Day 111
Location: Erzurum
Miles on the clock: 6,985
After a couple of days of nightclubs, restaurants and repose in the affluent seaside town of Varna, I felt a little cumbersome as I climbed inland and up into Bulgaria’s hills.
Location: Erzurum
Miles on the clock: 6,985
After a couple of days of nightclubs, restaurants and repose in the affluent seaside town of Varna, I felt a little cumbersome as I climbed inland and up into Bulgaria’s hills.
Mugshot in Central Turkey
A day of thirsty work through throny scrubland later and I dropped back down to the Black Sea and camped on a deserted beach.The next day, while I was attaching some discarded foam from the roadside to my handlebars (I had lost sensation in my index fingertips a month previously due to my unforgiving grips disrupting blood circulation), a tandem bike appeared carrying a tall, hansome French couple. Nicholas and Joanna are both in their early 20s and have taken a year out from their studies in Grenoble to circumnavigate the Mediterranean by bike. A combination of their English and my stubborn, pidgin French was enough to establish that Istanbul was a common destination so we rode on together, getting to know each other during brief snatches of conversation held while cycling parallel when no cars hurtled past on the bumpy road to Turkey. Late in the afternoon we approached the border post atop a steep winding road. “Welcome to Turkey” said a beaming official. “Thank you very much” we bilingually chorused and I realised it was the first time I had been verbally welcomed to a country on this journey. Once past customs an overwhelming ecstasy enveloped the three of us as we sped down hills on freshly paved roads shouting “Turkiye” in an almost tribal fashion. Motorists jauntily honked and we jauntily waved back from the safety of our delightfully-wide hard shoulder.
Reaching Turkey had lain as a significant landmark on my mental horizon for almost three months. After 17 countries, 13 currencies and 6,000 miles I was finally leaving the EU. My thick, blank passport finally had a visa stamp and that night I heard the first of many, often tuneless but always evocative, muezzins making the call to prayer from the rocket-shaped minarets that stand grandly over even the most humble of rural hamlets. I felt like my adventure was beginning in earnest.
That night we camped on a hill under an astonishingly-bright full moon and made a fire hemmed by a high rock barrier to defend the surrounding tinder-dry brush. The lunar-lit landscape lunged away; rolling interlaced hills of varying russet shades, and shallow valleys tracing a course among them. Our valleys, I possessively thought. It seemed there was nobody for miles around and our hill was a throne. We talked by the fire until late; it was a magical night.
The next few days en route to Istanbul were a pleasure. It was the first time I had been accompanied on the road for more than a day. The weather smiled benevolently and there was a new and interesting culture to absorb (one I failed to notice on a two-week holiday, aged 14, in a Southern Turkish beach resort where I discovered that Germans really do rise early to bag poolside seats and I learned to loathe raki). Nicholas and Joanna are endearing to watch on their tandem. Nicholas steers at the front and hands-free Joanna is the navigateur (or wingman in the parlance of Top Gun). Their constant and concise communications regarding gear changes, and their patient reception of my shouted fragments of French, often lost in the slight headwinds, were just a fraction of their charm.
We camped in good spots, ate well, took our time, and one day entered the impossible sprawl that comprises Istanbul. The extensive and unbroken chain of satellite towns merge, through a bustling, bumpy and cacophonous web of roads, with the centre of a city that is home to 13 million souls and spans two continents. Our excitement upon arrival at the “Gateway to Asia” (and one of this years European Capitals of Culture) waned slightly in the heart of a perpetual gridlock. I enjoyed weaving in and out of the hasty vehicles and clamouring on my klaxon wıth the best of the impatient drivers. However, the weaving was wearisome for the long and less-maneuverable tandem and we were all relieved to pass through a gate in the ancient Roman wall and enter the inner-city where out three hour search for a cheap, welll-located hostel began.
I asked one man for directions to the backpacker’s district and he tutted knowingly, wobbled his head from side to side and, after a deep inhalation, began: “Ah! My friend, it is very far. Very, very far. You must take a taxi. My brother here is taximan…”
“How far?”
“Is five kilometers.”
I glanced down at my odometer (which had recently clocked over 10,000 km) and politely thanked him with the Turkish six-syllable word (Teşekkür ederim), restraining an insufferably-smug chuckle. At length we found a hostel and checked in to its 30-bed dormitory in the basement. The snoring, farting and fornicating that surrounded me during my six nights in that over-peopled pit was quite a shock after the perfect privacy and peace of my one-man tent; and, believe it or not, the dorm smelt worse.
