Van (Turkey) – Tbilisi (Georgia)

The unrest seemed to follow us with a bomb in Van during our stay and we resolved not to wild camp during the remainder of our travels through the Kurdish part of the country for fear of fatal mistaken identity.  Sickness remedied, we turned north into a more sparsely populated high altitude Anatolia. Regular sightings of Turkish armoured personnel carriers with fingers on the triggers of turret mounted guns were a constant reminder that, although we might be enjoying the culture and countryside, this was a live conflict, and the Turkish soldiers knew all too well that they could be the target of a PKK guerrilla attack at any moment.

Cresting the highest pass to date at 2600m, a stone throw from the Iranian border, we descended and rounded a corner to a vista of the mighty 5137m Mount Ararat. An iconic symbol of Armenian culture now owned by the Turks, those in Yerevan (the Armenian capital) must now make do only with views of their sacred peak.
Still the violence followed us as a PKK member drove a tractor loaded with 2000kg of explosives into an army base 10km away, leaving much death in its wake. As we left the small town we’d stayed in, every shopkeeper in town was frantically closing shop and minutes later it became apparent why. A thronging mass of Kurdish bodies chanted their way down the street, coffin lofted high and posters of the recent martyr thrust above their heads...a hasty departure followed on our part! Half an hour out of town and we rode past the aftermath of the suicide tractor bomb – an army base the size of a very large house with the entire front façade and rooms obliterated…a sobering experience amidst tangible tension from those on guard.

Cranking on past fascinating geology and stark plains, mother was now a hardened bike traveller charging on hard through the searing summer heat – the destination, Ani, the ruins of a once grand Armenian city a millennium ago. It hardly shows up on the map or tour guides, but a German couple we met a thousand kilometres earlier had spoken of it in a manner that piqued my interest.

Arriving late on a blustery overcast afternoon we could see the few remaining buildings and city walls contrasted against undulating open plains from a way off. Arriving at the entrance we were greeted with large Turkish flag distastefully and disrespectfully adorning the city wall. It’s difficult to explain, but the walking amongst the last few buildings dotted across the plain, almost all of which are religious in nature, we felt a haunted melancholy alongside acute resentment. These are magnificent one thousand year old buildings and the treatment of them can only be generously described as neglect – for context, there is recent graffiti scrawled on them and none of them are guarded.

This goes to the heart of the Turkish Armenian relations, but having now visited both countries extensively, I would be amazed if anyone could draw any other conclusion other than that the Turks have behaved utterly despicably and it is unfathomable how they have not been brought to task for their actions. Hitler is despised across most of the world and primarily for the genocide he enacted against the Jews – only 25 years prior to that the Turks undertook a genocide on the same scale to remove the Armenians from what was then the Ottoman Empire, indeed it would appear from the quote below that Hitler used their actions as inspiration. 

However, unlike the Germans, the Turks deny it ever happened, and because of their economic and military prowess versus Armenia’s paltry power in comparison, the other world powers are happy to let that status quo remain. Yes, even Great Britain will not admit it and Obama tip toes around the issue even though there is video footage of him condemning the genocide before he was president. 

