Ken's Blog

Perfect symmetry. Just as I’d had root canal treatment before boarding the ferry to mainland Europe, so it was with Asia. Stepped off the boat into eastern Istanbul and jumped straight on to a suburban train. Off to the dentist. In a small hastanesi – hospital – about thirty minutes along the coast.

Reaching the hospital in good time, I sat outside for a few minutes, studying my phrase book’s small section on visiting the dentist. But there was no need. I’d barely stepped inside when I was greeted enthusiastically by Hulya. We’d spoken on the phone a few days earlier to arrange the visit. The usual formalities taken care of, it was off to meet Gulsemin the dentist.

Both spoke very respectable English, and so, an X-ray later, it wasn’t too difficult to convey what exactly the problem was. Or the solution. Root canal treatment. It’d take three visits, but I was at least pleased that anaesthetic was the norm here. And the problem would be sorted. I’d read the FCO website advice about where to get medical treatment when further east. Turkey. Gulsemin made a start, sending me off with a temporary filling. Bit like the one I’d done, just much, much neater.

[The author is indebted to Dr Ramin Ordi for his copious advice on dealing with the symptoms, and for facilitating the dental appointment. And thanks also to James Moore at www.travelhealthconsultancy.co.uk and Jason Gibbs at Nomad Pharmacy for their advice and guidance on what to include in the medical kit. Especially antibiotics with a dental application]

I’d chanced on a few satellite news channels over the past few months as I’d headed east. Whilst most had an understandable regional focus – the de-facto blockade of Gazza dominates -and a sense of balance, a few portray a cleverly distorted picture of the West. Not blatant anti-capitalist rhetoric, but something much more subtle. A careful blend of selective reporting, the portrayal of disaffected minority groups and individuals as the representative voice of a nation, and a respectable veneer of engaging English speaking journalists. A number who’d started their broadcast careers in the UK Regions.

A leader torn between socialism and fascism. New media the death of television, newspapers close behind. The steady erosion of civil rights. US of course. But the UK didn’t fair much better. A nation about to run out of gas in the grip of an unprecedented winter. Whether the irony was intentional I couldn’t say, but the same channel chose to run a fairly scathing piece about a new rival, implying it to be nothing more than a conduit for propaganda.

But none of this had ever been reflected in what I’d found as I’d headed into the former Eastern Bloc countries. There’d been the same curiosity about the West as I’d had about the places I’d passed through. That’s not to say that sometimes people had very unrepresentative images of a nation, just that they were simple, harmless misunderstandings, quickly and willingly explained away over a coffee.

Divided by the Bosphorus, connecting the northern Black Sea to the southern Sea of Marmara, Istanbul is the only city in the world to bridge two continents, Europe and Asia. It’s more than just immense. Wander around the narrow labyrinthian streets within the walled city and you quickly get a sense of the sheer density of the place. Steep cobbled passageways, twisting and turning. A myriad of small shops, colourful carpets, bright, ornately painted ceramics, gold, silver. Tantalizing aromas from endless small eateries.

I’d found a cheap hostel in the heart of the old city, on the European side. It was one that’d be suggested to me by Pam Goodall. She’d stayed there when she’d cycled around the world a few years ago. Came across it quite by chance as I explored the back streets. By now I’d a map which gave you a sense of the place, a few landmarks and the main streets. But that still left out an awful lot.

Whilst there is a vastness, a complexity to the place, it’s not without order. Shops tend to be grouped together by their wares, sometimes just one or two streets like the cycle dealers I’d found the previous day. Others, like those selling gold and silver, occupying whole districts. There’s a sense that you can probably find pretty much anything you want here.

In the evening I ventured into the Grand Bazaar, a vast, cavernous, covered market. An ancient trading centre, it dates from the fifteenth century, some five thousand shops spread along sixty streets. Bright and bustling, a gauntlet of carpet salesmen, a sense of direction easily lost. Thought I’d left the same way I’d entered, but, by now dark outside, it was hard to tell. Circled around for ages before I found my one trusted landmark, the modern tram system. Quickly regained my bearings, but a salutary lesson in the merits of always carrying a map in an unfamiliar city.

I’d honed my urban riding skills commuting into central London, had ridden into five capital cities on this expedition, often in the dark. Strike a balance between caution and confidence and you’re normally fine. But then there’s the final thirty or forty miles into Istanbul. Different. Almost beyond reason. Three or four lanes, motorway intersections, torrential rain, barely a hard shoulder. With hindsight, perhaps Sunday hadn’t been the best day. Traffic was heavy but not congested, passing perilously close at forty or fifty miles an hour, sometimes more. I wondered if rush hour would have been safer.