Once installed I began the hunt for visas to get met to Nepal where I have arranged to meet my family for Christmas. My original plan to head south to the Dead Sea and then west through Saudi Arabia has proved an impossibility as I cannot get a Saudi visa without first converting to Islam. So, to continue eastwards I must cross Iran, Pakistan and India. I organised my Iranian visa with little trouble and arranged to collect it in Eastern Turkey to save time. The Indian consulate were very welcoming and polite, greeting me by name (“Mr Walker, sir”) on my second and third visits. When I collected my visa I observed the dutiful, ever-smiling Indian doorman make several precise, minute adjustments to the angle and positioning of a plain, brown doormat. Pakistan, howerver, poses a problem. I embarked on a four-hour expedition in search of their ill-advertised consulate with aTurkish man called Moses and a Latvian man called Jesus. Jesus, Moses and I found the consulate’s former location with difficulty and finally, at the plaque-less, flagless new location in an obscure residential suburb, were informed curtly “no visas”. After several disappointing phone calls to other consulates and embassies in Iran and Turkey I decided to solve the problem nearer the time and fly over Pakistan if absolutely necessary.
Reaching Turkey had lain as a significant landmark on my mental horizon for almost three months. After 17 countries, 13 currencies and 6,000 miles I was finally leaving the EU. My thick, blank passport finally had a visa stamp and that night I heard the first of many, often tuneless but always evocative, muezzins making the call to prayer from the rocket-shaped minarets that stand grandly over even the most humble of rural hamlets. I felt like my adventure was beginning in earnest.
That night we camped on a hill under an astonishingly-bright full moon and made a fire hemmed by a high rock barrier to defend the surrounding tinder-dry brush. The lunar-lit landscape lunged away; rolling interlaced hills of varying russet shades, and shallow valleys tracing a course among them. Our valleys, I possessively thought. It seemed there was nobody for miles around and our hill was a throne. We talked by the fire until late; it was a magical night.
The next few days en route to Istanbul were a pleasure. It was the first time I had been accompanied on the road for more than a day. The weather smiled benevolently and there was a new and interesting culture to absorb (one I failed to notice on a two-week holiday, aged 14, in a Southern Turkish beach resort where I discovered that Germans really do rise early to bag poolside seats and I learned to loathe raki). Nicholas and Joanna are endearing to watch on their tandem. Nicholas steers at the front and hands-free Joanna is the navigateur (or wingman in the parlance of Top Gun). Their constant and concise communications regarding gear changes, and their patient reception of my shouted fragments of French, often lost in the slight headwinds, were just a fraction of their charm.
We camped in good spots, ate well, took our time, and one day entered the impossible sprawl that comprises Istanbul. The extensive and unbroken chain of satellite towns merge, through a bustling, bumpy and cacophonous web of roads, with the centre of a city that is home to 13 million souls and spans two continents. Our excitement upon arrival at the “Gateway to Asia” (and one of this years European Capitals of Culture) waned slightly in the heart of a perpetual gridlock. I enjoyed weaving in and out of the hasty vehicles and clamouring on my klaxon wıth the best of the impatient drivers. However, the weaving was wearisome for the long and less-maneuverable tandem and we were all relieved to pass through a gate in the ancient Roman wall and enter the inner-city where out three hour search for a cheap, welll-located hostel began.
I asked one man for directions to the backpacker’s district and he tutted knowingly, wobbled his head from side to side and, after a deep inhalation, began: “Ah! My friend, it is very far. Very, very far. You must take a taxi. My brother here is taximan…”
“How far?”
“Is five kilometers.”
I glanced down at my odometer (which had recently clocked over 10,000 km) and politely thanked him with the Turkish six-syllable word (Teşekkür ederim), restraining an insufferably-smug chuckle. At length we found a hostel and checked in to its 30-bed dormitory in the basement. The snoring, farting and fornicating that surrounded me during my six nights in that over-peopled pit was quite a shock after the perfect privacy and peace of my one-man tent; and, believe it or not, the dorm smelt worse.
Once installed I began the hunt for visas to get met to Nepal where I have arranged to meet my family for Christmas. My original plan to head south to the Dead Sea and then west through Saudi Arabia has proved an impossibility as I cannot get a Saudi visa without first converting to Islam. So, to continue eastwards I must cross Iran, Pakistan and India. I organised my Iranian visa with little trouble and arranged to collect it in Eastern Turkey to save time. The Indian consulate were very welcoming and polite, greeting me by name (“Mr Walker, sir”) on my second and third visits. When I collected my visa I observed the dutiful, ever-smiling Indian doorman make several precise, minute adjustments to the angle and positioning of a plain, brown doormat. Pakistan, howerver, poses a problem. I embarked on a four-hour expedition in search of their ill-advertised consulate with aTurkish man called Moses and a Latvian man called Jesus. Jesus, Moses and I found the consulate’s former location with difficulty and finally, at the plaque-less, flagless new location in an obscure residential suburb, were informed curtly “no visas”. After several disappointing phone calls to other consulates and embassies in Iran and Turkey I decided to solve the problem nearer the time and fly over Pakistan if absolutely necessary.
