Month: August 2011

Day 5: To Istanbul!

I changed my mind. Ramazan is not as cool as it appears after 7:30 in the evening. It sucks to stay hungry all day. The ice-cream store where I had purchased my ice-cream yesterday was closed, and I hoped that it was not because of my yesterday’s behavior. After some futile attempts to find some food, I went to the “otopark” to meet Cenghiz and arrange my departure. Cenghiz was in his booth. He opened Google Translator.

“How do you like Turkey?”

“Nice country to ride a motorcycle, I am definitely coming back, maybe with friends!”

“With Allah’s will!”

“Don’t you wanna visit Armenia?”

He hesitated for a minute.

“If your motorcycle crashes in Erzurum, I help you. Mahmet helps you. All good people will help you. God created us all with love and to love. I do this not for you but for God. If I come to Armenia and crash, I don’t know what will happen to me.”

I wanted to say that it would not be a problem, but somehow remained silent. I knew I would help any motorcyclist in trouble. Biker’s code. He waited for an answer, then sighed and gave me his “tesbih”. “Hediye!” — gift!

Then we heard Mahmet’s motorcycle outside. I went out to speak with Mahmet, and Cenghiz disappeared with his affairs. Mahmet turned out to be an Enduro enthusiast. We talked about BMW R1200GS, BMW F800 and F650, KTM and Varadero, and agreed that sportbikes suck butt.

“Istanbul is big, there is no way you will not find your part there for the price that you want. Istanbul is great!”

“I hope you are right, Mahmet!.. And I am kinda hungry now”

“Aaa yes, in Erzurum very traditional! No yemek in Ramazan! But in Istanbul, you can eat, everyone can eat when they want!”

“Cool!”

“Police in Istanbul ride BMW R1200GSes,” he sighed. “Here in Erzurum only Honda CBF.”

“Why don’t you go to Istanbul, Mahmet?”

“4 more years here and then I can!” he sounded like he really craved that. “All Police wish to be in Istanbul. Only the best can…”

Another policeman joined our conversation.

“Where are you from?”

“Ermeni,” said Mahmet before I could

“Aaa… What motorcycles do the police ride in Ermenistan?”

“They don’t ride motorcycles…”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, they probably don’t know how to ride motorcycles or don’t really like motorcycles”

“Which police do you think is better?”

“I don’t know”

“But we ride motorcycles. We like motorcycles!” he laughed

I smiled. “That gives you the edge! But the drivers are much better in Armenia!”

“Oh yes, traffic in Turkey bad, very bad, huh!”

“Lets go now, so that we aren’t late again”

We went to the bus terminal with Cenghis and Mahmet, put the motorcycle in the bus’s luggage compartment, and I left to Istanbul.

At that point I felt like I knew exactly how to build a great Police service. Take charismatic decent-looking men and women with nice manners. Teach them English. Never forgive impoliteness. Make them work out. Demand that they consistently go out of their ways to help others. Ensure that they believe they are serving a good cause. Serving “the light”. Even if that means they are brainwashed. There is no way people will not trust them then. There is absolutely no way you will not trust a person who rides your motorcycle with a broken throttle grip to a terminal so fast, endangering his life, just so that you don’t miss your bus.

How do you find people like this?

I have no idea.

Day 4, part 2: Mahmet

“Yarın, yarın!!”
—Mahmet

As I was talking on the phone with Honda Road Assist, some man in his 50ies was attentively listening me speak. After I hung up, he inquired what the problem was. I explained that I could not afford to pay 1600 dollars to repair my motorcycle in Istanbul, and that I had no idea what I was gonna do after getting there. “I have friends who operate a Honda-authorized repair store,” he said. “In the same quarter as my house in Istanbul. They will do it for cheap. Very cheap. Economic!”

He called his friends and asked them to call me to arrange our meeting once I arrive in Istanbul. I received a call after a minute. Luckily the guy spoke English.

“Hello, is this Areg bey?”

“Yes, I am the guy with the motorcycle problem”

“When will you be in Istanbul?”

“Tomorrow in the morning”

“Tamam! Please record my number. Call me when you arrive in the bus station. We are in Harem. In Istanbul there is an Asian part and a European part. We are in the Asian part. Do not cross the bridge to the European part, or it will be very expensive to bring you back.”

“Great, thanks a lot sir!”

“Not at all!”