It was thus fitting that two days later the 2 month Turkish journey gave way to a new and very different country. However, it would be unfair to leave Turkey on that note, and as I sat camped on the border I reflected on my time here.
The people were the most friendly, interested and hospitable people that I have experienced to date. A day on the road would never go by without being invited for tea, gifted fruit, chocolates or some other gesture of kindness, not to mention the myriad of greetings, horn honks, etc. With long days on the road and being among people with who you mostly cannot communicate, it is so uplifting to experience such gestures regularly, so thank you the Turks and Kurds of Turkey your hospitality was immensely appreciated.
It is true of many countries that there is often a vast difference between the people and the rulers and in Turkey this is blatantly apparent. Under Erdogan, Turkey is a country that severely limits freedom of the press and pours immense resources into promoting Sunni Islam, which says much of the lack of separation of church and state. The outcome being that people are heavily socially policed (especially away from the urban centres, which is vast swathes of the country) and strict conformity to prescribed (religious) norms accounts for the behaviour of the vast majority. And discussions regarding ‘contentious’ issues such as the Kurds or Armenian genocide is generally not socially acceptable. Consequently, people are kept ignorant and aligned with the ruling elite’s agenda. That is not to say there are a lot of conservative religious people who are aligned with the status quo, but the choice is not openly there for those who choose otherwise.
As a feminist travelling to an Islamic country I was determined to put principles aside and try assess the culture objectively. It is a patriarchal culture and Islam prescribes this (as indeed does a lot of Christianity) as a positive trait in that the woman have a vital role in looking after children and the home, and as such the majority of the people you see are men. The woman I did see would usually never greet me (again Islam prescribes this with the phrase ‘lower your gaze’) but would often greet my mother. Although these are quite contrary to my personal principles they are religiously and culturally important and I slowly found myself being able to accept them as such.
One trait I could not accept is how relationships are formed and the inequality in the treatment of the genders in this regard. I had a number of opportunities to sit in chai houses and chat with young guys (between 18 -25) and I’ll recall a telling story from one such experience – I’d been chatting to a group of five roughly 25 year old guys for a while and they asked to look through my phone pictures. Obliging, I scrolled back to the beginning of my trip on a crisp February morning in the UK with pictures of my mates giving me a send-off (see below). Their collective and enthused response was a single word, “GIRLS!”. Now call me a liberal hippy, but if your reaction to seeing a few thoroughly clad men and woman in a group is your hormones going wild, then I put it to you that your culture may be severely hampering the development of your social skills. And indeed, interaction between the sexes is severely restricted for seemingly most communities outside the large cities. Added to that the double standard requiring only the woman to be a virgin when she marries, and you have all the ingredients for a maelstrom of social and sexual issues.
Let me just say at this juncture that the western world dishes up its gender issues slightly differently, but with gross sexualisation and objectification of woman and a raft of double standards in men’s favour, it’s not substantially better –that’s a topic for another time but noted for fairness.
To close-out the shit sandwich, the Turkish scenery offered much variety from lush mountainous terrain all along the Black Sea to the stark high altitude Anatolia plains that are covered in snow for much of the year, along with many ancient sights in-between – we were certainly never bored during the more than two thousand kilometres we rode here.

Given the above, entering Georgia and immediately seeing woman (i.e. I could make out their female form!) and beer was a huge culture shock and far more influential than I realised it would be. I knew little of this land but the map and initial interactions were encouraging, however for the moment it was head down charging to the capital Tbilisi for an anxious rendezvous with the embassy of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Goreme (Turkey) – Van (Turkey)

I imagine that when geologists need to canvas for students (they are trying to convince teenagers to learn about rocks after all!) all they do is offer up a slideshow of Cappadocia and even the cool kids might be hooked – It is a truly wondrous and captivating place. We spent days just wandering the valleys that make up the area, endlessly enthralled.
This easily erodible landscape also lead to the construction of a multitude of underground cities in the middle ages as a means for the local christians to escape persecution - even more fascination & intrigue.

The other unique offshoot of this surreal land is the world’s biggest daily sunrise launch of over a hundred hot-air balloons, that provide the ideal vantage point to take in the landscape, and they themselves are a sight to behold.

East from here heralded the beginning of a more wild Turkey – the high altitude Anatolian plateau, Turkish ‘Kurdistan’ and, as we ventured off, the reigniting of violent clashes between the Kurdish Worker’s Party (PKK) and the Turkish police and army. For a brief summary of history – the 35 million Kurds living in Turkey, Iran, Syria & Iraq are the fourth largest ethnic group in the Middle East and have never had their own state, even though it was promised after WW11…they’re understandably slightly aggrieved about this and for a long time the Turks have imposed harsh discrimination against them.
As usual, if there were mountains and back roads on offer I was heading for them, and so for 500km we did just that en route to the mysteries atop the mountain of Nemrut Dagi. It was tough riding littered with stark mountainous vistas, welcoming rural folk, intimidating and massive (but ‘mostly’ benign) Anatolian sheepdogs, searing heat (as the mercury rocketed into the mid 40’s) and cracking wild camp spots (well except for the one outside a casino that it would appear was a brothel).

