Chasing Kars
Adventure is about adapting to new situations, grinding out the tough periods and really savoring every second of the good times. While the good moments have been coming thick and fast in recent weeks, the Black Sea ferry and all the furor it had created falls very much in the grinding it out category. Whilst the anticipated four week delay did give me many moments to savour, and an excuse to take things slower, its outright refusal to stick to a timetable means I have been faced this week with taking one of two options: wait for ‘just another couple more days’ in Burgas, a town with welcoming people but limited things to do for a traveler; or head down to Istanbul, try and survive cycling on those infamous roads and then catch trains across Turkey and continue into Georgia from there.
With itchy feet and a desire to leave continental Europe I picked option 2 and prepped for leaving the following morning. However, it’s worth mentioning my accommodation and hosts in Burgas, Evgeny and Irene. See this was my first Warmshowers (truly a terrible name) experience and they very kindly put me up for free for two nights, making me feel right at home and encouraging me to follow my instinct with whatever lay ahead. Their place is a mecca for travellers with the place a project to house those without shelter, but now with the vast majority of effort and space going in to catering for people displaced by Russia’s barbaric invasion of Ukraine.
I knew the next few days were going to be difficult. Not linguistically clued up with Turkish, differing information on whether bikes were even allowed on trains and no more data roaming. This one in particular hurt as it meant an emotional goodbye to Dua Lipa at the border with Bulgaria. I still miss her. One very memorable morning cycling through Istanbul’s notorious roads reinforced my concerns that I was being rash by not waiting, and I was now certain that the ferry would have been a life of bliss in comparison.
Taka out in front: beaten the roads and enjoying Istanbul
‘If you find yourself going through hell, keep going’. Love him or hate him, Churchill was truly a wordsmith and this saying he coined was very apt as myself and Taka, a fellow cyclist on this mini-adventure, tried to crack into the nut that is Istanbul. Eight lane motorways, ramps down into tunnels to nowhere, buses swerving across multiple lanes and diesel exhaust so thick I was beginning to get light headed. This is a snapshot into what the morning entailed. Our reward for cracking the nut was the sights, smells and vibe that only Istanbul can offer; a place with a foot in two continents, with an inescapable gravity that draws the best of both in towards it.
The famed Turkish hospitality was immediate, with a policeman flagging us both down and ordering us to have a chai (tea) with him and his presently sleeping colleague. Taka and I enjoyed the morning together visiting some of the sites before he headed south with an aim of making Izmir in the next few days, whilst I continued to follow where my feet took me. Once the afternoon sun began to dip I decided it best to get to Hagali train station early, to compensate for any issues that might arise. No sooner than I arrive than an insecure little stain of a man smirks and says in perfect English no bike.
You sir, have just sunk my battleship.
Sometimes in life you just meet someone and immediately dislike them, we’ve all been there and there’s no shame in it. Well, it appeared I was the unfortunate person to this power tripping rail guard in this instance. With my tickets all brought consequentially, missing one train would domino affect the others, and with a ticket to Kars in the far east rarer than hen’s teeth at times, I did not want to entertain the idea of being stranded in a regional town in Turkey for an indeterminable number of days.
Undeterred I went to another kiosk to get my tickets printed out, with my plan to wave them at the guard from the train window as I departed. However, what I hadn’t seen was that he had followed me, and after barking at the remaining kiosk windows, I was firmly turned down and refused boarding. When I asked him more specifically why I was not allowed, when segments of their own website say it was permissible, he shrugged and said no English and stormed off. This was my Dunkirk moment, and I vowed I would get on that train that afternoon.
Long story short I basically hid from the guard for the next two hours, like the hero I am, begged a sympathetic luggage handler to back my fight and with 10 minutes to spare had my tickets and was hauling my bike to the train before I could be spotted.
A typical station in Anatolia
Over the next two train journeys I met some of the most amazing, friendly and hospitable people I have ever met. One carriage happily having their leg room halved by my bike being crammed in, to a Kurdish guy who waited for four hours with me in Sivas to ensure my bike was allowed onto the next journey. These are people I had never met, from a very different background and faith and whom I was unlikely to ever meet again; and yet I was welcomed in as family. Fed, caffeinated up to the eyeballs and taught much about Turkey, their lives and a lot about what this game of life is all about. Connecting, experiencing and sharing.
One memorable moment on the train from Ankara to Sivas was sharing a compartment with Irfan and his uncle. I found out that Irfan was a singer in a mosque and does the call to prayer. He played some of his stuff on youtube, and as the sun began to set over the Anatolian steppe he belted out a tune. There are moments in life you will never forget, and as I watched the sky turn from a deepening red which silhouetting the mountains around us, to black whilst listening to Irfan I was transported, no longer presently on the train with it impossible to describe something so intangible.
A picture paints a thousand words……
With over 16 hours together talk naturally swings in lulls and peaks and just before turning in for the night Irfan and I talked about faith, with him keen to tell me more about Islam and I keen to hear more. With it being transfer window back in the football world, some might have sensed a major coup occurring, but Irfan heard my approach to faith with interest and concern in equal measure. He offered to teach me more about Islam, even going as far as to offer to convert me there and then, but I politely said I had my own way of dealing with the big man and was keen to keep things as they were. After all it had got me as far as here in life! However, what I did concede to Irfan was that I was happy to be called Mehmet for the remainder of my time in Turkey; and, after spending a big night in Sivas eating ourselves silly and laughing into the early hours I added his home town to my new nom de guerre.
Irfan, eating in Sivas and 16 hours of camaraderie.
I arrived in Kars late into the fourth day of travel, weary but excited to be somewhere that feels unlike anywhere I have ever been before. Kars itself is a place steeped in time, laying on the silk road it has a very mercantile feel to it, and is nestled in a low valley surrounded by weather beaten hills. It makes for a marvellous place to watch the world go by.
I celebrate making it this far by climbing up a hill to the old fort where I order a chai, watch the sunset over the city as the evening’s call to prayer is belted out. Unique, magical and well earned, it was an evening that reinforced I was well into the trip now, with my memories of leaving home feeling a very long way away.
I head to the cheapest accommodation I could find and collapsed after the strain of so many days of poor or no sleep, but could not switch off. I couldn’t believe how fortunate I had been to have made it here in the timeline initially envisioned, after meeting so many inspirational people, and experiencing places that had long burned into my memory.
Sundown at Kars castle
I write this blog preparing for Georgia, and ahead lays a four day journey to the Rioni River, a place I last visited five years ago and was the inspiration for all that has laid ahead of me ever since. With my good luck continuing, I receive word that the alpkit Foundation had very kindly offered to organise a replacement tent, as my loyal home is slowly falling apart under the strain of the past three months of hard use. A huge thank you to alpkit for this, and to all my supporters who have all stepped up to back this expedition and to help turn the tide on sturgeon declines!
My next blog will hopefully come from Georgia, a place with so much to offer and somewhere which has already greatly shaped me as a person.
Sivas de’ Mehmet