That sounded hopeful. “Saying “not at all” to a “thank you” is so old-school”, crossed my mind, but overall I was certainly very happy. I had a number I could call in Istanbul! I thanked the man who arranged the contact for me and asked who he was.

“My name is Hakan.” He passed me his business card

“Pleasure to meet you, sir. Are you the manager here?”

“I am the owner.”

I looked at his business card. “KRAL Otel. Hakan Kral Yilmaz. Kral Turizm.”

“Call me if you have problems in Istanbul!”

I left the otel and figured I wanna do some sightseeing before leaving to Istanbul. This later turned to be the most stupid decision, and helped me adopt a new general rule when traveling on a motorcycle — if you have any problems with the motorcycle, do not do anything else before making sure everything is OK.

So I went to take pictures of the mosque in the center. In the outside it looked pretty Armenian. I am not an architecture whiz, so I took some photos to check later with more competent folks.

After the mosque I bought some cherry ice-cream from a store and started eating it right there in the street. I guess my behavior was very wrong for Ramazan, because I felt very much like a lady in Yerevan who smokes while walking in the street. My Armenian readers will know exactly what that means.

Then I took some more pictures to give a general idea of what life in Erzurum is like.

When I went back to the “otopark” to take my motorcycle to the bus-station, a surprise awaited me. Outside Cengiz’s booth there was a police motorcycle, a Honda CBF600!

Turned out Cengiz had seeked out some policeman who was riding a CBF and was eager to help a fellow motorcyclist in trouble. His name was Mehmet. An extraordinarily positive person who looked and acted much like a superhero from a cartoon, Mehmet was excited for the chance to help me. He checked the motorcycle’s damage and threw his hand. “You only need to repair the throttle grip, then you can continue your journey.”

He called someone in Istanbul. “Will cost you 90 liras. About 60 dollars. When you go to Istanbul, call this guy,” he passed me a business card. “Mototal. Aslan bey. He always repairs my Hondas. Good usta! Very economic!” Then he checked the damages again. “Maybe you can even repair your grip here in Erzurum! Come!”

We took Cenghiz’s Peugeot and they drove me to some places. The “usta”s said they could repair the motorcycle, but only if they had the part.

“No original Honda parts in Erzurum,” Mahmet said.

“How does the Police repair their CBFs then?”

“Ankara! We put them on a truck and send them to Ankara or Istanbul! It is best for you to go to Istanbul!”

“I have to be at the bus station at 4:00 then, I only have 10 minutes left!”

“Yavash!!”

Mahmet sat me in a car, started my motorcycle and rode it fast with the broken grip to the bus station. I came in the car. By the time I arrived, Mahmet was already there, looking disappointed. “Yarın, Yarın!” he yelled before I even managed to get out of the car. “Yarın! The bus left! And we can’t take the bike back to otopark because we had to empty the tank. You will leave tomorrow!”

He approached a police station near the bus terminal and exchanged some words with the policemen there. “Lets leave your bike here in this station,” he suggested. “You can do that. Then tomorrow you just come here, take your motorcycle and go to Istanbul.”

They drove me back to KRAL Otel and I checked in again. “Like yesterday?” I asked about the price. “Yes, 70 liras” nodded the receptionist. I wanted to say “OK”, but remembered Uğur.

“Mmhm!”, I said.

Day 4 part 1: Little Italy

“Che cazzo!”
—David

I woke up early again, to go to the police station as requested yesterday. Walked down to the hotel reception to let them know I wanted to check out. The receptionist told me I should be checking out before noon. I had some time before my 9:00 appointment with the police, so I went to the “otopark” again. The booth was locked. I called Cenghiz. He said some things in Turkish and hung up. After 5 minutes he arrived on his Peugeot and shown me that he was sleeping using gestures. I used Google Translate to tell him that I had managed to get a bus to Istanbul at 4 o’clock. He said he also found some friends who could help me. I then told him I needed to get to the police station by 9:00, and left.

Now, yesterday, when I was arranging my bus trip for 4:00, I was a little worried. I was not sure I would make it, because of the police appointment. My experience with the Armenian police had taught me a bitter lesson of how much time one can spend at police stations over really small things. Uğur told me it wouldn’t take more than an hour, but I was still worried. I arrived at the station a little early — at 8:45, walked in and approached the first policeman.

“Hello sir. English?”

“Yes?”

“I had an accident yesterday on a motorcycle, and the police asked me to be here today at 9:00?”

“Yes. Please wait for about 5 minutes”

“I was on a black Honda, if that helps you?”