The Blue Mosque, Istanbul Between embassy visits I explored İstanbul, glad to be walking instead of cycling. At the heart of the most touristic area are two immense mosques (The Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia) overflowing with grandeur, one of which was originally a Byzantium church. Dotted around this area are many intersting buildings, obelisks, mausoleums, crumbling and unacknowledged remains from the various ancient empires which held the city and many more mosques; each with a squadron of speakers arranged in rings around the minarets. These led me to heretically-wonder if it would be possible to unite the speakers, which loudly compete with different Koranic verses five times a day, and soothe the city with some Bob Dylan, or maybe more fittingly Yusuf Islam (Cat Stevens).
Being the entrance to Asia, İstanbul is also a place where many cyclists’ routes converge in a geographic bottleneck. I met Rob and Mat from Yorkshire who had cycled from home in just six weeks; Leigh (www.pedal360.com), also from England, who is cycling around the world; and Ashley (www.travelpod.com/members/ashventures) from New Zealand who would join me on the road ahead.
I also wandered aimlessly for hours through the confusing warren of streets centred around the Grand Bazaar. There seem to be streets dedicated to every conceivable product ranging from the mainstream (a busy boulevard of jeans shops) to the unusual and niche (a thin, haunting alley populated purely by shops selling mannequins arranged in ghoulish displays of perfect-figured, smooth-crotched bodies).
After almost a week my feet began to itch and I loaded up Old Geoff once more. The short ferry ride across the Bosphorus was a momentous moment form me and I couldn’t stiffle a meek cheer as I rolled off the boat and onto the Asian continent. Things would be different from there onwards. I knew the relative familiarity and ease of Europe was behind me and ahead lay differences in custom, religion, wealth, landscape and ethnicity. At least two things would remain unchanged though: my sign language when trying to buy eggs (clucking, flapping and at last laying) and loo paper (use your imagination). From here on the punctures began too. During my first week in Asia I had more than in three months in Europe; one a day became below average.
Being the entrance to Asia, İstanbul is also a place where many cyclists’ routes converge in a geographic bottleneck. I met Rob and Mat from Yorkshire who had cycled from home in just six weeks; Leigh (www.pedal360.com), also from England, who is cycling around the world; and Ashley (www.travelpod.com/members/ashventures) from New Zealand who would join me on the road ahead.
I also wandered aimlessly for hours through the confusing warren of streets centred around the Grand Bazaar. There seem to be streets dedicated to every conceivable product ranging from the mainstream (a busy boulevard of jeans shops) to the unusual and niche (a thin, haunting alley populated purely by shops selling mannequins arranged in ghoulish displays of perfect-figured, smooth-crotched bodies).
After almost a week my feet began to itch and I loaded up Old Geoff once more. The short ferry ride across the Bosphorus was a momentous moment form me and I couldn’t stiffle a meek cheer as I rolled off the boat and onto the Asian continent. Things would be different from there onwards. I knew the relative familiarity and ease of Europe was behind me and ahead lay differences in custom, religion, wealth, landscape and ethnicity. At least two things would remain unchanged though: my sign language when trying to buy eggs (clucking, flapping and at last laying) and loo paper (use your imagination). From here on the punctures began too. During my first week in Asia I had more than in three months in Europe; one a day became below average.
Ash A day outside of Istanbul I met up with Ashley and that night, camped in a mosque's graveyard, he told me about hıs interestıng history. Now aged 36, Ahley moved to London in 2000 and worked in the city as a computer technician. After seven years of a decent salary and growing boredom he quit his job and lived in a squat in Hackney for eight months, simultaneously founding and running various eco-friendly incentives and even appearing on Richard and Judy to discuss Freecycle (www.uk.freecycle.org). He then lived and worked on a permaculture farm in the French Dordogne for a couple of years and now is cycling back to New Zealand to start a sustainable farm of his own.
