Lone Wolf

The Turks I meet along the way are willing to accept everything. That I’m cycling to the other side of the world. That I gave up my job in order to do that. Even that I’m still wearing cycling shorts now the temperature has dropped into the single digits. But why, they keep asking, why are you traveling alone? They just can’t seem to get their head around it. Joking that I don’t have any friends only makes it worse. ‘What is wrong with you?’ they all but say aloud.

But how to explain the joys of riding alone? It’s not something you can quantify or point at. Rather, it’s a state of mind, a mental equilibrium that is closely connected to the simplicity of cycling. Steady legwork not only carries you to distant climes, the same motion also seems to siphon off any unwanted thoughts, not unlike a pump draining a murky morass. When there is nothing but road, bike, horizon: that’s when the going gets good. Chitchatting with a travel companion or being forced to look at his sweaty back all day would simply drive a stick into this mechanism.

This isn’t to say that it doesn’t get a bit lonely at times. Eastern Anatolia isn’t exactly densely populated, and it often happens that a long day sees me pass through only a handful of hamlets. The other day, somewhere in between Kayseri and Malatya, all life seemed to have gone on strike. No villages, no vegetation, nothing. More than one hundred kilometres of sheer emptiness. Having just conquered the umpteenth barren hill, I suddenly heard an echoing cry. To my left I saw a middle-aged man waving frantically. It was clear he wanted me to follow him, so I got off my bike, crossed the road and scrambled up a mound. With a sweeping gesture he showed me a vast field, where a flock of sheep was peacefully nibbling away on what little grass there was left. Four imposing Kangal dogs were keeping a watchful eye. Proudly, the shepherd told me all about his work. I didn’t understand half of what he was saying, but then, nor did he and his friend when I told them about my trip. All of that seemed inconsequential, however. It was enough to just stand there for a while with these two men and watch the sun break through the clouds for the first time that day.

In Malatya I was welcomed by my host Ilyas, his wife Zehra and Diran, their four-month old boy. Staying at their place once again reminded me of the fact that without couchsurfing a journey like this would be virtually impossible. Solitude is great as long as I am pushing the pedals, but even lone wolves need some company every now and then. Couchsurfing was set up with exactly this in mind. It allows travelers to stay with locals and become part of their lives for a few days. A great way to unwind, plus you get to look beyond the main attractions and see a place for what it really is.

High on all the good company I took it a step further and signed up for a group trip to Nemrut Dağı, the monumental tomb of a long-forgotten king high up in the mountains south of Malatya. The ‘group’ turned out to be me plus two couples from France and Korea. Still, the five of us had great fun trying not to think of dying a horrible death as we raced to the summit in a ramshackle minibus. We got there just in time to see the sun set over the huge stone heads gazing out over the Tigris basin. After spending the night in a very basic hotel just below the summit we went back to see the sun come up from the eastern terrace. A truly communal spirit arose among the thirty or so spectators as the sky put on its multicoloured robe. It was a splendid spectacle, but somewhere I could hear a lone wolf howling at the moon.

Çay?

Still not boiling...

It’s become a bit of a pattern here in Turkey: people waving an outstretched arm at me whenever they catch sight of me, as if bouncing an invisible basketball. It’s not that they’re urging me to slow down, though I wouldn’t blame them if they did—on certain near-vertical descents I’m scratching at the surface of the sound barrier. No, the waving motion indicates that people want me to stop and come over. The first question is always the same. Çay?

I’ve come to regard these invitations to a cup—or, rather, a tiny tulip-shaped glass—of tea as perfect little breaks. Frankly, I get more invitations than I can accept. Often I’m forced to mime that I just had a cup two kilometres back. The other day, however, the waver’s timing was impeccable. Wrapped in rainproof gear, slogging uphill, I was simply dying for a sip and a bite. I’d felt it coming for quite a while. But that’s the thing with hills. You vow to take a break at the top, but when you finally get there the road beckons you to shoot down like an arrow and see what’s behind the next hill. It’s never the eldorado you somehow vaguely expect. Still, it’s hard to resist the call of the unknown.