“Yes, I know your accident. Sorry it happened in Erzurum.”

After a few minutes someone brought a copied A4 paper and gave it to me. It had the scheme of my accident and some notes in Turkish.

“It says here that you were going slightly above the speed limit and that you have lost control of the vehicle. This is what our experts believe. When you go to a repair shop anywhere in Turkey, show this to them. Don’t worry about anything else”

“Is that all? Am I done?”

“Yes”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes sir, you can go now. Thank you for coming”

I thanked him, walked out and checked my watch. It was 8:55. I had finished 5 minutes earlier than my actual appointment time.

So I walked back to the hotel, and on my way back came across another parked BMW R1200GS Adventure (so many R1200GS’s out there, eh?), with two riders trying to exchange money in the bank nearby. I walked in. The riders were a man and a woman, both mid-aged with attractively gray hair, dressed in really classy full motorcycle apparel, looking like a couple. They were busy having a loud argument with the bank representative in lousy English. “Che cazzo!” the man yelled. “Wat you meen I cennot exchange Euro coins in ATM?! Cazzo! Ma perche no? Why not! Big problem!”

Italians!

They obviously came to no solution, because there was no way the machine could exchange the coins for them. They came out of their booth, pissed, and I approached them.

“Buongiorno!”

“Ooo ciao amico! Sei Italiano?”

“No sir I am actually an Armenian traveling here on a motorcycle like you, except I am alone and my bike is not as great as yours”

“Thank you!” his anger disappeared and he gave a really wide smile. “It is a wonderful motorcycle, isn’t it? The best for traveling!”

“I wish I could have it someday. But currently I have a bigger problem — I had an accident yesterday, and my motorcycle is broken now. I am taking it to Istanbul in a few hours. Do you know any people there who could help me?”

The lady jumped in at that point with an “aww!”, being all lady-sweet. They asked about the details of my crash and of course whether or not I was OK.

“Oh yeah, the fucking roads here! Slippery! Two french motorcyclists lost control and jumped off the bridge yesterday, one of them died, the other went back to fucking France! Roads very slippery! Because there is so many bad cars, and it is the gas…”

“Exhaust?”

“E giusto! Correct word! Exhaust on strada! It is as if when the rain just starts!! On dry asphalt! Che Cazzo, and we also meet noone that speaks English here!”

“So then, do you know anyone who could help?”

“Hmm yes, we know someone in Ankara who helps all motorcyclists, he might have friends in Istanbul. Call Ersin! Tell him you are a friend of David and Marcella. He met us in Ankara, he will help you!”

I called Ersin right away.

“Hi, I am a traveling motorcyclist who had an accident. David and Marcella gave me your number and said that you speak English and could help me out”

“Aaaa, the italians, David, Marcella, say hi to them, let me call you back, you need your phone credits.” He hung up and called me. After listening to my story in details, he said.

“I will try to find someone in Istanbul. Please wait for 10 minutes. Someone will call you from there.”

“OK!”

The italians wished me a safe trip and left. After 10 minutes I got a phone call.

“Hello, this is Honda Road Assist in Istanbul. How may I help you?” the guy sounded extremely American

“Hi, thanks for calling me. I had an accident and I need to repair my bike.”

“What is your model?”

“2006 Honda CBF500”

“Are you on the road now? Do you require immediate assistance?”

“No, I crashed yesterday”

“Where are you now?”

“Will be in Istanbul tomorrow”

“Which parts need to be repaired?”

“Throttle grip and its cables, turn signal, tachometer gauge, clutch lever. I would also like to check my front brake.”

“Please hold on a second… Yes sir, we have all those parts except for the tachometer gauge. It could take some time to ship it to Istanbul. Everything else is fine.”

“How long would a repair take?”

“A repair without the gauge would take less than a day”

“And how much would it cost me, approximately?”

“Your estimate would be about 1000 euros, or 1600 dollars.”

“??!”

“We understand it is very expensive. Parts in Turkey are expensive because of very high import taxes. If you have full insurance, your insurance will cover everything”

“I only have the minimal one!”

“That is a problem. Perhaps you could contact Honda headquarters and explain your situation and they could give you a discount! Do you want their contacts?”

“Yes please!”

I called the number they gave. Nobody answered. Tried again. Then again. Then again, after 20 minutes. No answer.

I felt bitter. There was absolutely no way I could afford paying 1600 dollars for repairing my bike and be able to continue the trip.