10.05.2001 Erzurum to Dogubayezit - Across the open steppe

Cass writes...

A gentle climb leads us out of Erzurum, beyond a sprawling army barracks, overtaken by a convoy of jeeps and thundering lorries. Past a few lingering buildings we emerge onto open steppe, rolling far into the distance to either side. I had no idea Eastern Turkey was this desolate, beautiful in its bleakness and simplicity. Snow powders the hilltops and a few shepards tend flocks of long tailed sheep, leaning on crooks to watch us as we pass. Ruddy faced, a makeshift assortment of ragged waterproofs, army surplus and woolens shield them from the sharp wind.

It's a wind changes in direction continually, never settling, forever churning the clouds overhead. The sun shines briefly in bold shafts of light, only to be swallowed by a darkening sky, almost jet-black as a storm veils the hillsides. Catching up with us, it throws down hail so strong we stop and shield our faces from its icy sting. A truck driver pulls to offers us a lift but we soldier on, donning waterproofs and shrouding our faces with hats, as the low rumble of thunder resonates through the valley.

The kilometres roll by, the sun appears and disappears; all the time the surrounding steppe dwarfs us in its solitude. We pull into the truck stop town of Horasan - a few shops, corrugated rooves, run down houses and a breakers yard, rising from a river of mud in this torrent of rain. We stop before a weathered signpost - 'Otel' - and are immediately swarmed by men and children, descending upon us as we pull in from the rain. Rosal stands by The Limo and I follow the hotelier into a cafe, a few scruffy kids in pursuit. Thick with smoke from a dozen men sitting a low tables, it's very much a local hangout. All eyes turn to me. 'Merhaba' - Hello - I venture. My greeting is met by a dozen nods and at few toothy grins. Up a flight of stairs, we emerge into a darkened corridor where I'm a shown a basic room - two beds and four walls. The bathroom is barely discernable from a dark pit, but at least the price is good - just over a pound.

Sheltered from the beating rain beneath an awning, a drenched Rosal stands by the bike, the centre of a circle of men. Not looking too comfortable, we opt to look elsewhere for something a little less male dominated. Tracking down a cleaner hotel just down the road, we find the same basic setup, minus the smoke stained walls and dingy bathroom. This one's three pounds, still within our budget!

By morning, the sun shines tentatively through a low layer of clouds and puddles of murky water have gathered in the broken road. A long and gentle climb, past a market of long tailed sheep in a muddy field, steers us further into the hills. We pass men wandering by the roadside, greeting us politely with a look of surprise. School kids in dirty blue frocks shout to get our attention, waving enthusiastically as soon as they catch sight of us. Nomads have settled on a distant plain, their white tents distinctive against the softened hues of the hillside. Above us, remains of old forts are a reminder of the historic importance of the Silk Road, protecting caravans of camels laden with silks and spices from marauding bandits as they travelled between East and West.

And like a modern day caravan, we join a line of slow moving cargo trucks heading to Iran, lumbering their way up to the top of a pass. Leaning out of their cabs, their drivers wave encouragingly. Still getting used to riding a fully laden tandem, it's hard going but we crest the pass at 2300m, looking out upon a range of snowy mountains and clusters of sheep grazing in the distance. The descent is long and fast, snaking through a canyon past villages of muddy square brick homes, plumes of smoke spiraling into the wind. Low slung and squat, they look well protect from the extremes of weather this region must experience. 'Wolfdogs' - a huge and furry breed of dog particular to the Kurds - trained to guard villages from wolves in the winter - watch us but thankfully don't take chase. Beehive style piles of dung adjoin every house, in which smoldering fires are lit to be dried for fuel.

Although we feel no danger in any way, noticeable are the amounts of military checkpoints that wave us on, their armored vehicles looking incongruous in the open steppe. When we stop for lunch in a small town, we see perhaps a hundred tanks and troop carriers neatly parked in a long line. A bus stop wall is pocked with gunshot and bunkers are embedded into the hillside. Though there are no troubles right now, it seems the army is certainly prepared and maintains a show of strength that is more than token.

Agra is another weathered town of muddy splattered roads that will be our home for the night. But like so many places in these parts, the warmth of the people easily makes up for the rain, which has begun to fall once more. We're invited for tea in a bicycle shop while a crowd of onlookers inspect with approving nods. A local approaches, proudly declaring his credentials in a smattering of English, French and Russian. A three times Olympic cross-country skier, who has raced all over the world and trained the national team.

Kebabs form our sustenance yet again, washed down with a chunk of cake and rice pudding in one of the many 'pastane' bars, smoky havens of cake and tea. Although a student population keeps the town lively and progressive, we remain in a conservative area - we're shown upstairs to the couple's tables, smokier than a London pub, while the men gather below.

Blessed with a strong tailwind for our ride to Dogubeyazit, we're hurled us along at some 45kph. It's a beautiful day, interluded only briefly with a storm that propels us even faster. Mount Ararat, 5000m in altitude and Anatolia's highest peak, dominates the skyline. The plain we cross looks freshly mown, so smooth is the grass that carpets it. Pulling into town, we lurch our way along a pot-holed street to the Saharan Hotel, gathering point of overlanders. Two Russian Ural motorbikes, complete with sidecars, are parked outside and we meet Tim, a kiwi cyclist making his way home to Christchurch. Awaiting spare parts are a group from the UK, journeying through Central Asia to Beijing by Land Rover and motorbike along a similar road to our own.

Swapping stories, we head out for a late lunch and cruise round this border town, just thirty five kilometres from Iran...