This could potentially be one of the most difficult hitches to date, but buoyed by our recent success in Turkey, we fearlessly marched out a little later than recommended for such time and distance. Goreme is nearly just one road in and out, so it was a simple task to walk to our first spot. With the early rising balloon crowd now back at camp, and the airships stowed for another day, traffic was minimal. Yet within minutes we’ve snagged a ride to the highway, and seconds later bagged a pick up to Kayseri. We’re were on our way.
Destination known
Dropped on a fast intersection of the bypass, in the shadow of the dormant volcano Mount Erciyes, and we’re getting all kinds of attention from curious truckers and locals from both sides of the road. They do so love jamming their horns here. A full transit carrying three guys slows to a stop, just casually blocking the inside lane as they check Olivia out. Moments later, after some deliberation with himself on the hard shoulder, a shady type decides he’s going our way. I’m hesitant, and actually quite thankful when he appears to want to drop us at a bus station, and we can make our excuses and exit. A number of drivers don’t understand the concept of hitchhiking, and will insist on taking you to public transport. This can be especially frustrating when you’re convinced they’re going your way, only for your heart to sink as you’re pulling into a bus depot. Regardless of his genuinely considerate offer, I leave a leg in the foot well of the vehicle while Olivia ensures all our stuff is out. Including Olivia. You just never know when they’re going to drive off with something important still inside. Still, he’s left us in a better spot, and a quick pick up can take us as far as Şarkışla.
It’s another uneasy one. He looks like an aging character from the expendables, hiding behind serial killer aviator shades having spent too long on a sun bed. He barks Turkish at me in a non-too friendly tone. He makes the slidey, index-finger gesture to imply if Olivia and I are having sex. At one point we think he asks if I want to drive. It’s all a little uncomfortable, and a little aggressive, culminating in him demanding money when he drops us off some time later. I’d heard of such incidents, where some drivers demand cash at the end of the journey, and you have to establish beforehand that you can’t pay. I’ve been lucky enough to avoid this so far, but this encounter leaves a bad taste in my mouth. This doesn’t last long, as lucky for me Olivia has a Magnum ice cream problem and we take a breather in the shade of a gas station, safe, well, but with some 500 K still to go.
Refreshed, we’ve hardly got our packs on when we’re in the cab of a grinning trucker who’s jaw must surely ache from smiling. He reminds me of a Colombian drug cartel baron. I’ve always been taught to be wary of the over-friendly ones, and I’m a little on edge when he takes us off route, beaming and bouncing around like a school kid on ten bags of Skittles. However he drops us in a great location, probably better than were I’d planned, and bounds out of the driver door to have a photo with us. Of course this was purely so he could have a squeeze of Olivia, and enjoys it so much, he gets out a second time claiming the picture didn’t take. She’s not having any of it this time, and as we’re shaking off around nine gypsy kids begging for money, we make purposeful strides up to the main road. We’ve had a bit of a shaky start. I’m hoping it gets a little smoother and I turn to Olivia to express my concern:
“We want a young driver, decent enough English, wrap around sunglasses, fast car, decent tunes, long distance.”
What do you think we got?
Yayah ticks all the boxes, and plays some cracking tunes for about 280 K, in the comfort of a Toyota Yaris. We miss our original turning, and once again go off course, but this route is just as good anyway, if not better. He goes out of his way to drop us in a decent spot, just outside of his destination of Erzincan. The sun is keeping low now, and we’ve still got 233 K to go. But we’re on home straights and morale is high.
Our penultimate ride with two Turkish men sees one of them phone ahead to a bus driver at their destination. Once again we attempt to explain that we’re not using public transport and that it’s “auto-stop” only. I make the universal “we’ve got no money” finger rubbing gesture as we pull in behind a coach. The driver, co-pilot and our own hosts for the last ride scoff at such nonsense, and insist we board the bus, loading our packs into the open luggage compartment and indicating we don’t need to pay a penny. Winding up into the mountains as darkness creeps in, this hospitality is only bettered when we’re invited to dine with the driver and co-pilot at a road-side depot. Again, money is refused. We can barely believe our luck as we reach Trabzon city limits after nightfall and in sleazy rain.
And sleazy indeed. We’re in a brothel. Well, a hotel with a brothel in the basement to be exact. A heavy-set receptionist with a skin head and thick Russian accent takes our passports. Girls arrive and are ushered into a back room door. According to various booking sites, Trabzon has something of a reputation for hotels doubling as dens of iniquity, and as a bustling Black Sea port with hundreds of years of history on The Silk Road, you can understand why. Still, the latch is on, the key in the lock, and the CS gas spray in arms reach. I contemplate sliding the wardrobe over the door, (as I did in a Colombian hotel), but fatigue wins and I pass out. 12 hours, 761 KM and still 1 Aussie. Hopefully she’ll still be there in the morning.
