Hitchhike to India leg 37: Antalya to Goreme, Cappadocia
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Antalya is a dump. Actually to be honest I’ve got no idea whether it is or not because I’ve not left the crap hotel we’re staying in save to eat and be taught pool by a German master. However, when cutting through town the first day we arrived I’ve turned to Olivia and said; “we’re leaving asap”. It’s one of those places I loath to find myself in, riddled with beach going booze tourists and insalubrious hang outs. Alas, it was a means to an end, and after some life administration, (one for the book), we’re on our way for what appears to be a tough hitch to Goreme. The balloons of Cappadocia await.
The best thing about Antalya: learning from a master.
According to hitchwiki and google maps, Goreme is some 600 KM away through B roads and mountain trails. Usually when attempting this kind of hitch, I’d opt to stagger my signs. By that I mean write one for the next big town, then the next, and so on. This time however, I through caution to the wind and put my faith in humanity. And in a hot Aussie chick. I scrawl what I hope reads “The Road to Goleme” on the remains of a dumpster found box.
The Road to Goreme. I think.
We start early, but unsure how to reach city limits, cheat a little by taking a cab out of the centre. It’s a fast road, with traffic screaming through, but I’m amazed when in little more than five minutes we’ve got a ride to the next town. Lacking my usual map printout and not wanting to take up a drivers time using Olivia’s iPhone, I’ve written a list of towns on the back of my sign. The trucker points to the one he can take us to and we’re on our way.
Serik is only minutes down the road, but anywhere was better than where we were, and the more drivers realise that every little distance helps, the more likely it is that hitchers will be picked up. The closer we get, the easier it becomes. We’re barely out of the cab before we’ve got a ride to Manavgat, and from there it’s seconds again before someone picks us up and drops us at the junction to turn North on the road to Goreme. Barely 9 am, three rides in, and we’re flying.
A short walk to a shady spot out of the glaring sun and we almost needn’t have bothered. A battered Yugo estate pulls in ahead, and we scurry to catch up. He can take us to Akseki, and after he’s thrust bottles of water and his business card on us (farmer), we’re dropped at a junction just before it begins to get mountainous. Traffic volume slows to nothing. It’s getting hotter. The grass rattles. I fear our luck for the day has run out.
Four minutes. Literally four minutes and two or three cars later before a Mercedes screeches to a halt. Inside are three, suited and booted Turkish lads, gel slicked hair and shiny watches. “Yes, yes get in!” Demands the driver. I’m a little reluctant considering the ratio of them to us and space in the car, but ever fearless, Olivia bounds over and is throwing her bags in with wild abandon. Here we go again.
And once again the dangers of hitchhiking come to the fore. No, not kidnap, rape or murder; but with the skill of the driver. Or in this case, lack thereof. He’s rocketing down the mountain for large stretches on the OTHER SIDE of the road. We’re blistering over blind summits knowing full well that if something is coming the other way, it’s game over. He’s taking corners like he’s playing Mario Kart. Scrunched in the middle back seat with my guitar squeezed on my lap, it’s yours truly that’s going to get the worst of it, and you’d have to identify my body by my dodgy British teeth. Then he calls up a mate and mentions something about Australia. Here’s where we’re to be sold for our organs.
But good as gold, he’s dropped us safe and sound on the road to Konya, after contacting his English-speaking cousin to find out how we’re to proceed. Bless him, he thought we wanted to take the bus, but with fortune seriously favouring the brave, we’re not about to give up yet. 329 KM to go, lives, limbs, and everything else intact.
Waving goodbye to the three amigos, and it begins to get silly. You’re having a laugh Turkey. We’ve not even put our sign out, when a large camper van with family in tow swings in. They slide back the door and crisp wrappers, coke cans and luggage litter out onto the roadside. Unperturbed, they enthusiastically encourage us to lump our bags in with theirs. The two little girls hop into the back, and for the next hour or so, we’re subjected to surround sound sing/dance along ABBA. We’re offered chocolate and fruit. The dad belts out tunes and shakes his graying, windswept, comb-over hair like he’s Benny Andersson himself. We’re passed Konya in the early afternoon.
If you’d have said to me that we would make this location by this time I would have ended myself laughing. And it just keeps getting better. Barely out of the hippie van, and the reverse lights of a convertible jeep blink on up ahead. Seconds later we’re riding in style to a better chance of a longer hitch. 200 KM to go.