Like me, the waving man had come prepared for foul weather. Dressed in a long yellow raincoat, he stood out for miles. He’d arranged a number of shallow wooden crates next to his ancient Massey-Ferguson tractor, each of them overflowing like a horn of plenty. Onions, tomatoes, melons, peppers... He immediately shoved a bunch of grapes in my face and then asked the immortal question. Çay? Why, yes please, I smiled, happy like a soaked cat that’s finally let into the house. He put me on a chair under a parasol, which could hardly cope with the downpour, and started fiddling with a samovar. Big handfuls of wet twigs disappeared into its belly. This clearly smothered the fire, but that didn’t keep him from stuffing the thing to the gills over and over again.

After a good thirty minutes the water in the top compartment came to a reluctant boil. He proudly showed it to me by opening a lid. By then, that cup of tea had become a matter of life and death. My numb fingers could hardly hold on to the fragile glass, and I’m afraid I failed to force my face into an expression of gratitude. In the meantime, not a single customer had shown up. In fact, barely twenty cars had passed. Having drained my glass I was naturally offered a refill. I groaned silently. All I wanted was to be on the road again and plunge into a long uphill sprint to get the blood flowing. But to decline a second glass is like saying the first one was worse than something the bladder of a dying donkey would produce. So I accepted politely and tried not to burn myself while gulping down the tea as fast as I could.

After the next hill again no eldorado where the sun always shines but another fruit seller bouncing an invisible basketball. I kept my eyes glued to the map in front of me, looking for a spell to turn myself invisible, and sped by.

Cappadocia in 6 Shots

Welcome to Cappadocia, a magical wonderland so spectacular that it must have been dreamt up by some god of tourism. Traditionalists, however, suggest the region owes its curious aspect to a series of volcanic eruptions millions of years ago. Over time, ash and mud turned into tuff, a soft rock that crumbles to the touch. Centuries of erosion then led to today’s otherworldly rock formations. Some of these are known as fairy chimneys, though anyone can see they rather resemble ice-cream cones that some clumsy kid dropped to the floor. From the earliest times people have recognised the unique possibilities of Cappadocia’s geological makeup. Ancient civilisations created vast underground cities that could hold thousands of people. Later, Byzantine monks carved churches and monasteries out of the soft cliff-faces, decorating them with naive frescoes. And peasants working the area’s fertile soil used the fairy chimneys as well-insulated dwellings—and still do today. All of which leaves me wondering why I bought such a dinky camera.

Decisions, Decisions

Stopping for some water: always a good decision

I hate to admit it, but making up my mind isn't something that comes natural to me. Too much of a shoegazer, too little of a go-getter. I guess it's the Libra in me, forever weighing the pros and cons of every little situation—even those that don't really have any discernible pros or cons.

Fortunately, this trip is teaching me a thing or two about improvisation and spontaneity. Be like water, I often tell myself, not sure whether I'm touching on one of the fundamentals of Buddhism or quoting something I picked up in a kungfu flick. But it's true. I've found that when you stop 'revolving it all... in your poor mind' (Beckett's phrase) and just take things as they come, a trip like this really comes into its own. Static creeps in, the undergrowth catches fire. That's when traveling gets exciting.

My plan for leaving Ankara amounted to precisely that: leaving Ankara. I knew where I wanted to go—Ihlara Valley, the gateway to Cappadocia—but not how to get there. Without giving it much thought I decided to take the dual carriageway along a big salt lake. Flat, straight, busy, tad dull. But on the morning I left, a little revolution flared up in my synapses. Did I really feel like inhaling exhaust fumes all day long? Or sleeping next to a petrol station? At the first junction out of Ankara I stopped, said no and surprised myself by turning left, heading straight into the mountains. Instead of two days it would now take me four days to get to Ihlara, perhaps five.

I loved every minute of it. The pain in my ligaments after four weeks of idleness. The desolate landscape stretching out before me in subtle shades of gold, brown, beige. The small villages en route where former migrant workers ambushed me to practise their rusty German. The sudden drop in temperature after sunset, forcing me to find new ways to keep warm. (Thermal undies, two pairs of socks and a balaclava do the trick. For now.) The tomatoes and melons brought to me by a villager who had spotted my tent in a field. The lunch I shared with a convicted murderer.

So, what's next? I have no idea. And that's something that makes me very happy.