Twice on this leg we received amazing hospitality, the second of which left my mother & I feeling quite overwhelmed and ashamed of our now seemingly self-centred culture – We had stopped to ask for some water in a tiny village as the temperature read-out briefly soared to 50C. A local family immediately took us to their water supply and, as we soaked ourselves and were gathering our stuff to depart, they motioned for us to sit down and brought out mulberries to snack on. This family lives a subsistence existence with only the most basic of amenities which do not include power and running water and are clearly quite poor (monetarily anyway). Yet within 20 minutes they had set up a table and chairs outside and laid on a veritable feast as shown in the attached picture. It is inconceivable that they are able to eat like this regularly, and they provided this for two random foreigners with who they shared no common language and who they would never see again. Truly humbling indeed, and as they first Kurds we met, they left quite an impression.

The mighty Nemrut Dagi rising before us, we left at dawn to scale the 1500m to its summit before the heat consumed us. 5hrs of heinously steep roads later, amidst feelings of much accomplishment, we arrived at the final resting place of King Antiochus I Theos of Commagene. Ironically, given what was built in his honour atop this remote mountain top in 60BC, he was apparently quite an egalitarian ruler who happened to just have a rather inflated ego of his position in the hierarchy of all things, worldly or otherwise. This fact encapsulated by his central presence among the deities of the period in a set of massive rock sculptures set either side of a gargantuan tumulus mound (in which the late king is apparently enshrined) that comprises almost a million cubic metres of shattered rocks. As with similar ancient grand construction, how this was built is somewhat unfathomable.
Sunset and sunrise are the times to visit, as the statues are positioned on the East and West flanks of the tumulus mound to greet and bid farewell to our faithful star. As we camped there we got to experience both, moving experiences that won’t be forgotten.

The mountain gave way to the south eastern plains and a true test of my anti-dehydration tactics awaited – After 6hrs of riding in an average of 46C, stoked and utterly shattered, but not dehydrated, I collapsed into a chai garden amongst the now ubiquitous company of many men (woman are not socially permitted in these establishments).

I took off across the plains towards the ‘Kurdish capital’ of Diyarbakir as the ferocious sun set, in the hope of covering some distance in the cool afforded by its absence. Music driving my legs through the fresh evening air, I was contentedly ticking over the miles expecting to arrive around midnight when a car stopped and a friendly but animatedly concerned guy insisted he allow me to let him drive me the rest of the way. The language barrier heightening frustrations as I wanted to continue riding, I suddenly clicked when he found the word ‘terrorist’ amidst a flurry of Turkish or Kurdish. I had ignorantly and optimistically been ignoring the escalating unrest, but with two policeman killed that day in the city I was riding towards, and my proximity of 80km to the Syrian border, it occurred to me that maybe I was being a smidgen complacent! We settled on me camping at the next petrol station and, as he left clearly thinking I was an utter twat, I nervously rode away, thankfully finding a service station run by the usual friendly Kurds who welcomed me in to camp.
Perched on the banks of the Euphrates, Diyarbakir is an ancient city dating back to 1,300 BC with records of civilisation here dating back 10,000 years, its antiquity and significance clearly tangible amidst the imposing basalt city walls encircling the old city and large beautifully intact Caravanserai (a Silk Road trading post).
On the advice of the locals and the presence of armoured military vehicles outside our hotel, we headed out by train until we were well into the countryside. ​

Cycling away from tracks we were mercifully headed for the high far eastern Anatolian plains that promised ‘cool’ mid 30’s temperatures, and two days later, after ascending through a fantastic gorge we emerged on the shores of the mighty endorheic Lake Van (no I didn’t know that word previously, it’s a closed body of water that doesn’t flow out via rivers into the oceans).
A rail ferry provided our transport across, which was most entertaining for a train nerd such as myself, and again my sea sickness was kept at bay by an 80km millpond. 

Another ailment was brewing though (a first for the trip), as a Delhi belly of sorts struck us both down for a few glum days in the lake’s namesake city of Van.
For most west to east travellers this is a last stop in Turkey before heading into Iran. However, after six months on the road, wanderlust rather than clocking up miles across the globe was my driving force and as the Caucasus region was a week’s ride north it was begging to be explored…and so thoroughly was it finally explored that it lead to a new mantra for the journey.