Convertible hitching
Once again our board is out for mere seconds before a grandfather picks us up. Literally a grandfather, he’s on the phone to his granddaughter who is apparently learning English. Seeing an opportunity to impress, he’s thrust his mobile at Olivia, and she’s having a merry old chinwag over the blower as I contemplate just how astounding this hitch has been so far. Easily the best driver I’ve ever been picked up by, a few hours later granddad takes us all the way to his home in Aksaray. We pull into housing estates, and a grinning teenage girl greets us. He’s taken us to meet his granddaughter, offered us delicious Turkish sweets, and a short English practice lesson later, dropped us on the road to Nevsehir. What a legend. I’ve a glassy eye as we’re within touching distance of our destination.
And again! Before we can catch our breath, a big rig pulls over. The beaming trucker can take us all the way to Nevsehir, which is practically over the finish line, and is the closest large town to the Cappadocia tourist hub of Goreme. We sink back in contentment as the mechanical behemoth grinds into life and we rattle through Turkish countryside.
For mile after mile now, Turkey has stretched out before us. We’ve hardly had an opportunity to take stock, but as we edge ever closer, and in the comfort of knowing we’re making base by dinner time, we can allow ourselves to relax. Well at least I can. Considering this is Olivia’s relatively fledgling experience of hitching, she’s a hell of a lot calmer than I am.
The landscape is vast. On perfectly straight (and brand new) roads, the horizon seems to take an age to reach, and then you’ve another horizon to reach again. Fields of corn as far as the eye can see. Half finished buildings. The occasional horse and cart. And there we were, sitting high up and pretty, powering through endless country as king and queen of the road.
You know the story by now. Shaking hands and bidding farewell to our last long distance driver, and we’re in the back of a car for the final leg in minutes. Olivia seems a little nonplussed, as if she never really doubted it, but I’m punching the air with delight, drawing looks of bewilderment from passers-by with my shouts of “YES! YES!” to the sky. We’ve made it. Our driver is a smartly dressed local:
“I’m Ballon” He exclaims.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Stuart”. I shake his hand enthusiastically.
The penny drops instantly as I realise he was trying to say he was a balloon pilot and not that he was an actual balloon. This has Olivia in stitches as we’re dropped slap bang in the centre of Goreme, still in blazing sunshine. But I don’t care. 10 rides, 651 KM, and just under 9 hours. We’ve arrived faster than public transport could have taken us, and from the little we’ve seen so far, Cappadocia looks incredible. I never thought hitches like today were possible. But then again; I’d never been to Turkey.
Hitchhike to India leg 37: Antalya to Goreme, Cappadocia
Antalya is a dump. Actually to be honest I’ve got no idea whether it is or not because I’ve not left the crap hotel we’re staying in save to eat and be taught pool by a German master. However, when cutting through town the first day we arrived I’ve turned to Olivia and said; “we’re leaving asap”. It’s one of those places I loath to find myself in, riddled with beach going booze tourists and insalubrious hang outs. Alas, it was a means to an end, and after some life administration, (one for the book), we’re on our way for what appears to be a tough hitch to Goreme. The balloons of Cappadocia await.
The best thing about Antalya: learning from a master.
According to hitchwiki and google maps, Goreme is some 600 KM away through B roads and mountain trails. Usually when attempting this kind of hitch, I’d opt to stagger my signs. By that I mean write one for the next big town, then the next, and so on. This time however, I through caution to the wind and put my faith in humanity. And in a hot Aussie chick. I scrawl what I hope reads “The Road to Goleme” on the remains of a dumpster found box.
The Road to Goreme. I think.
We start early, but unsure how to reach city limits, cheat a little by taking a cab out of the centre. It’s a fast road, with traffic screaming through, but I’m amazed when in little more than five minutes we’ve got a ride to the next town. Lacking my usual map printout and not wanting to take up a drivers time using Olivia’s iPhone, I’ve written a list of towns on the back of my sign. The trucker points to the one he can take us to and we’re on our way.
Serik is only minutes down the road, but anywhere was better than where we were, and the more drivers realise that every little distance helps, the more likely it is that hitchers will be picked up. The closer we get, the easier it becomes. We’re barely out of the cab before we’ve got a ride to Manavgat, and from there it’s seconds again before someone picks us up and drops us at the junction to turn North on the road to Goreme. Barely 9 am, three rides in, and we’re flying.
A short walk to a shady spot out of the glaring sun and we almost needn’t have bothered. A battered Yugo estate pulls in ahead, and we scurry to catch up. He can take us to Akseki, and after he’s thrust bottles of water and his business card on us (farmer), we’re dropped at a junction just before it begins to get mountainous. Traffic volume slows to nothing. It’s getting hotter. The grass rattles. I fear our luck for the day has run out.