Hitchhike to India leg 38: Goreme to Trabzon
This could potentially be one of the most difficult hitches to date, but buoyed by our recent success in Turkey, we fearlessly marched out a little later than recommended for such time and distance. Goreme is nearly just one road in and out, so it was a simple task to walk to our first spot. With the early rising balloon crowd now back at camp, and the airships stowed for another day, traffic was minimal. Yet within minutes we’ve snagged a ride to the highway, and seconds later bagged a pick up to Kayseri. We’re were on our way.
Destination known
Dropped on a fast intersection of the bypass, in the shadow of the dormant volcano Mount Erciyes, and we’re getting all kinds of attention from curious truckers and locals from both sides of the road. They do so love jamming their horns here. A full transit carrying three guys slows to a stop, just casually blocking the inside lane as they check Olivia out. Moments later, after some deliberation with himself on the hard shoulder, a shady type decides he’s going our way. I’m hesitant, and actually quite thankful when he appears to want to drop us at a bus station, and we can make our excuses and exit. A number of drivers don’t understand the concept of hitchhiking, and will insist on taking you to public transport. This can be especially frustrating when you’re convinced they’re going your way, only for your heart to sink as you’re pulling into a bus depot. Regardless of his genuinely considerate offer, I leave a leg in the foot well of the vehicle while Olivia ensures all our stuff is out. Including Olivia. You just never know when they’re going to drive off with something important still inside. Still, he’s left us in a better spot, and a quick pick up can take us as far as Şarkışla.
It’s another uneasy one. He looks like an aging character from the expendables, hiding behind serial killer aviator shades having spent too long on a sun bed. He barks Turkish at me in a non-too friendly tone. He makes the slidey, index-finger gesture to imply if Olivia and I are having sex. At one point we think he asks if I want to drive. It’s all a little uncomfortable, and a little aggressive, culminating in him demanding money when he drops us off some time later. I’d heard of such incidents, where some drivers demand cash at the end of the journey, and you have to establish beforehand that you can’t pay. I’ve been lucky enough to avoid this so far, but this encounter leaves a bad taste in my mouth. This doesn’t last long, as lucky for me Olivia has a Magnum ice cream problem and we take a breather in the shade of a gas station, safe, well, but with some 500 K still to go.
Refreshed, we’ve hardly got our packs on when we’re in the cab of a grinning trucker who’s jaw must surely ache from smiling. He reminds me of a Colombian drug cartel baron. I’ve always been taught to be wary of the over-friendly ones, and I’m a little on edge when he takes us off route, beaming and bouncing around like a school kid on ten bags of Skittles. However he drops us in a great location, probably better than were I’d planned, and bounds out of the driver door to have a photo with us. Of course this was purely so he could have a squeeze of Olivia, and enjoys it so much, he gets out a second time claiming the picture didn’t take. She’s not having any of it this time, and as we’re shaking off around nine gypsy kids begging for money, we make purposeful strides up to the main road. We’ve had a bit of a shaky start. I’m hoping it gets a little smoother and I turn to Olivia to express my concern:
“We want a young driver, decent enough English, wrap around sunglasses, fast car, decent tunes, long distance.”
What do you think we got?
Yayah ticks all the boxes, and plays some cracking tunes for about 280 K, in the comfort of a Toyota Yaris. We miss our original turning, and once again go off course, but this route is just as good anyway, if not better. He goes out of his way to drop us in a decent spot, just outside of his destination of Erzincan. The sun is keeping low now, and we’ve still got 233 K to go. But we’re on home straights and morale is high.
Our penultimate ride with two Turkish men sees one of them phone ahead to a bus driver at their destination. Once again we attempt to explain that we’re not using public transport and that it’s “auto-stop” only. I make the universal “we’ve got no money” finger rubbing gesture as we pull in behind a coach. The driver, co-pilot and our own hosts for the last ride scoff at such nonsense, and insist we board the bus, loading our packs into the open luggage compartment and indicating we don’t need to pay a penny. Winding up into the mountains as darkness creeps in, this hospitality is only bettered when we’re invited to dine with the driver and co-pilot at a road-side depot. Again, money is refused. We can barely believe our luck as we reach Trabzon city limits after nightfall and in sleazy rain.
And sleazy indeed. We’re in a brothel. Well, a hotel with a brothel in the basement to be exact. A heavy-set receptionist with a skin head and thick Russian accent takes our passports. Girls arrive and are ushered into a back room door. According to various booking sites, Trabzon has something of a reputation for hotels doubling as dens of iniquity, and as a bustling Black Sea port with hundreds of years of history on The Silk Road, you can understand why. Still, the latch is on, the key in the lock, and the CS gas spray in arms reach. I contemplate sliding the wardrobe over the door, (as I did in a Colombian hotel), but fatigue wins and I pass out. 12 hours, 761 KM and still 1 Aussie. Hopefully she’ll still be there in the morning.