Turkey When a guest in someone’s home, how do you know when you have probably stayed too long? My hair had grown visibly and a baby had learned to both walk and talk… It was time to leave Istanbul. Caroline and Gurkan: you are heroes! Arno the Frenchman had been to visit – we slept
Turkey
When a guest in someone’s home, how do you know when you have probably
stayed too long? My hair had grown visibly and a baby had learned to both
walk and talk… It was time to leave Istanbul. Caroline and Gurkan: you are
heroes!
Arno the Frenchman had been to visit – we slept rough in sewage pipes and
abandoned mansions, drank tea (cay) with old men and wallowed in deep
Turkish baths. I was rested and ready for Africa. I crossed the Bosphorus,
waving au revoir to Istanbul’s wonderful skyline and to Europe. If all goes
to plan the next crossing of that water will complete a circumnavigation and
prompt a spectacular level of celebration (from me at least).
The Muslim call to prayer rose up the forested mountainside from the village
mosques. Echoing and sliding around the autumnal cliffs, the singing was a
beautiful sound. But the magical silence that followed was comically broken
by a Public Service Announcement from one of the mosques: “bing, bong, BING,
BONG, would Mr. Ahmet please report to reception” (or something like that!).
I stopped to eat in Beypazari. Before I knew it, Mr. Youssef had invited me
to his home for the night and I was whipping his sons at basketball.
Cross-legged we feasted around a low table. A great evening, except for the
agony of folding my legs beneath me as we ate. There were perfectly good
chairs all around!
The next day we misjudged distances and spent the night trapped in suburbia
(a horror that happens for life to many people…), camping in Ankara beneath
high-rise tower blocks. Four youths high on solvents pestered us late at
night, for money, for alcohol, for cigarettes and, saddest of all, for the
glue from my puncture repair kit. Plastic bags puffed full and empty in your
face by frantic 15 year olds looking for escape is a deeply depressing
experience. The prospect of their return later was not conducive to restful
sleep either.
A dilemma: if you drop your bike computer down a filthy Turkish squat
toilet, what do you do? Chris reached in and went fishing! I haven’t
laughed so much in ages. We paused to help a tortoise cross the road before
finding a beautiful wilderness campsite. As we drank hot tea and watched
the sun sink a wild pony came to say hello before galloping away across the
empty plain.
Cappadoccia is one of the most stunning natural sights in the World. It
ridicules my vocabulary. It makes a mockery of photography. You need to
wander with your own eyes up its surreal canyons, lured ever forwards even
though you know the way out is behind you. The rocks are mesmerizing.
Endless chimneys, haystacks, mushrooms, waves, pyramids, gorges and cake
icing. Whites and creams and pinks and greens and reds as far as you can
see. A silence so deep that a childish mind may find the echoing of farts
hilarious.
But that is only half of Cappadoccia, for in all these
outrageous rocks are bored thousands of human homes. Everywhere you climb
are the fascinating caves of troglodyte populations. Persecuted Christians
hid here too; beautiful cave paintings and rock hewn altars a testimony to
their undimmed faith. And to smugly walk up the red carpet at the entrance
to the smart hotel we were kindly being hosted at by Omer Tosun just topped
it all off perfectly!
Omer’s breakfasts were vast, and fuelled like performance athletes on
several kilos of deep fried eggy bread we rode like demons: five hours without
stopping once is an absurdly long time in the saddle! But now I had
deadlines to keep. I was on a mission to get to Beirut as fast as possible.
The physical endurance challenge of cycling is a major part of the
fascination for me, and I had one on my hands now.
Ahmet, a shotgun armed night-watchman of an orange grove fed me like a king
and let me sleep in the back of a wheel-less wagon on the top of a hill in a
thorn field. Adrian, a cyclist with 1800 hats in his collection warned,
“sorry to p*ss on your oil painting, but there are some big bastard hills
ahead.” He was right. I pedaled eight hours a day up and down irritating passes,
heading as fast as I could towards Syria and the next phase.
But even the hills of Turkey aren’t too bad compared to the privilege of
pedaling at dawn through tiny mountain communities, tranquil and awakening,
sharing my tea with shepherds beside my tent and the unquestioning
hospitality of the Turks that puts to shame our mistrusting selfishness in
Western Europe. Even the outrageous headwinds of Turkey fade against the
view from the ferry up the Bosphorus of Istanbul at dusk, happy and replete
from a bellyful of 25p kebabs. Turkey is wonderful. Now for the Middle
East.