The next morning, we both felt jaded. We’d walked 25 km the previous day and so felt stiffness but also we’d had been on the road now for 90 days. Added to this, we were fugitives on foreign soil. I looked at Michael. Today was his Birthday and he looked depressed. Just tired, I hoped.
Kavala sits in a natural amphitheatre of hills on the coast of The Aegean Sea. As you make you way down the slopes, you see “The Cyan City”, as it’s known, nestled between the bright, cloudless sky and the expanse of the sea. The city of Kavala has been passed around more than the
I winced in concentration, but all I could think about was bloody Kitler, marching the goose-step through the streets of Berlin, with an army of stern looking cats behind him doing the same.
The next morning, our decision was made for us. We turned on BBC news to see video footage of Iranians burning the Union Jack. Apparently, the British Embassy had been attacked by protesters in response to sanctions. “Death to Britain!” cried the protesters as they set alight to the em
“What the hell is going on?” I said to Michael the tenth time. “Not a clue”, replied Michael for the tenth time. We had had no choice but to just sit back and passively accept whatever turn of events was to follow since we’d apparently been arrested as soon as we’d set foot in Aqtobe.
Somewhere on the journey, I think it may have been in Kyzylorda, or some other place that sounds as if someone’s dropped their scrabble tiles, we swapped vehicles and drivers. “Hello I’m Michael. What is your name,” said Michael, as slowly and clearly as he could. Dulad translated for us and