’ I asked, finding my voice.

‘There are plenty of pensions and hotels,’ she replied helpfully, ‘both in the old city and the new. Anyway, there’s no law against camping in the countryside.’ We looked at each other and grinned. Why not, we thought. Wild camping was discouraged in other parts of Greece. This could prove exciting.

We had promised to catch up with our friends for Christmas, but in the meantime we had two days to explore the eastern coastline of Rhodes. Thanking the lady, we headed for the nearest mini-market and stocked up with light food items. Self-sufficient, except for water, we headed south. The road was relatively flat, the weather beautiful, and we were enjoying ourselves. Only a few kilometres out of Rhodes, an unusual shaped building, half hidden behind colourful landscaping, caught my eye. Cars were stopping and people were going inside. I believed it needed investigating and sounded out Bill. ‘I know there are no signs,’ I began, ‘but if they didn’t want us to enter, you’d think they’d say so.’

‘Not necessarily,’ he replied as cautious as ever.

‘Come on,’ I begged. ‘We can always apologise if we’re not supposed to be there.’

Hesitantly, Bill secured our bikes. He was in a no-win situation and knew he couldn’t stop me. ‘Better I go with you than have something happen to you,’ he said dispassionately. Following the few wandering people down the slightly sloping hill, I could feel Bill wanted to be elsewhere. Yet once we reached the base he began to relax. ‘This place is huge,’ he said with awe. And he breathed deeply and took in the all-round view.

‘Beautiful surroundings too,’ I added as we walked its meandering paths, ‘Like a picture postcard. But it’s this grey concrete mass that amazes me. It’s so big, so solid. Wonder what they used it for?’

‘Beats me,’ Bill answered as we began walking from one cold concrete room to another. ‘There’s evidence of once utilised toilet blocks, and they’re everywhere. Perhaps the rooms may have been change-rooms for a former Grecian resort, or they could have been officer’s bunkers from World War II?’

We never did find out, but we loved the intrigue, enjoying our ignorance.

We wandered on at a leisurely pace until dusk, and then selected an earthy-type spot amongst some beautiful tall pine trees. We set up camp, the evening air weighing heavily as we collected firewood and lit our bushman’s fire. Hot glowing embers kept our bodies warm while potatoes baked and bread toasted and, after eating, we talked and gazed at the stars, agreeing how lucky we were. We could have stayed forever; such was our feeling at that moment. But our joy was short-lived. During the night we heard shotgun blasts. They sounded close, and if they were meant to frighten us, they did.

At daybreak, although all appeared normal, we still felt uneasy so headed back to the main road. Within a kilometre we spotted a roadside fountain gushing with clear, fresh spring-fed water. It was like a gift from heaven, a wild camper’s dream, and we were by its side all day, washing anything that could be washed: clothes, tents, panniers, bikes and ourselves. By late afternoon, and not keen to go back into the woods, we waited until dark, and then set up camp directly across the road from the fountain. Our tent was all-but hidden on the side of a hill at the back of a farmer’s yard, and although not perfect, we felt safer.

Not liking the looks of the clouds next morning we turned back for the capital. And with just a few kilometres to go, it poured with rain. We needed to find shelter, and quick. We raced for some boulders in a public park not far from the grey concrete building we had seen two days before, and while Bill searched the ocean side of the boulders, I searched the land side. My search was short. I found a dry and level nook underneath a large overhanging rock-ledge. We sheltered, but the rain refused to stop. We had to stay the night, and with only just enough room, we erected our tent and slept out the rain.

We reached Rhodes the next day to find our friends in a state of excitement. The day after that was Christmas Day so we had one day in which to organise a function. We wasted no time. Alex and Julie, the Australians, went searching for invitees and invited Neuberdt - a German. Shaun, Mary, Bill and I went searching for the venue and found the perfect place, a quaint old pension in the ancient city. It had reasonable rooms, a promise of hot water, and a groovy undercover area with plenty of tables and chairs. We settled in, and then joined in the task of shopping and finding more friends to share the feast with. The food part was easy, but it took a while before we spotted any familiar faces. Ray’s was the first. ‘Merry Christmas,’ Bill said to the young Australian who had travelled over on the same ferry. ‘Fancy joining us for Christmas?’

‘Sure thing,’ he said accepting. ‘Meet my girlfriend, Mia. She’s American.’

‘Welcome,’ we said, and gave them directions to the pension.

‘We’ll be there. You can count on it,’ Ray said.

‘See you both tomorrow then. Just bring some booze and tucker.’

