From My Notebooks In 1977: Iran and Turkey

Leaving Iran.

Wednesday, June 1st

To border, meeting Ted and Mina by roadside. Then the endless snake of lorries lined on road – maybe a kilometre – waiting to be processed at border. They watched with non-committal eyes. Balkan drivers in shorts and short-sleeved shirts and sandals. Mostly Bulgarians. They pioneered the route – according to Ted. But what do they carry?

The Iran border was quick and easy. Though the police, again, seemed to be competing for the “Most Hostile Expression” award. Then from Iran through an archway into a muddy courtyard that was Turkey, where a mustachioed man in uniform waved me round like a maitre d’hotel from the Habsburg Empire.

We queued in customs before a man who was nervously new to the job and kept stopping to stare at papers and passports with a thoughtful faraway look.

From the border to Dogubayazit, and not a 100 yards down the road two small boys threw a stone and crawled off up a hillside. It was so prompt a fulfillment of the Turkish reputation, it was hilarious. They should be paid by the tourist office, who could supply them with polystyrene rocks.

At Igdir, at the Park restaurant, I stopped to wait for T&M and drank tea with two young Turks. One said he was a Marxist. I said I was police. Then brandished my CPF lighter. [What was that? I have no idea.] We had kebab, salad and bread. Immediately noticed that the food was far better flavoured. T says Greek food originated from Turkey and was better there. It was warm and pleasant in the garden. A few clouds in a blue summer sky. I set off contentedly, quite unprepared for what was to come. Winding off among a maze of peaks and valleys, ever higher, distant snowcap advancing, clouds growing fat and dark and sagging heavily, then drizzle into rain, tarmac into dirt, rock slides and mud, and cold until it began to penetrate that this was becoming an ordeal.

When I stopped once to smoke a cigarette under my umbrella, I found my fingers couldn’t handle the top stud of my jacket [Actually it was getting quite serious. I want to put more clothing under my jacket, but couldn’t take it off.] while a friendly shepherd watched with amused sympathy.

(Turks all remind me of unemployed workers in the Depression years – flat hats, old-style shirts, waistcoats and suits. The women wear shorter versions of the Afghan/Iran skirts and shawls, but later this changes dramatically and in the centre, after Kayseri , they wear those big bags with holes at the corner. Were they invented for warmth or as prevention against sudden rape. Back on the bike, wondering whether I would ever see the welcoming warmth of a tea cup again. Singing, flexing my muscles, trying to imagine the countryside on a fine day, trying to relax my neck muscles, so stiff I can’t turn my head, amazed that when I’m so close to home I should run into such extreme conditions, wondering how I had imagined that it was simply a matter of going up over a few passes and then down again, trying to visualise this crumpled landscape of rocks extending back to the Himalayas and North to the Caucasus and realising all the time that the cold was getting into me without quite knowing why. When I did get to the village before Horasen, and got off, I sat among the men in the tea shop laughing and shaking – couldn’t stop shaking – like a puppet with somebody jerking the strings. After half an hour, and several teas, I put on leather trousers – would have used “long johns” if I hadn’t sent them back from Delhi, ski socks, jumper and scarf. People were nice – though one man was desperate to swap cigarettes.

All the way little boys who weren’t throwing stones held two fingers in a wide V over their lips to ask for cigarettes. From Horasen to Erzerum was much easier, though higher still and above snow. Erzerum also a surprise. Mountain town, cobbled streets weaving. Hotels full. Took room at new hotel, Bohara, run by young men, embarrassed amateurs. Room cost 72 ($4) but plumbing was incomplete and no water. T &M caught me at road into Erzerum. We ate together (good food) and went to a Furini where a relaxed baker with fine features wielded his huge baker’s paddle and tossed dough from his little mezzanine dough house above the oven onto the wooden platform below.

Thursday, 2nd

Left T&M in their hotel and set off for Sivas. No rain, lovely ride in mountains. Two high passes. Over the second, guard humour, then comic disaster as I slid into clay gulley by roadside. Rode bike out with much effort then dropped it back down . . . .in ditch. Fought to get everything off and bike upright before petrol all ran out. Much cursing and swearing. At last set off, but visor dirty. Parked again on camber to clean up and passing bus blew bike over in same humiliating position. My laughter was hysterical. Bus driver passed grinning. Then while I was fighting to get bike upright a Hungaro-camion driver stopped his giant truck (and his partner’s) and leapt out to help me. Very surprised and grateful.

Down to Erzincan to eat kebab (off big spit: where did I see that before?) and wander along shops. Copper jug $8. Too much. Petrol in Turkey 2.80 a litre – 75 cents a gallon (Iran 50 cents – 8 Rials litre)

Sivas at 4pm. Huge excavation in main street. With concrete channels being set in under road. Shared bedroom for 25 lira. Met Mark, Hennie and Peter in restaurant.

Friday, 3rd

In convoy to Urgüp. Cimenli camping. Bargained for 15 lira each. Two good days – one just hanging about, one to see the troglodyte churches at Göreme and the fantastic eroded landscape of cones around there.

Overcast sky turns to gale and hail at night. Morning turns to drenching rain. Peter turns out to have no raingear, not even gloves. We have to leave him and make the soaking ride down to the main road to Adana. First half hour was worst. Then a dry spell. Then more rain on a broad table-land of wheat, etc. Then a tea stop while the sun came out. On to big jetu on Antara-Adana road just as we seem to be heading over a great range of snowy mountains – Taurus range. Road sweeps sharp left, along river, downhill. Then up to last pass and among endless stream of petrol tankers down to the coast.

Mercedes driver rushing in front of me at impossible speed seen seconds later after a head-on collision with another Merc. His face, as he gets out, a picture of utter defeat and resignation. Probably he had nothing to hurry for, but imagine what it might have meant. A last glimpse of someone he loved? A million dollar deal? A last chance to escape jail?

On the way we talked about Das Rollende Hotel [the bus with its 39 bed slots in three layers.] The idea that each slot was actually a coffin. At the end, 39 jets of gas ignite and incinerate each compartment, and 39 urns pop out. “Holiday of a Lifetime.”

I’m off to my own holiday now. Find me here again in September. All the best.