I stopped at the top of one of the many long descents, peering over my rain soaked glasses. A few hundred metres down a slip road off onto the motorway. To avoid that and continue on into Istanbul I’d need to cross two lanes of fast moving traffic. Nothing for it but to hope rear lights, a bright jacket, and some clear hand signals would get me across safely. This was verging on the insane, but no real alternative. I’d already decided to exit Istanbul by ferry.

Then Asia in sight. Perhaps no more than seven kilometres away. But not tonight. Something hidden amongst the surface water tore a small gash in my supposedly almost indestructible tyres, ripping the inner tube, collapsing it in an instant. Managed to get off the carriage way and assess the damage. Panniers off and bike up ended. Inner tube replaced, my hands going numb with the cold. But not to ride on. Too great a risk of a further blow out, the inner tube just visible through the gash in the tyre.

Nothing for it but to stop at the first place I found. I’d a few things in the field kit, buried deep in the panniers, that could keep the tyre running for a little while. But I’d need to replace it as soon as possible, couldn’t risk another blow out on these roads. Fortunately, I’d been told of a good cycle shop in Istanbul, and hoped I’d be able to purchase a new tyre. But that was a job for tomorrow. Reflecting a little later on the day’s fairly epic events, the blow out had at least made me think how I’d cope with one in far more remote regions. Had a few ideas to refine the field kit. So not all bad. And at least I’d not got run over.

You could almost taste it. Carried in on the strong offshore wind. Salt. Then a tantalizing glint of weak winter sun. The Sea of Marmara. Bunting adorning a nearby petrol station flapped noisily like loose halyards. At last. I continued along the D-100, the route I’d followed across much of Turkey towards Istanbul. By now a busy dual carriage way, a generous hard shoulder making it bearable. Winding along the urban coastal belt, pastel coloured apartment blocks, inter-spaced with modern industrial units. Steady uphills, long sweeping descents.

I stopped for the night in Buyukcekmece. Probably. Difficult to say exactly amidst the coast sprawl. But certainly close enough to give me a short run into the city centre the next day. Forty, perhaps fifty, kilometres. Ample time to find somewhere cheap and secure to stay. In the meantime I’d found a small but respectable looking place for the night. Owner a jovial chap. They’d been a little bartering over the price, especially as I’d have to wait a couple of hours for a room. But that was ok. Plenty of warm cay to drink as I sat watching young couples come and go.

Later, over dinner in the little cafe opposite, a few students for company, I mulled over the final leg into Istanbul. A decent city map would have been useful, but that was the sort of thing you usually found when you’d already made it in. Instead, I’d have to rely on a map that showed the entire country on a single sheet. And keep a sharp lookout for road signs that said senir merkezi – city centre. I’d hunt out the only landmark I knew of, the Blue Mosque. Thought there’d be plenty of hostels close by. City with a population of about eight million. Seemed like a sound plan.

Before drifting off to sleep the previous night, I’d mulled over the tooth situation. Remain in Edirne and get treatment? Or stick to the plan and push for Istanbul and the English speaking dentist I’d been told about? I wasn’t sure. What decided it the next morning was the distinct possibility of a tooth extraction, definitely one for Istanbul, together with increasing confidence in my ability to keep the situation stable until then. I’d an e-mail advising me to take a further antibiotic, the very one I’d deduced from my expedition medicine handbook might be sensible to self administer.

Over breakfast – a simple affair of boiled eggs, bread, cheese, cucumbers and tomatoes – I considered my route towards Istanbul. The original plan had been to head along quieter roads towards the Black Sea coast, entering Istanbul from the north. Now it was all about getting into the city as quickly as possible whilst the tooth held out. That’d be the D-100, a route that had a poor reputation amongst long-haul cyclists. I reckoned two days to cover about 120 miles to the southern coast and the Sea of Marmara. That’d leave the weekend to complete the remaining 50 or so miles into the heart of the city. Might not sound like much, but I’d been told traffic can be quite ferocious, and I’d want plenty of daylight on Sunday to find a secure location for myself and Emma. Might be there a little while.

In the end I found the D-100 rather uneventful, helped by a wide hard shoulder and supportive toots from passing motorists. Just a blustery cross wind to contend with. Passing a small petrol station close to the town of Havsa the owner waved, raising his glass of cay. Time for lunch. I circled back. Sweet, warm Turkish tea. There was little to eat, just a few packets of biscuits. Covered with a thin film of dust. Sitting close to the stove, I explained my mission, carefully sipping my tea. Behind the counter someone lay on a small bed, mostly obscured with a blanket. I thanked the owner for his hospitality and returned to the road. New Year’s Eve and soon time to find somewhere to stop for the night. The town of Luleburgaz sounded promising.