Together we climbed into the mountains and followed the road ever eastwards. Each day we would be innundated by offers of çay (chai, Turkish Tea served in tiny glasses) and, when we accepted, would try to pick up some Turkish language. Or rather, I would try and Ashley (a self-confessed polyglottal geek) would succeed. The friendly honks from passing drivers increased and we were oftern startled out of our wits by the sheer volume of some of the lorries' booming, multi-tonal horns.
Together we climbed into the mountains and followed the road ever eastwards. Each day we would be innundated by offers of çay (chai, Turkish Tea served in tiny glasses) and, when we accepted, would try to pick up some Turkish language. Or rather, I would try and Ashley (a self-confessed polyglottal geek) would succeed. The friendly honks from passing drivers increased and we were oftern startled out of our wits by the sheer volume of some of the lorries' booming, multi-tonal horns.
In headwinds we would take it in turns to cycle behind one another, sitting in the slipstream. This went awry when, travelling at 30mph, I swung out from behind Ashley at the same time that an oncoming car swung out to overtake a lorry. For the car driver, slowing down was unthinkable. Cyclists are worse than third-class citizens on the road. I managed to brake and bail-out just in time to avoid both Ashley and the car, colliding instead with the stone-strewn roadside. The resulting holes in my clothes and skin have put me off slingshotting for life.
Contemplating the hills ahead My highlight of our ride through Turkey has been the landscapes. A few days outside of Istanbul the towns suddenly petered out and we were amongst towering mountains and following rivers up valleys as they shrivelled to streams and eventually to a trickling source. As we rose in altitude the temperature fell and we found ice on our tents some mornings. However, the cold is easily kept at bay with a cup of Ash's improvised nettle and pine-needle tea or the vast, stodgy rice and vegetable meals we cook.
Altintepe Castle ruins
Camping at Altintepe The days shortened at each end and a week of rain set in. We passed the mist-obscured miles by playing word games (alphabetically naming wars or famous characters whose surnames and first names begin with the same letter). Eventually we decided to take a rest day in our tents to sit out the worst of the weather and so looked for a good, hidden camping spot near Erzincan, a moderate-sized Kurdish city. Night fell, the drizzle continued, and we chanced upon a stark, freestanding extinct volcano surrounded by a fence. After chucking our kit over the fence and scrambling through a hole, we pushed our bikes up a steep slippery slope and at the top found the ruins of a 9th-century BC Urartian castle. We settled in here for a day of reading, watching films on a mobile phone and eating.
The morning we left our castle was clear and we were treated to a view that kings would have enjoyed from the same spot almost 3,000 years ago. The heavily-waterlogged valley floor spread away seemingly from vertically below us and, dappled in swathes of low-lying mist, stretched towards the distant valley walls behind which lurked snowy mountain peaks. We hit the road in a slight funk (having just passed an hour cleaning fresh, clay/mud off our bikes as the wheels couldn't even turn) but were soon cheered up by two army offıcers, Yalcin and Sülleyman, who invited us into their 100-man base and gave us lunch. They even called in a couple of the troops to play guitar and sing to us in the orange PVC tent that serves as the officers mess. While the shaven-headed Turk crooned a beautiful and well-known ballad, a muted television tuned in to Turkish MTV displayed a nearly nude Britney Spears gyrating epileptically.
The morning we left our castle was clear and we were treated to a view that kings would have enjoyed from the same spot almost 3,000 years ago. The heavily-waterlogged valley floor spread away seemingly from vertically below us and, dappled in swathes of low-lying mist, stretched towards the distant valley walls behind which lurked snowy mountain peaks. We hit the road in a slight funk (having just passed an hour cleaning fresh, clay/mud off our bikes as the wheels couldn't even turn) but were soon cheered up by two army offıcers, Yalcin and Sülleyman, who invited us into their 100-man base and gave us lunch. They even called in a couple of the troops to play guitar and sing to us in the orange PVC tent that serves as the officers mess. While the shaven-headed Turk crooned a beautiful and well-known ballad, a muted television tuned in to Turkish MTV displayed a nearly nude Britney Spears gyrating epileptically.
Offıcers Yalcin and Sülleyman We were sent on our way loaded with army ration packs and a couple of days (and two 2000+ meter passes) later reached Erzurum.
R&R As I pen this paltry piffle, I am sat in a small but comfortable hotel room swamped in drying tents, clothes, half-finished sewing repairs and a general miscellany of kit. A wry-faced elderly man sitting outside a tea shop across the street is eying me through the window with a mixture of bemusal and mistrust. He eye-balled me yesterday for walking to the bread shop in shorts. I am definitely close to Iran and the conservatism therein. I pick up my visa for said country tomorrow and should arrive at the border within four days.
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