Four minutes. Literally four minutes and two or three cars later before a Mercedes screeches to a halt. Inside are three, suited and booted Turkish lads, gel slicked hair and shiny watches. “Yes, yes get in!” Demands the driver. I’m a little reluctant considering the ratio of them to us and space in the car, but ever fearless, Olivia bounds over and is throwing her bags in with wild abandon. Here we go again.
And once again the dangers of hitchhiking come to the fore. No, not kidnap, rape or murder; but with the skill of the driver. Or in this case, lack thereof. He’s rocketing down the mountain for large stretches on the OTHER SIDE of the road. We’re blistering over blind summits knowing full well that if something is coming the other way, it’s game over. He’s taking corners like he’s playing Mario Kart. Scrunched in the middle back seat with my guitar squeezed on my lap, it’s yours truly that’s going to get the worst of it, and you’d have to identify my body by my dodgy British teeth. Then he calls up a mate and mentions something about Australia. Here’s where we’re to be sold for our organs.
But good as gold, he’s dropped us safe and sound on the road to Konya, after contacting his English-speaking cousin to find out how we’re to proceed. Bless him, he thought we wanted to take the bus, but with fortune seriously favouring the brave, we’re not about to give up yet. 329 KM to go, lives, limbs, and everything else intact.
Waving goodbye to the three amigos, and it begins to get silly. You’re having a laugh Turkey. We’ve not even put our sign out, when a large camper van with family in tow swings in. They slide back the door and crisp wrappers, coke cans and luggage litter out onto the roadside. Unperturbed, they enthusiastically encourage us to lump our bags in with theirs. The two little girls hop into the back, and for the next hour or so, we’re subjected to surround sound sing/dance along ABBA. We’re offered chocolate and fruit. The dad belts out tunes and shakes his graying, windswept, comb-over hair like he’s Benny Andersson himself. We’re passed Konya in the early afternoon.
If you’d have said to me that we would make this location by this time I would have ended myself laughing. And it just keeps getting better. Barely out of the hippie van, and the reverse lights of a convertible jeep blink on up ahead. Seconds later we’re riding in style to a better chance of a longer hitch. 200 KM to go.
Convertible hitching
Once again our board is out for mere seconds before a grandfather picks us up. Literally a grandfather, he’s on the phone to his granddaughter who is apparently learning English. Seeing an opportunity to impress, he’s thrust his mobile at Olivia, and she’s having a merry old chinwag over the blower as I contemplate just how astounding this hitch has been so far. Easily the best driver I’ve ever been picked up by, a few hours later granddad takes us all the way to his home in Aksaray. We pull into housing estates, and a grinning teenage girl greets us. He’s taken us to meet his granddaughter, offered us delicious Turkish sweets, and a short English practice lesson later, dropped us on the road to Nevsehir. What a legend. I’ve a glassy eye as we’re within touching distance of our destination.
And again! Before we can catch our breath, a big rig pulls over. The beaming trucker can take us all the way to Nevsehir, which is practically over the finish line, and is the closest large town to the Cappadocia tourist hub of Goreme. We sink back in contentment as the mechanical behemoth grinds into life and we rattle through Turkish countryside.
For mile after mile now, Turkey has stretched out before us. We’ve hardly had an opportunity to take stock, but as we edge ever closer, and in the comfort of knowing we’re making base by dinner time, we can allow ourselves to relax. Well at least I can. Considering this is Olivia’s relatively fledgling experience of hitching, she’s a hell of a lot calmer than I am.
The landscape is vast. On perfectly straight (and brand new) roads, the horizon seems to take an age to reach, and then you’ve another horizon to reach again. Fields of corn as far as the eye can see. Half finished buildings. The occasional horse and cart. And there we were, sitting high up and pretty, powering through endless country as king and queen of the road.
You know the story by now. Shaking hands and bidding farewell to our last long distance driver, and we’re in the back of a car for the final leg in minutes. Olivia seems a little nonplussed, as if she never really doubted it, but I’m punching the air with delight, drawing looks of bewilderment from passers-by with my shouts of “YES! YES!” to the sky. We’ve made it. Our driver is a smartly dressed local:
“I’m Ballon” He exclaims.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Stuart”. I shake his hand enthusiastically.
The penny drops instantly as I realise he was trying to say he was a balloon pilot and not that he was an actual balloon. This has Olivia in stitches as we’re dropped slap bang in the centre of Goreme, still in blazing sunshine. But I don’t care. 10 rides, 651 KM, and just under 9 hours. We’ve arrived faster than public transport could have taken us, and from the little we’ve seen so far, Cappadocia looks incredible. I never thought hitches like today were possible. But then again; I’d never been to Turkey.