Travellin’ – Page 2 – One Hell of a Ride

Day 16: Malatya

The planned leg from Göreme to Malatya was the longest in the journey: more than 415km. Google Maps’ directions was giving me an estimate of 6 freaking hours for arrival, but I wanted to get there much earlier, so I was driving a little fast.

Somewhere in the middle of my path, I noticed an automatic speed radar and dropped my speed to about 100 km/h. After the accident, my speedometer gauge did not work, so I had to figure the speed out purely based on perception and experience.

About a kilometer after the radar, the police pulled me over. Just like that — a cop pointed at me with a finger and said in a mike — “Sıfır dört üç dört APA”. That is “Zero four three four APA” — my license plate. I knew I had to stop. There were three policemen again.

“Hi, I speak English, what is the problem?” I greeted the policeman

“Merhaba” This time around none of them spoke any English.

“Hello! Is there a problem?”

No response, shows with fingers that he wants my driver’s license. I give it to him.

“Motosiklet?” he wants to understand whether or not I am allowed to ride a bike.

I point at the “A” letter under my photo, then turn the license around and show the legend for “A”: motorcycles, mopeds and other motorized vehicles on two wheels.

“Tamam!”

“So, what is the problem?”

(no response, talks something with his colleagues)

“Problem?”

“Speed.” he then makes a gesture suggesting that I get off the motorcycle, take off my helmet and follow him.

As we approach their car, he takes a piece of A4 paper and writes “99” on it, then draws a circle around it. “Limit!” he says.

“OK, I know, but what was my speed?” I point at myself

“102” he writes on the paper above 99.

What the fuck, seriously! Is he kidding me? I put a minus sign between “102” and “99” and write at the bottom — “= 3!”

He nods.

“Üç (3) kilometre!” I say, amazed and pissed

“Evet, üç kilometre” (Yes, 3 kilometers)

“??!”

“Üç kilometre — problem! Bir (1) kilometre — problem!”

“Amerika — problem yok (no problem), Almanya (Germany) — problem yok, Ermenistan — problem yok, ama Türkiye — problem?? Üç kilometre!!” (Yes, my Turkish is that good at this point.) I get really upset. Usually, +5–10% is always disregarded everywhere in the world!

“Evet, Türkiye — problem. Bir kilometre — problem.”

I ask him to follow me. I show the broken speedometer gauge. Then I take out my accident report filed by the Turkish traffic police. He reads it attentively, and nods.

“Speedometer yok!” (No speedometer) I say. “Ama üç kilometre — problem yok!”

He nods in empathy. Tells my story to his colleagues. But they don’t change their minds.

“So how much do I have to pay?” I make a gesture with my fingers of paying money

“Hayır!, Hayır!” (No!, No!) I think he gets me wrong. He shows me a document where it has instructions in Turkish and English. The 3rd point says that foreign drivers pay the fine at the customs when exiting the country. Then he writes on the paper — “TL 140”.

God damn it!

Some time later I arrive at Malatya. The roads are as slippery as they were in Erzurum, but I feel myself a seasoned rider now and there is no way I will have an accident. The city looks crappy starting from the moment you enter it. The streets are dirty, people look somewhat annoyed and the whole environment feels unwelcoming. I stop and open my Lonely Planet book to find a good hotel. Then put the address in my Android and navigate to it using Google Maps. The place where I arrive does not even remotely feel like there could be any hotel there.

I get off the motorcycle and approach some people to ask for a hotel. Nobody even answers my “Hello”, as if I don’t exist. Spooky!

I get on the internet, and find allegedly the best hotel in Malatya. Ride there through really chaotic traffic, and woah!

Malatya is what Yerevan’s Malatya market would be, if it was separated as a town on its own. It feels like a huge dirty market, that is so intense that even in front of the best hotel in the city some folks are selling sport shoes, and you actually have to twist around if you wanna enter the building.

This photo is not just a random view. Even the first floor of the mosque looks like it hosts a market of goods of some sort.

Downtown Malatya

Some unknown motorcycle — Kanuni Tiger!

I think this is Mustafa Kemal, although I am not sure.

The central square reminds of some Armenian town, but I can’t remember which one exactly.

Bicycle and motorcycle general mechanic

Chicks in Malatya

And of course, red apple! Target the right crowd for your outfit!

I was extremely hungry, so I stepped into some steakhouse, where they said that all tables were reserved although it felt like they were just giving me shit because my hair looked messy. I went to the restaurant next to it, where I had 2 crappy lahmacuns and was asked to pay 25 liras for that — most I ever payed for food for one person anywhere in Turkey, including Istanbul.

