The Wild East

"...a fist connected with Mark's back and winded him."

We were 6 hours late. I couldn't understand why. Maybe Bulgaria and Turkey have had another row, which would explain the wait, or maybe the border guards were too drunk to remember to check the train.
Western Turkey is one large building site, although there seems to be a lot more money swimming about here. The train arrived in Istanbul late afternoon. It was a hive of activity.
The Mexicans and Germans sat back and decided to let the British lead the way in finding accommodation in Sultanahmet. I navigate the Lonely Planet whilst Mark scans every alley and street. While we welcomed the company of the others on the train, they were becoming more of a hindrance by now, slowing us down with their leisurely pace and complacent attitudes. It just wasn't possible to find accommodation for 6, and everyone wanted different standards of comfort.
We split up, and stayed in different places: The Mexicans in luxury but paying through the nose, the Germans in a middle-of-the-road place, and Brits in a dirt-cheap place.

We would meet up for a drink every night. It was a solution that worked very well. Both Taylor and I were challenged to two separate games of chess by a rather scruffy beard wearing bespectacled Spaniard. Taylor accepted and played 'speed chess' (a move every five seconds) and was narrowly defeated but refused to surrender.
I fancied my chances in the second match but was forced into rushing and made some basic mistakes.
The Mexicans always seemed to be toting tequila however which made the defeats a little more bearable.

The Turks worship money, the hostel-owner was the first to explain this. Stop for one moment and half a dozen traders and hawkers will attempt to sell you something. The opposite of most Eastern bloc places, where the customer is an inconvenience.

Istanbul was packed with tourists.
I have to say I felt slightly disappointed with the place, particularly with the European side where all the tourists are. There is a lot to see and do, but I prefer Prague.

We met a man called Ali, a Turk living in Germany. He introduced us to a more traditional Turkish bath on the Asian side of Istanbul away from the milling tourists.
We enter a hot steam room, and lie down on marble slabs while the masseurs get to work. Mark was lying to the right of me, and was the unfortunate one.
He got the sadist.
I heard a loud thwack! which reverberated around the stone chamber as a fist connected with Mark's back and winded him.
The masseur was grinning.
A minute later MT was able to talk to me again, but after getting mid-sentence was cut short by another fearsome blow. Mine wasn't quite so rough but he did insist on pushing my chest into the ground, trying to break a rib or two.

We spent 3 days doing most of the sights, met a geography lecturer, ate delicious Turkish delight, and had some excellent proper kebabs, however we have a schedule so we head west back into Bulgaria.

Back in Bulgaria we visited Ruse, at the river Danube. Ruse is the exact opposite of Istanbul- Depressed and had seen better days. The Turkey/Bulgaria difference is strange- Turkey is undeveloped with money. Bulgaria is developed but has none.

We stayed in a nice hotel, and were eating very cheaply again. The next day we attempted to get to Romania. It was a struggle.
The day started badly. "There are no trains to Romania. Come back in 8 hours time".
The only solution was to cross the border on foot. As we were walking down the street a young couple on bikes approached us. They were friendly, and talked about the dire situation of Bulgaria. He was an engineering graduate, but had been unemployed for 2 years. His dream was one day to come to Edinburgh. We talked for a while and then they left.

We hailed a taxi to the friendship bridge- the border over the River Danube between Bulgaria and Romania.
They are far from friends though.
The taxi ride was not more than a few minutes, during which we jumped 3 red lights. The driver did not wear a seatbelt. I think it's offensive to wear a seatbelt- it shows you don't trust the driver's ability.
We couldn't walk across the Friendship Bridge, it's not allowed. The only reason I can think of is that both countries want to hit you with an 'environmental tax' ($10) for travelling by car.
It took us a while to negotiate a reasonable price for a taxi, but we still paid $18 for a 1mile journey.

The car was a Mercedes from about 1976.
The driver was a hunchback with a mullet and dark glasses. He would have looked at home in a faded 1970s rock group.
Mark took the front seat and looked shocked when the hunchback showed us some beers in the glove compartment.
The driver looked puzzled 'yes of course I'm going to drink and drive, what's your problem?'. The Bulgarian checkpoint took 45mins to get through. There were a lot of Turkish-registered lorries crossing, as well as a few Ukrainians.

The Hunchback dumped us in no-mans-land, and we had to walk to the Romanian checkpoint.
The Romanian border guard looked highly amused at these eccentric British tourists. He tried to be helpful by suggesting that we could get a lift with the van of Ukrainians.
This van had about 10 young men in, all with skinheads, all staring forward. They had faces totally devoid of any emotion.
There was no laughing or talking on board, just a stony silence, not even a radio playing.
We didn't think it was a good idea.

They could kill us, rob us, and bury our bodies in some remote, desolate spot, all while retaining those deadpan expressions before calmly heading back to the Ukraine.

Once in Romania we comandeered a cab to take us to Giurgu train station. I stay in the cab and guard the packs (would you trust a Romaian cabbie?) while Taylor reconoitres the station. He returns with more train complications.
Now there were no trains to Bucharest, and so we catch a crowded minibus to the capital. Giurgiu, Romania was a pretty terrible place, but I managed to acquire a few snacks with the money the Mexicans had given us for the journey. The bus radio played some old classics like the Lambada as we head for Bucharest...

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