Christmas Day arrived and all nationalities spent the day laughing, talking and eating. We served up broccoli with cheese sauce, fondue, chicken soup, Greek salads and bread. The patio was perfect and Shaun had made a wreath from a Christmas tree-type pine bough. We had purchased a Father Christmas and attached it to the bough. Conversations and generation gaps varied, but as always, Bill and I were The Oldies. We enjoyed the younger generation teasing us about our ages. Our friends said, ‘It’s our parents who think we are mad travelling.’ In our situation we admitted, ‘It’s our children who think we are!’

As travellers though, age was not important. We all agreed we were enjoying the same unique high and low experiences that travellers shared, even when on a limited budget, and we were constantly learning from each other. The chatter went on, each telling the other about their own travels. But rarely did travellers omit bringing up their favourite subject, that of toilets. Then hearing we were going to Africa, someone shouted out, ‘If you thought Greece was bad, wait until you get to Egypt.’

‘We can’t wait!’ I called back.

‘I can’t wait to get back to Turkey,’ Julie said.

A funny silence filled the air. ‘Turkey?’ Ray questioned, ‘You’ve gotta be kidding.’

‘No,’ Julie answered seriously. ‘It’s really beautiful...’

Julie’s husband, Alex, was born in Australia of Turkish parents. The couple had just left there after visiting relatives. Without a doubt, they were impressed, and it caused both Bill and me to ask more questions.

‘Can you cycle in Turkey?’ I asked Alex.

‘Just like anywhere else,’ he answered.

‘What about camping grounds and accommodation?’ Bill asked.

‘They have those too, and they’re cheap.’

‘The food is delicious,’ Julie added. ‘And the people so friendly...’

‘I’ve always imagined it to be an inhospitable place,’ I said.

‘It’s different, but certainly not inhospitable; hard to explain. The only way is to see it for yourselves.’

A seed had been sown. Bill and I now had another venue to consider. After visiting Israel and Egypt we could cycle back to Turkey through Lebanon and Syria. The thought was spine tingling. We had successfully completed our first adventure, that of cycling to Greece. Now the world was opening up further, and so were our options. The future looked so exciting that we were more than anxious to begin our second leg, and if the next six months of cycling were half as good as the first, we would be just as happy.

Rhodes: Old Rhodes: Christmas day within our Pensione's enclosed balcony. Standing is Ray (Aust) with Mia (Canada)

Rhodes: With Bill are Alex & Julie (Aust), Shaun's head & wife

Mary (Alaska) joined by a German Tourist

Chapter 2: ISRAEL

From midnight, 27th December, and after a thorough investigation and inspection by Israeli soldiers, we danced, drank and socialised our way across the Mediterranean to Cyprus. On the morning of the 29th the ship berthed at Haifa, Israel’s port, and what a day it turned out to be. Everybody, regardless of creed, race or status, was being told what to do and where to go. The place demanded respect. There was no doubting the efficiency. ‘I’m not going to give anyone a chance to find fault with me,’ I said.

‘You can say that again,’ Bill replied a little nervously. ‘If they tell me to jump, I’ll ask how high?’

Then, when directed to a different route from the other passengers, I was baffled and astounded. ‘Why us and no one else?’ I asked Bill. ‘We haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘I don’t know,’ Bill said a little uneasily. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’

Confused, we continued wheeling our bikes until we came to a maze of glass doors the other side of the terminal’s. Deciding that the best thing to do, until told otherwise, was park our bikes against the outside wall and enter.

‘Halt!’ A voice shouted from somewhere behind us.

We froze, and then turned around to see a soldier with a gun in his hand. He was frantically gesturing to us. ‘I think he wants us to take our bikes in with us,’ Bill guessed.

‘But we can’t get them around these doors,’ I said protesting.

‘Obstacle or not, we’ll just have to,’ he replied.

Awkwardly manoeuvring his bike through first, Bill looked back to the guard for confirmation. He relaxed a little when the guard didn't react. Once inside he started back to help me with my lot, but again, and by a different guard, he was ordered to stay with his bike. ‘You’ll just have to manage by yourself,’ he shrugged.

Helpless, Bill watched as I cursed, struggled and manipulated my heavy bike and myself around one door, and then the other until, with relief, I also was inside.

‘There’s some strange things going on around here,’ Bill said, directing my attention to the middle of the room. ‘Get a look at that vehicle would you. It’s armed.’

Facing me was a huge, awesome contraption with a swinging mechanical arm loaded with artillery. The sight was blood curdling and I was trying to fathom its purpose when Bill spotted something else. ‘The security guards,’ he said. ‘They’re going through the rubbish bins.’

‘Perhaps they’re hungry,’ I joked.

‘Not likely,’ he said half grinning. ‘No, I think they’re looking for bombs!’

I drew my breath in horror and bystanders turned their heads in curiosity. ‘Not used to this sort