The Journey Begins, Turkey

Cass writes…

It's that time of day again. The Tannoy crackles. A throat is cleared. In perfect unison, the valley is filled with ricocheting azans, clashing from a dozen mosques across town. Strategically placed in a high minaret, the closest 'muezzin' has the lungs of an opera singer, belting out his calls to prayer, carrying far across the rooftops.

From the vantage point of a crumbling citadel, Rosal and I look out upon a desolate plateau of rolling steppe and snowy peaks, buffeted by a storm that darkens the sky. We stand and listen, for there is no effect greater than the call to prayer to remind us of where we are. And like clockwork, this barrage of sound stops as abruptly as it began. The valley is filled by silence, until cars, trucks and urban life below become discernible once more. We shelter from the driving rain in an old chai house, complete with Turkmen carpets and thick slabs of tree-trunks as tables. I imagine this den in deepest winter, the streets coated under a foot of snow, the wood burner working overtime to keep the steaming chai flowing.

The last week has seen us bus our way to Erzurum, Eastern Turkey, the highest and most exposed town in Anatolia. Once an important junction on the Silk Road, it's from here that we begin our journey on this ancient trade route. Just a few hundred kilometres from the border with Iran, the influence of its conservative neighbour can be strongly felt. Women in full chador peer from black cloaks. Old men, bearded and time-worn, sit respectfully thumbing prayer beads, greeting each other with the traditional citation: Salem Alekum - Peace be upon you.

Our tandem bicycle, christened 'The Limo' after the cries it evokes from passers by, has become a constant source of curiosity. Like a mobile home, it carries a wardrobe of winter and desert clothes, camping gear, spare parts, maps, history books, computers and cameras. Together with my girlfriend Rosal, we will wind our way through Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and North West China into Pakistan, experiencing nomadic traditions and witnessing the changes undergone in Central Asia since the fall of the Soviet Empire. Over four months, we will ride round the Caspian Sea, across the Karakum Desert, past the great walled cities of Buchara and Samarkand and over the glacial passes of the Tian Shan.

Taking to the road at last, a gentle climb leads us out of Erzurum, beyond a sprawling army barracks and a convoy of jeeps. Passing a few lingering buildings we emerge onto open steppe, rolling far into the distance on either side. I had no idea Eastern Turkey was this desolate, beautiful in its bleakness. Snow powders the hilltops and shepherds tend flocks of long-tailed sheep, leaning on crooks to watch and wave as we pass. Ruddy-faced, a makeshift assortment of waterproofs and woollens shield them from a sharp wind that never settles, forever churning the clouds overhead.

Engulfing the sun once more, a storm veils the hillside. Catching us up, it unleashes hailstones with a force that makes us hide our faces from their icy sting. Pulling into the truck stop town of Horasan, little more than a collection of shops and run down houses that rise 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. Rosal stands by The Limo as I follow the hotelier into a cafe, a few scruffy kids in pursuit. Thick with smoke from the cigarettes of a dozen men, 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 a few toothy grins. Up a flight of stairs and along a dimly lit corridor, I'm shown a basic room - two beds and four walls. At least the price is good - just over £1.

By morning, puddles of murky water have gathered in the broken road. The slow and gentle climb continues, steering us further into the hills, past men wandering by the roadside who greet us politely with a look of startled surprise. School children in dirty blue frocks shout to get our attention, waving enthusiastically as soon as we look round. In the distance, nomads have settled on a plain, their white tents distinct against the muted tones of the hillside. Above, the remains of old forts remind us of the historic importance of the Silk Road, protecting caravans of camels laden with silks and spices from marauding bandits, as they travelled both East and West.

And like a modern-day caravan ourselves, we join a line of slow moving cargo trucks heading to Iran, lumbering their way towards the top of a pass. Leaning out of their cabs, drivers wave encouragingly. We crest the pass at 2300 metres, looking out upon a range of snowy mountains, clusters of grazing sheep and villages of squat square brick homes, plumes of smoke spiralling into the wind. 'Wolfdogs', the huge breed of dog trained to guard Kurdish villagers from wolves in the winter, watch us but thankfully don't give chase. Beehive style piles of dung adjoin every house, in which smouldering fires are lit to be dried for fuel.

Though we feel no danger in any way, noticeable are the amount of military checkpoints that wave us on, their armoured vehicles incongruous on the open steppe. Three years ago, these roads were too dangerous to travel, as tension between the Kurdish separatists and the Turkish military reached flashpoint. Even today there remain some 600,000 troops stationed across Eastern Turkey. In one small town alone we pass perhaps a hundred tanks and troop carriers parked neatly in a long line, a bus stop wall pocked with gunshot and bunkers embedded into the hillside.

A hundred kilometres on we arrive in Agri, our home for the night. Invited into a bicycle shop, tea is served in shapely glasses and sweetened with lumps of sugar. A crowd of onlookers gravitate toward the tandem, inspecting brakes and squeezing tyres with approving nods. "Choc guzel" - Very nice indeed - is the verdict. Kebabs form our sustenance, washed down with rice pudding in one of the many 'Pastis' bars, haven of cake and tea, smokier than a London pub. Although it's a lively town influenced by its student population, it is clear we remain in a conservative area, shown to upstairs tables where couples are served while the men gather below.

Blessed with a strong tailwind, we make short work of the ride to Dogubayazit A tandem offers companionship and the kilometres roll by quickly. It's a beautiful day, interluded only briefly by a storm that propels us even faster. The surrounding steppe dwarfs us in its solitude; the plain we cross looks freshly mown, so smooth is the grass that carpets it. Mount Ararat, over 5000 metres in altitude and Anatolia's highest peak, dominates the skyline. Pulling into town, we lurch our way along a pot-holed street to the Saharan Hotel, gathering point of overlanders on their journey to and from India.

Our first few hundred kilometres have prepared us a little for the road ahead. Eastern Turkey has evoked the emptiness of the Central Asian steppe. New to us both, the tandem has proved a wonderful way of travelling, an instant success with those around. Tomorrow we will cross the border into Iran, just 35 kilometres away.