Belgrade to Subotica, Serbia. July 5 to 6.
"Do you know if they are open?"
"They are."
It was about lunchtime. I had finished most of the cycling for the day, or so I thought, when I stopped to refuel in Sremski Karlovci. The route was Belgrade to Novi Sad, and I had only about 10 kilometers left to go meaning there was plenty of time look around the little picturesque town before riding the last stretch to Serbia's third largest city. The streets echoed empty in the early afternoon, and I wasn't even sure the outdoor venue was serving at the moment.
She looked at me briefly, then down again to her phone. Given her sporty clothing, the lone bicycle beside the bar, and the fact that there were no other people around, I assumed that she was a cyclist too. Cyclists were still rare on the roads, so it felt like an opportunity that I should grasp. I poked around a bit with small questions to break the ice, hoping that once she knew I had come a long way, she'd probably be more interested. It was indeed so, and I soon learned that her name was Irene, out on a day ride and would later return to Belgrade by train. Better yet, I was invited to join her, which would mean a doubled daily distance for me and also to leave right away, skipping local sightseeing and the break that normally goes with lunch. Given my intentions for this adventure, it was a no-brainer of a decision. Five minutes later, I had company while cycling for just the second time since leaving Baghdad, the first being with Nikolai back in Bulgaria (see chapter 39).
Apart from the privilege to ride on a path chosen by a local, our ride together truly reminded me of the value of company not just in general but specifically when making a physical feat traversing a land. The uphill slopes were less steep, the vistas were more scenic, and it was all over in the blink of an eye. We rolled through the forest of Fruska Gora National Park, enjoying the last bit of hilly landscape before I would enter the large flatland that covers northern Serbia and southern Hungary.
There is no end to what loneliness and companionship do to us - much has been written in this story already with plenty left to come. Perhaps better than my words speaks a picture - the image of two bikes resting, together. When we had parked our bikes to stop for a drink, I stood long and watched them. There was just something about it that felt right, and all of a sudden every picture of my lonely bicycle felt incomplete.
This simple symbolism touched me, and perhaps I let it in too deep. From Budapest, I would have company again, and the yearning for that grew stronger than I would be able to handle. At the time though, I was unaware of my fragile inner state, only feeling excited from the tiny taste of what I had long wished, but never dared hope.
When I finally reached my hostel in Novi Sad, another meeting waited for me. Jules, a young Frenchman and fellow bike tourer, had just arrived on his. Despite cycling 150 kilometers almost every day he was bursting of energy, eager to reach his dream destination Iran.
It would not be his first time to visit the country. A few years prior, Jules had travelled the M41 highway, more known as the Pamir highway, that goes through Afghanistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan. He then found himself in Kazakhstan with hopes of reaching Iran. The most convenient way was to fly via Dubai, but once there he was upheld as he had no valid visa, despite that he the official information said heh could get it on arrival. When he finally could border, the delay had prevented him from withdrawing money, so when he reached Shiraz in Iran he could not pay for his visa (that was indeed attainable on arrival). He was arrested and his passport confiscated, and Jules was put into police custody until the following day when they put him on a flight back to Dubai.
Upon landing, he was again arrested as they demanded that he paid for the flight. He refused in anger over the whole situation, and after 12 more hours with the airport police, they sent him home to France along with a ban on returning to the Emirates, valid for life. It was now time for Jules to give Iran a second shot, joining the club of oriental overlanders.
The two of us watched France advance in the football Euros over a few beers, exchanging travel stories and plans. Jules had just come from Budapest, where I was headed, and I had crossed Turkey, which he would unescapably have to do. And although his destination was Iran, he was open to suggestions on which route to take there. He mentioned Iraq as an intriguing option but was unsure about the safety on the ground. As I started to tell him of my experiences in Iraq, his eyes and ears widened. There was a glimmer in his gaze as he seemed to absorb every little detail from my path across the Iraqi Kurdistan.
We continued the next day to discuss possibilities as we explored Novi Sad and went for a swim in the Danube river that would turn into another form of companion to me over the coming weeks. Once we parted, he to Belgrade and I to Subotica by the Hungarian border, he set off on his bike, turned his head and shouted: "you changed my route today!"
As I write this months later, I know that he was "welcomed like a king" in Iraqi Kurdistan and made it to Iran where he thrives outside of prison cells. I also know that for all the guidance and advice I gave to him, I received tenfold in true friendship and in igniting inspiration from a young spirit with the earth at his feet - every nation but one.
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