I’d chanced across a small eatery in an Edirne side street. Just one dish, albeit with a couple of choices for accompaniments. Liver. Thin strips, coated and deep fried. Served with thick yoghurt and a small salad. Quite delicious. Myles, the fellow English cyclist I’d ridden with from Sofia towards the Turkish border, had been similarly taken by this when he’d come this way.

It was a singular experience. One dish. One waiter. One customer. But, slowly sipping a tulip shaped glass of warm cay, a chance to consider my plans for New Year and arrival into Istanbul. A cheap motel and a microwavable meal for one didn’t strike me as a means of seeing in the new decade. I’d enjoyed celebrating Christmas with Zoya and her family back in Bulgaria, and whilst there was little chance of a similar experience for New Year’s Eve, I was sure I could at least find a decent place to stop.

I decided to retire early to bed with a good book. Oxford Handbook of Expedition and Wilderness Medicine. Chapter on emergency dentistry. Re-read it quite a few times. Tooth still causing problems. And, whichever way I read the diagnostic tables, everything pointed towards extraction. That’d be Istanbul. Until then, it was all about alleviating the pain, treating the effect of dental infection rather than the cause. The guidance suggested I take a further antibiotic, but it seemed wise to leave this until the morning and await advice from a very experienced dental surgeon back in the UK.

Instead, I was drawn to reading up on dental local anaesthesia and tooth extractions. Neither struck me as somewhere you wanted to go in the field. Or anywhere other than the first world. No, very evident why dentistry is a discipline all of its own. Avoiding the remaining chapters, I took solace in the foreword by the explorer Sir Ranulph Fiennes where, amongst other things, he extols the virtues of decent medical kit when venturing into the wilderness. Admittedly that wasn’t Turkey, but I found myself reassured by the dental experience that I was probably fairly well equipped for deepest Asia.

It was much easier than I’d imagined. Thought I’d made quite a neat job for a novice. Just a temporary fix you understand, filling my own tooth, until I reach an English speaking dentist in Istanbul. But necessary. Try cycling in icy cold air with an exposed cavity. Smarts. A lot. And I’d had copious advice from a very experienced dentist at home, had proper filling paste, carefully scrubbing everything clean first. Course of antibiotics to tackle some suspicious swelling. Another new experience. Wondered what the new year would bring.

I’d met Berkant (pronounced ’Backant’) and Nadir the previous day. Pausing briefly in the centre of Edirne to get my bearings, they’d approached and offered to help. They were keen to practice their English, and thanking them for their assistance, we agreed to meet for coffee the following afternoon. By then I’d many questions. A Muslim country, but a secular state, what did that mean, I asked? The wearing of religious symbols, such as the Cross, was not permitted. And what of the Santa Claus hats I’d seen in the centre, surely Christmas wasn’t recognised? No, they were for the New Year celebrations.

After coffee in the fading winter sun, we headed to the central Selimiye Mosque. Outside, a quite beautiful, imposing building, tall, elegant minarets. Inside, ornately decorated but not decadent. We watched as the Imam led early evening prayers. Tonight at least, just a few women, their hair covered with scarves, praying separately to the men. A short Service, perhaps twenty minutes, but one of five each day for the devoted. Nadir, who’d spent some time in England as an au pair, suggested the expectations of commitment were not dissimilar to that of Roman Catholicism.

Earlier in the day I’d wandered around central Edirne. A modern pedestrian shopping area, but venture a short distance and you were quickly amongst the traditional markets – the covered bazaars – or narrow side streets packed with small shops, perhaps tailors, or tiny cafes. Lively, bustling, but not crowded. I found a small street cafe for lunch. Mercimek corbasi – red lentil soup – and delicious soft flat bread, and warm cay – pronounced ’chay’ – Turkish tea. Students wandering around in their lunch break. Tidily dressed. A brief, if barely noticed, interruption for call to prayers.

A vast, windswept expanse of concrete, ordinarily congested with Turkish lorries waiting to bring goods into the European Union. But today it was almost deserted, just a few cars. I’d reached the Turkish border crossing at Lesovo, a few hours ride south of the town of Elhovo. A cursory Passport check on the Bulgarian side. Then on towards Turkey.

The Turkish border guards directed me towards a series of identical kiosks on a traffic island. After a little searching I found the right one, and purchased my visa. Then back to Passport control, a stamp on the visa, and on to Customs. Thorough searches of cars, but, when I explained where I’d come from, I was waved straight on. A final checkpoint – I’d counted six in total – and I was into Turkey proper.

The road was good, for the most part a wide hard shoulder and a generally downhill descent towards the small Turkish city of Edirne. The rain that had marked my return to the road how now stopped. It had been very heavy overnight. Creamy, brown rivers had sprung up across the well kept arable land. A few villages, closely resembling those in eastern Bulgaria, plain minarets the only sign of having entered a new country.