Ken's Blog

I was back in Istanbul, albeit briefly, and was finding the place unexpectedly tiresome. It wasn’t the usual gauntlet of carpets salesmen or waiters touting for business, for this was a Sunday morning, shops closed and the streets almost deserted. Perhaps I’d just become accustomed once more to passing through small villages, being beckoned off the road for cups of warm, sweet tea. Friendly places, especially cosy on a cold, wet day.

An altercation with a shoe shiner hadn’t helped, left me feeling a bit jaded. He’d walked past me when I noticed that he’d seemingly dropped his brush a little way back up the street. Picking it up, I’d yelled after him. He seemed very grateful, quite insistent he give my boots a quick brush in return. Reluctantly I agreed. Then the patter. Four young children, another only yesterday. Could I make a donation? A scam after all. No, I said firmly, absolutely not. Told him I’d done him a big favour by picking up the brush, and promptly walked away. Tirade of abuse behind me. Quite good English though.

The journey from Trabzon had been uneventful enough. I’d flown back to Istanbul rather than travel by coach because, whilst the cost was about the same, eighteen hours on a bus lacked appeal. Emma, never keen on flying at the best of times, had agreed to remain with friends in Trabzon, and this had made travel arrangements quite a bit easier, and cheaper.

Over a quiet coffee, a pleasant change from the usual warm, sweet tea, I found myself mulling over my return to Istanbul. Simple necessity, the international airport a major regional hub, unavoidable if I was to enact the plan I’d devised for the next month or so. If the city made me feel weary, jaded even, it was only for a day. I’d a plane to catch early the next morning.

Between sips of my now lukewarm coffee I made a few pencilled scribblings in a small notebook. My Dad had headed home, and I was now contemplating my next move. There were a few issues that needed to be dealt with before heading further east into the ’Stans. In itself, this didn’t hugely concern me. A four year challenge after all, so I’d half expected the unexpected to crop up once in a while. I was playing the long-game. And I’d a year to cross Asia, so time wasn’t a huge issue. Besides, a brief pause would bring better weather further east and more daylight for riding. Incidental benefits, but welcome nevertheless.

I knew exactly what I needed to do, which would take me a month or so, maybe a little bit more. But where best to do it? More jottings. I’d already resolved not to remain in Turkey, relishing the chance to experience a new country. Which was, after all, what it was really all about. The list of considerations was growing. Another sip of coffee and I weeded out the more trivial ones that had crept in. Sudden clarity. I’d the makings of a plan….

Downstairs the men. Upstairs the women. A modern cafe in the small town of Macka – pronounced Machka – about thirty kilometres inland from the Black Sea. We’d made our way here on the now familiar dolmus – shared taxi – from the coastal city of Trabzon. Just £2.70 return. We’d chosen Macka simply because we’d wanted to travel inland into the mountains, needed a destination and noticed that there seemed, on the map at least, to be a good road. And we’d learnt that there was a regular dolmus service.

In the event, the town was like so many I’d seen, but a new experience nevertheless for my father. Familiar mix of shops with a sharp, modern appearance – especially the eczanes (chemists) and pastanes (patisseries) – alongside the darker, scruffier tea drinking establishments generally frequented by the older men of the town. In the main square a small military post, an armed sentry standing smartly outside.

We’d wandered around for a while, a brief visit into the local mosque, and then time for lunch. Traditional spicy lentil soup – mercimek corbasi – and warm tea. We watched as the women entered, ordered and then disappeared upstairs, out of sight.

We were feeling increasingly nervous, sat in the back of a van speeding out of the city, the only other occupants the driver and his associate. We’d jumped into the dolmus (pronounced dolmush) – a shared taxi – expecting to be taken to Ataturk Alani Square, somewhere in the centre of the city. Instead we’d found ourselves heading up into the mountains behind. It was looking a bit ominous, but we were clinging on to the hope that they’d be a plausible, innocent explanation.

And there was. A simple misunderstanding, borne of language difficulties and good intentions. We’d mentioned ’Ataturk’, and the driver had assumed that we’d want to visit the Ataturk Museum high up in the hills behind the city. After all, this was tourists did. Not quite what we’d planned, but it turned out rather well. A pleasantly warm and clear afternoon, a small cafe next to the museum overlooking the Black Sea coast. A strong Turkish coffee seemed in order.

A brief foray around the museum and then a municipal bus back down into the city. To Ataturk Alani Square. The place we’d originally intended to visit, and, ironically, the spot where we’d jumped into the dolmus. We just hadn’t realised we were already at our destination. A simple misunderstanding, a few worrying moments but a memorable experience nevertheless.

