Wrong Doers: Selcuk to Orange Grove. - Lookin For John Fairweather - CycleBlaze

February 22, 2014

Wrong Doers: Selcuk to Orange Grove.

The day begins with the theft of washing-powder from on top of the washing machine in the campsite kitchen. Who did it? The clues all lead to Dino, according to the man renting one of the chalets. Namely, Dino was there in the kitchen in the morning, at the scene of the crime, when the man walks in and discovers the washing power gone. So it must've been Dino.

I watch the commotion at the kitchen door from where I stand by my tent. Then see Dino lead the man off towards the Italian woman's house. At this point I'm just looking on, unsure what to make of the argument. But, first thing this morning, in my tent, I found a bag of clothes-washing-powder in along with the carrier-bags I keep my food in. The evening before I had been eating beside the washing machine with my food bags on top and must've mistakenly picked the washing-powder up with the other bags last thing before leaving the kitchen.

Half an hour later, I ask Dino what that was all about. He seems pretty relaxed telling me as the man was clearly in the wrong, as Dino says "accusing me of stealing it without asking no one else." I own up; telling him I mistakenly picked the powder up yesterday evening and we agree unanimously that I go and knock on the man's door and explain. I do, but there is no reply. He must have already gone.

Orange o'clock.
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Today I cycle on alone. It was good to meet Dino and Suzy again in Izmir and cycle together and spend yesterday off the bikes walking around the ruin city of Etifus-whatever-its name. They're good people.

Re-joining the D550 highway, there is one stiff climb away from Selcuk through a saddle between two big hills, then the road descends and continues straight for the remainder of the day along a wide valley, passing through quite a few scattered urban centres, but for the most part it is orange county. One thing this stretch seem to lack is the good petrol station restaurant frequently found in the north. I get hungry looking out for one until at last when famished, I see a billboard with a restaurant advertised one kilometre ahead. I get there and see its a garden with tables therein. There's only one table taken by a group of four diners though. Bad sign number one. Its around lunchtime and if the place is any good there should be quite a few tables taken, not just the one. The young white shirted waiter is hopeless at communication. Yes I'm hear. I want to eat obviously; it is a restaurant after all. I sit down at a table anyway and he goes and fetches an older man in casuals who looks to be the boss and speaks some English. I ask for a card. He informs me there isn't any, but they're serving lamb kebab. I say okay, lamb kebab it'll have to be as I'm so hungry I could eat anything. Then in my haste I make the classic mistake, I don't ask the price.

The coke I order come first. A little tinny 175 ml bottle. I'll never understand in a warm climate how such a small bottle could satisfy anyone's thirst. Well it isn't hot now, but no doubt if I come back in Summer when its forty degrees I'll still get the same little bottle. The waiter also puts down a half litre bottle of water which I didn't order, but I suppose its complements; free in other words. Then come the main coarse, funnily enough only a minute after I order. It is a plate full of chunks of cold lamb looking like nothing and tasting even less. The salad is just roughly chopped tomatoes and onion with a little olive oil. The meal is bland, then I have tea afterwards. I'm thinking the price will be twelve Liras or thereabouts, which is the usual price for kebab served sitting in a restaurant. I get up to pay and the young waiter who acts as though he understands nothing, understands this movement, when I take out my wallet, as he turns an itemised bill lying to the side of the desk, picks up a pen and writes L 35.00 on the back. I say this is absolutely outrageous, but he doesn't understand. The other man is over in an instant. I calm down and pay, knowing not to make this mistake again.

This evening still feeling wounded I'm stealth camping between two orange trees. The orange trees of the grove providing good cover all around.

Springing into life and colour.
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Today's ride: 120 km (75 miles)
Total: 11,118 km (6,904 miles)

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