Istanbul (Turkey) – Kastamonu (Turkey)

 Within minutes of riding off the ferry Istanbul smashed into us – restaurant  touts thrusting out menus, bazaari’s flogging their wares, cars and taxis flying & honking through tiny cobbled streets and people everywhere – all our senses thoroughly and immediately assaulted. After the physically arduous but sparsely populated journey of the past two weeks, we almost packed up and left the moment we arrived, only finally settling into the chaotic vibe of the city two days later. Only then did we begin to delve into the long influential history of this great city and the huge impact it has had on cultures many thousands of kilometres east and west of its strategic position on the cusp of Europe and Asia. The grandeur of the great mosques and Topkapi Palace around which the city is built are fitting iconic symbols of the city and have to be seen to really appreciate their grandeur.

With Ramadan underway the central role of Islam in the Turkish culture was made clearly apparent. Supposedly a secular country, but with a $2 Billion budget for the religious ministry (or Diyanet) that exclusively promotes Sunni Islam, Turkey is very much now an Islamic state contrary to the consitution (much like the USA is a Christian state, against the constitution laid down by the founding fathers). This was borne out in many interesting, generous and frustrating experiences along our journey, but for now, in the great city, this played out with masses of late night fast-breaking picnics, chador clad woman, enthralling dervishes dancing and excruciatingly long expeditions to find beer.

There were numerous routes heading east, but eyeing the mountainous & forested coastline of the Black Sea, there was only one choice for us. A ferry again relieved us of Russian roulette in the Istanbul traffic and we chugged away up the Bosporus straits away from Europe for the last time.

The scenic ferry ride straddling the two continents for 3 hours triggered a contemplative state – Was the journey as I expected it would be riding out of Bristol 5 months previously? Had I developed in some of the ways I hoped I would or unexpected others? Now firmly my lifestyle, what were my sentiments towards it and how did I want it to progress from here? And were there niggles or traits still lurking that I wanted remedy?
Overall I was really stoked with the journey – I had had many doubts and insecurities when embarking and had felt pressure for it to take various forms (i.e. an around the world journey with miles being constantly racked up, etc.).
·  I used to avoid being alone for long periods, now I relished the solitude.
·   I used to feel the need to tick off the kilometres and make consistent progress that was tangible to others, now although some relics of my competitive past remained, I usually sought enthralling experiences over massive miles.
·   And whereas I used to find interacting with strangers intimidating, I was now largely at ease even across language barriers.
·   And probably most important, I had left because I wanted to seek out a different way of living that was probably going to be quite removed from my western upbringing and I really was feeling the deceptively strong social pressures we face (and often don’t recognise) starting to slide away and be replaced by a strong conviction in my own beliefs, ideas and motivations.
·   A few gremlins still remained – I often felt jealous or inadequate reading of others travels and questioned whether this lifestyle was selfish. And so I resolved to work on these and left the boat buoyed with optimism at how far I had come and palpable enthusiasm for what might lie ahead. 
​
Straight off the ferry the route began as it was to continue for many hundreds of kilometres – brutally steep climbs set amongst lush forests, regularly interspersed with small villages containing friendly interested locals, who almost always had chai on hand to welcome us with, even if they couldn’t join us in a cuppa in the daylight hours (being Ramadan).

And so for two weeks, drenched in sunshine, it continued as such, and each night we would collapse shattered but fulfilled as Turkey offered up the goods and its people made a great experience all the more special. After the relative anonymity of Europe, life as a bike traveller in Turkey is one with you as a curiosity amongst welcoming hospitable people, and as we progressed it was to have quite profound impact on us.

Somewhere while labouring up another sweltering climb ensconced by hazelnut plantations my mother made a pertinent point about the life of bike traveller: It’s often romanticised as being an exhilarating culture immersing journey that liberates oneself from the stressful scourge of a western lifestyle, and there are many “ah I wish I could do that” comments cast in your direction while watching another video collage of the highlights of someone’s year on the road. Now while most of that statement is very true, mother also felt it imperative to note that in amongst all that warm feel goodness is a tough existence. And that is not to suggest that tough means negative, indeed for me it’s quite the contrary, but it is constantly physically and often mentally demanding, with long hours in the saddle and every type of season and weather coming your way.

With days turning to weeks we headed inland through even bigger mountains and searing heat heading for the large town of Kastamonu to find a ride south to the wonders of Cappadocia. With the heat and humidity climbing I plunged into yet another soul destroying bought of dehydration…But at last, after 15 years of disintegrating when exerting myself in the heat, and knowing what we would face further south, we did some research and found the, embarrassingly simple, solution to the problem. Which for someone who leaks sweat like sieve, happens to be salt along with water – Duh, I may have some academic intelligence but common sense is seemingly in very short supply!