We’d no real idea where these places were, and even if we did, we’d no desire to go there. We’d wandered into Trabzon’s main bus station simply out of curiosity, a chance for my Father to get a taste of day-to-day life in Turkey. Loud and bustling, ticket touts from the many rival companies vied for business, shouting out what we assumed to be destinations. Few women, the men darkly clothed. Good natured, not aggressive. Comfortable, modern coaches outside contrasting with the rather shabby terminal building.

My Father had finally made it to Trabzon in the early hours, his flight from the UK delayed considerably. I’d retired early, expecting him to have to spend an unplanned night in a hotel en-route, arriving mid-morning. By now gone midnight, he’d wisely telephoned from Reception to let me know he’d made it. Probably wise. You’d not want to sneak unannounced into a room with someone who keeps his dog repellent close at hand.

After breakfast we’d headed to Trabzon’s main shopping mall. Lots of familiar high street names, just like the hotel, it had a familiarity, a reassuring sameness about it. We’d intended having a brief look around before venturing into the city centre proper, but, quite unexpectedly, found ourselves being invited to join some engineering students for tea on the terrace. They’d overheard us speaking and were keen to practice their English. They were first year engineering students at the local Technical University, with aspirations to travel, interested to learn about the UK.

We chatted for a good while before explaining we wanted to explore a little of Trabzon before it got dark. Parting company, we’d headed off into the city proper and the main bus station.

Six hundred and eighty pounds. The cost of an hour’s telephone call to Afghanistan, the contents of the mini-bar, and laundering my clothes. I was staying in a better class of hotel in the Turkish Black Sea city of Trabzon, awaiting the arrival of my father later in the day. A very different world from the one I’d become accustomed to. I’d stayed in these sorts of places before, as a business traveller, so knew they’d be a re-assuring familiarity, a sameness, about the place. And there was.

I’d arrived late the previous evening, a twelve hour journey by coach from Sinop. A chance, I told myself, to take a look at the coast road before I returned once more to Sinop to ride along it. For the most part it looked grim, busy dual carriageway much of the way. But I’d ridden on far worse roads, albeit not for hundreds of kilometres. Sometimes it’s best not to know what’s ahead.

You suspected I’d be a guest the hotel staff would remember for a while. Bright yellow jacket, black leggings. I promised the receptionist I had more conventional clothes to wear. With sandals. Emma had also come with me and she’d be sharing a room with my father and I. Cleaned her especially. Ready, should there be a problem, to point out pets were allowed in the rooms so a bike would be just fine, but in the end nothing was said. I carried her to the room, the porter following with the panniers.

The next morning the buffet breakfast was as I suspected. The familiar Turkish choices – boiled eggs, bread, cheeses, tomatoes and cucumber – or the more Western options – muesli, scrambled eggs, no bacon of course. I plumped for the latter selection, barely a hesitation. And why not I thought? A welcome change, a chance to give my cholesterol a break. Stuck with warm Turkish tea mind.

I was intrigued by my fellow breakfasting guests. Small groups of business men, the senior holding court, the underlings smiling and nodding in all the right places. The odd business woman, alone, feisty. Probably getting more done than their male counterparts. A few families. One seemed to make endless demands on the staff, extracting every last ounce out of their stay. I returned to my room. There were socks to wash and only a hairdryer, no hot radiator.

I’d resigned myself to being mistaken for a German. I’ve nothing against them, of course, far from it. It’s just that I’m not one. But it does have its advantages when you’re trying to get things done. Quite a few Turkish people have worked in Germany, often for decades, and so speak the language. Fluently. And, despite my protestations that I speak only a little bit of German, it always comes thick and fast, the odd word discernable. But enough to get by.

I’d reached the town of Turkeli, unusually whilst still light, a day’s ride short of Sinop and the onward journey to meet up with my father. Choice to two hotels – the familiar workers establishment, or the ’Turistic’ one. I plumped for the latter – out of season little difference in cost – hoping, in this instance somewhat optimistically, you will eat in their restaurant – and usually with a few of life’s luxuries. Like hot water when you want it, rather than just at some obscure time of the day.

I was warmly greeted by an old man, perhaps another guest, possibly the owner, it was hard to say. But very helpful, and a German speaker. Twenty years with Volkswagen. He helped with the bags, and understood the bike would be in the room with me. Even found me a German satellite news channel.