Istanbul was taking hold. For reasons that will be saved for the book I’d been spending too much Lira on a private room, or chain-smoking harsh, Turkish tobacco alone on a roof. The sun had gone from both my sky and the actual one, so it was high time to pick myself up and push on. It was raining as I made it to the ferry port.
Now it usually takes a good bit of organisation and planning before attempting a hitch, and Turkey is no exception. The country is so vast, that enormous driving distances are highly likely. To save some time (and get to where I actually want to be) I’ve decided to try to blag a ride across the Sea of Manama, to put me in pole position for my attempted hitch down and round the Aegean coast. Of course I fail spectacularly, but at about ten Euro for a foot passenger, I don’t think anyone would begrudge me the slip up. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.
Within minutes of reaching Bandirma some three hours over the water on the opposite coast, and I’m picked up by the loveliest couple imaginable. Of advancing years, they both speak perfect English, traveling from their Istanbul home to take a short holiday. Enthralled by my adventures, I’m blessed they drop me a few kilometres South of my first (and possible overnight) destination. I’m in the cabin of a big rig in minutes, with a toothless trucker who deposits me in Canakkale. I’m liking Turkey.
Then it goes a little downhill. In spite of the blazing sunshine and joy at finally being on the move again, I find myself alone in an 18 bed dorm on the third floor of the kind of hostel that’s more like an old psychiatric ward where bad things happened. I only stayed here because I wanted see the ruins of the city of Troy, and would have thought it impossible to accomplish it all in a day. So here I reside, wallowing in my ill-advised disconsolation. The morning can’t come quick enough.
Horsing about
It takes me ten minutes to walk round Troy in cheering morning light, take a photo in the tourist horse, and buy a cheaply made wooden one to send to my sister. I’m dropped back on the highway crammed into a van full of curious locals and Koreans. With a welcome light breeze, the sun had nonetheless reached its highest, so I wasn’t going to notice the burning quite so much. A cheap factor ten would do nothing for me. The hard shoulder offered no cover, and the vehicles were screaming through, transporters threatening to blow me off my feet and into traffic. Yet around the hour mark, two cars pull in at the same time, with a bidding war of who can take me furthest. 70 kilometres later, and I’m in a better place to not die of sunstroke, skin cancer or a traffic accident.
Or so I think. No sooner had my ride waved his goodbyes, a sardine can on wheels swings in. It’s a Yugo. Eastern European legend. I’ve never been in one. I regret it immediately. The driver hunches over the wheel, his skin like a chamois leather. The cabin is thick stale smoke. I feel my arse is closer to the tarmac that is comfortable, while my knees are touching a bit of plastic where an airbag should be. As if on cue, it begins to rain, and in a driving monsoon, he hurtles along at 120, without the use of the windscreen wipers. They barely tickle the thundering deluge battering the little crate, as he weaves in and out of blurry breaklights. Stopping at a red, the gears grind so loudly I’m convinced it’s not going to fall apart – and I’m somewhat thankful for it. But as the miles fly by, you can see how this little car earned it’s reputation. Even as I’m attempting a sluggish sleep, hitting my head on the roof as we take off over speed bumps and rough road, it never really lets you down.
My driver grunts an apology every time I’m jolted to consciousness. The guy must be Neo, because the windscreen looks like The Matrix. Every once in a while, he answers his phone, drops the lighter for his smoke, and routes around in the foot well to find it. I get the impression he’s enjoying himself.
But with a warm handshake some 300 kilometres later and I’m staggering through confusing street names in search of my home for the night, praying I find a new hostel family. And find it I do, because boy do I need it after these two days. 1 ferry, 5 rides, the ruins of Troy, baking sun, a near death driver, and 630 kilometres. I’ve made it to Izmir. I’m going for a beer, a kebab, and a change of shorts.
Hitchhike to India leg 33/34. Istanbul to Izmir
Istanbul was taking hold. For reasons that will be saved for the book I’d been spending too much Lira on a private room, or chain-smoking harsh, Turkish tobacco alone on a roof. The sun had gone from both my sky and the actual one, so it was high time to pick myself up and push on. It was raining as I made it to the ferry port.
Now it usually takes a good bit of organisation and planning before attempting a hitch, and Turkey is no exception. The country is so vast, that enormous driving distances are highly likely. To save some time (and get to where I actually want to be) I’ve decided to try to blag a ride across the Sea of Manama, to put me in pole position for my attempted hitch down and round the Aegean coast. Of course I fail spectacularly, but at about ten Euro for a foot passenger, I don’t think anyone would begrudge me the slip up. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.
Within minutes of reaching Bandirma some three hours over the water on the opposite coast, and I’m picked up by the loveliest couple imaginable. Of advancing years, they both speak perfect English, traveling from their Istanbul home to take a short holiday. Enthralled by my adventures, I’m blessed they drop me a few kilometres South of my first (and possible overnight) destination. I’m in the cabin of a big rig in minutes, with a toothless trucker who deposits me in Canakkale. I’m liking Turkey.
Then it goes a little downhill. In spite of the blazing sunshine and joy at finally being on the move again, I find myself alone in an 18 bed dorm on the third floor of the kind of hostel that’s more like an old psychiatric ward where bad things happened. I only stayed here because I wanted see the ruins of the city of Troy, and would have thought it impossible to accomplish it all in a day. So here I reside, wallowing in my ill-advised disconsolation. The morning can’t come quick enough.
Horsing about
It takes me ten minutes to walk round Troy in cheering morning light, take a photo in the tourist horse, and buy a cheaply made wooden one to send to my sister. I’m dropped back on the highway crammed into a van full of curious locals and Koreans. With a welcome light breeze, the sun had nonetheless reached its highest, so I wasn’t going to notice the burning quite so much. A cheap factor ten would do nothing for me. The hard shoulder offered no cover, and the vehicles were screaming through, transporters threatening to blow me off my feet and into traffic. Yet around the hour mark, two cars pull in at the same time, with a bidding war of who can take me furthest. 70 kilometres later, and I’m in a better place to not die of sunstroke, skin cancer or a traffic accident.
Or so I think. No sooner had my ride waved his goodbyes, a sardine can on wheels swings in. It’s a Yugo. Eastern European legend. I’ve never been in one. I regret it immediately. The driver hunches over the wheel, his skin like a chamois leather. The cabin is thick stale smoke. I feel my arse is closer to the tarmac that is comfortable, while my knees are touching a bit of plastic where an airbag should be. As if on cue, it begins to rain, and in a driving monsoon, he hurtles along at 120, without the use of the windscreen wipers. They barely tickle the thundering deluge battering the little crate, as he weaves in and out of blurry breaklights. Stopping at a red, the gears grind so loudly I’m convinced it’s not going to fall apart – and I’m somewhat thankful for it. But as the miles fly by, you can see how this little car earned it’s reputation. Even as I’m attempting a sluggish sleep, hitting my head on the roof as we take off over speed bumps and rough road, it never really lets you down.
My driver grunts an apology every time I’m jolted to consciousness. The guy must be Neo, because the windscreen looks like The Matrix. Every once in a while, he answers his phone, drops the lighter for his smoke, and routes around in the foot well to find it. I get the impression he’s enjoying himself.
But with a warm handshake some 300 kilometres later and I’m staggering through confusing street names in search of my home for the night, praying I find a new hostel family. And find it I do, because boy do I need it after these two days. 1 ferry, 5 rides, the ruins of Troy, baking sun, a near death driver, and 630 kilometres. I’ve made it to Izmir. I’m going for a beer, a kebab, and a change of shorts.