Mother on the other hand excels in the heat, had found her biking legs, and was fully in the game, not a day would go by where a local would be in utter disbelief that this 68 year old woman was smashing out the tough hot mountainous miles day after day, and they didn’t even know that she also spent most nights camped out rough in a tent. The cool hardcore mother award has been won.

Sofia (Bulgaria) – Istanbul (Turkey)

It was a seemingly simple task to meet my mother in Istanbul airport and then fly on to Sofia together, that is unless you’ve spent the last 10 days constantly partying, inebriated or flying, culminating in a hearty combination of all of the above. Ironically this period was all in the name of a work trip to South Africa & Nigeria, but I made the most of the trip home with plenty revelry with mates and family. Suffice to say that the utterly deranged state in which I arrived in Turkey, after a raucous departure from Nigeria, resulted in mother missing our flight trying to find me while I just wandered aimlessly about the airport for 10 hours…not the optimum start to 3 months of travelling together!
Finally in Sofia together, we celebrated my birthday with some fine ale and a few days later rode out with fond memories of this fun interesting city. A local guide had given my mother a recommended route out of Bulgaria that she had ridden herself, and I was not one to argue with a local who knows her stuff, especially when a quick peruse of the map suggested that it looked pretty lumpy.

Five days later we had climbed 6000m through the verdant Rila and Rhodope mountains, climbing way more and higher than anything I could find in the mighty Italian dolomites. Now my mother is far and away the fittest 68yr old woman I know, but most of that is from arduous trekking, and this was an utterly brutal start to life on a heavily laden bike. But as was to be the case many times in the coming months, her indefatigable spirit and resilience was astounding and inspirational…even if she did need a few mid ride power naps en route!

She wouldn’t admit it, but over a week after leaving Sofia, as we summited yet another big pass to take us to the Greek border, I was certain she must be sorely regretting suggesting her guide’s recommended route!
As with others in the Balkans, Bulgaria turned out to be one of those countries that I (ignorantly) hadn’t expected much from, but turned out to be a real gem – Sofia is a great vibrant capital and the relentlessly mountainous route south eastwards into Greece took us through endless lush forests, ski resorts, quaint rural villages, and wild mountains still inhabited by bears and wolves.

The Greeks were in a bit of a kerfuffle in our brief sojourn through their country, what with their economy all but collapsing amidst much political wrangling, but they were pleasant enough considering! We only took in the north eastern corner so we really couldn’t immerse ourselves in the culture, but a great time was had with kiwi couple Robyn & Don (who were riding a similar route to us) at a seaside campsite. And for good measure we knocked back many lagers in anticipation of a distinct scarcity of the amber nectar in the vastness of a Turkey in the midst of Ramadan.
Waving the European Union adios for good, we crossed the river into Turkey, greeted by armed soldiers, seemingly just there as a symbol of strength against their ‘much loved’ Greek neighbours, their relationship being only ever tepid at best.

Although still in Europe for the moment, entering Turkey felt like crossing a large frontier, touted as east meets west, but as a large Muslim state bordering Syria, Iraq and Iran it was always going to be a new world for me, and we intended to thoroughly explore this ancient and powerful land.
The cultural shift was gentle to begin, although the friendly nature of the people and regular bargaining were sure signs we were crossing a divide. Hopping on a ferry at the tragically famous WW1 battleground of Gallipoli, we crossed the strategically vital Dardanelle straits and I set foot in Asia for the first time. Only briefly letting my mind wander as to the vastness of this continent, what wonders and challenges I would experience and how long I might call this currently foreign land home.

As a thankful respite for mom, the riding flowed relatively easily, the wild camping was relaxed and before long we were on a ferry across the mercifully calm Sea of Marmara into the iconic craziness of Istanbul, and in doing so effectively avoiding the suicidal traffic around the metropolis.

It’d had been a tough and stimulating opening leg and the mother-son journey was underway, relations were amicable (not a guaranteed, but other than mild petulance on my behalf we make a great team!). And battle-axe mother was clearly ready for anything this journey could throw at her. First though, there was the vast tapestry of history and culture to discover in one the world’s great cities.