I walked back to the hotel and decided to never visit Malatya again. Simple as that.

Day 15: Cocks

“Are you gonna see the cocks?”
—Adem

The initial plan was to head from Ankara to Nevşehir. I rode out and arrived there after a couple of hours, but the city looked so faceless and boring, that I decided to ride on and see where the road takes me. After a little more than 10 kilometers and passing a small mountain range, suddenly an extraordinary sight opened in front of my eyes!

Seriously, unfortunately I cannot shoot photos in a professional way that will grasp how immensely beautiful this place was! It is something you should see for yourself!

I checked on the map, and it said “Göreme”. OK Göreme, I will stay here! I rode into the town (passing camels on my way!), rode by a number of small cave-carved hotels until I came across the one that had a 450cc KTM parked in front of it. The name of the hotel was “Nomad”. Sounds about right! I walked in. The receptionist’s name was Adem.

“Single room, double room, dorm?”

“Single room please”

“That will be 50 liras”

“Think you could go down for me on that?”

“40 is my final price”

“40 sounds like a deal!”

“OK!” he registered me hastily, and opened a small pocket map of Göreme. “Do you know what you’re gonna see here?”

“No idea!”

“Are you gonna see the cocks?” he looked very relaxed, so for a brief moment I figured he meant the birds. “I mean, the penises?” he added. There’s no way out now.

I swear to God, even though the hotel itself is crap, it is completely worth to get the experience of getting a man you met two minutes ago to ask you if you are gonna see the cocks, and then quickly clarify that he actually means the penises.

“Which penises?” I inquired

“The ones in the Love Valley!” he made a circle on a particular area of the map with pen and wrote “L. V.” — “Love Valley!”

“What are these… penises?”

“They are strange rock formations. Everyone loves to see them! Some of them here” — he marked another part of the map — “have three heads!”

To say that it was an awkward situation is to say nothing. “Are they far away?” I asked

“Not so, but it is better if you take a bicycle. Go to Silk Road Bike Rent. Tell them Adem sent you. They will give you a good deal!”

Silk Road Bike Rent was around the corner. Some boy who looked 15 managed the place.

“Hi, I’m Areg, I want a bicycle, Adem sent me!” I quickly threw sentence after sentence.

“Adem? Tamam. I can give you a good bicycle for only 15 liras for 6 hours. Normally this would cost over 20”

“Sounds like a deal!”

I took the bicycle and went out to find the “penises” in the “love valley” that “everyone loves to see.”

After some wandering around, I found some trail and started following it. Soon I have noticed a strange stone with markings that I recognized — “L. V.”, and an arrow.

Looked like I was getting there! I followed the arrow. After a while, another sign.

Then another!

And finally, it all opened for me! I found the cocks! A valley full of phallic symbols — all natural — all carved by nature itself!

Pretty neat, eh?

I looked around and realized that I was literally surrounded by all sorts of them!

Thin and thick!

Some surrounded with trees… and bushes!

And just as I zoomed in to get a close–up, I noticed a girl who was chilling under the shadow.

She was with her boyfriend, and unfortunately did not speak any English. They were a very friendly Italian couple traveling in an old Volkswagen minivan. Her boyfriend’s English, was, however pretty decent. After exchanging some words, he offered me to take me back to town in his van so that I wouldn’t have to ride it all the way, and I gladly agreed — I love chances to get to know new people! So the guy loaded my bike (and me) into the van and we took off.

After some chit–chat, jokes, conversations about the van and why the girl is not allowed to drive it because the gearbox is too gentle, we arrived back in Göreme and parted.

Aren’t they cute? I have a 10-minute video of our conversation in the van that I will upload once I have decent bandwidth — they are sweet!

So back in town, I went to look for a place to write the day’s impressions on my laptop, came across a coffee shop and asked the manager if they had a power outlet. The man looked somewhat aggressive, and instead of answering me asked the painful question — “Where are you from?”

Generally, in these situations I say that I am American. It makes me feel much safer. “I am American!” I exclaimed. “So, do you have a power outlet in this coffee shop?”

“But you are not American!” he answered.

“Why not?” I was confused.

“If you were American, you would first ask me how I’m doing!”

Suddenly he was interrupted by a nice female voice from behind me. The girl actually did sound American.

“But why not? He could be American! You probably just wanna ask about his origins!”

I looked back. A hot American babe was sitting by the window and having coffee.

“Where are you from?” I asked

“Ohio!”

I joined her table and we had the first conversation since my trip had started that actually made sense to me. Traveling in Turkey for several months already, A. was a very attractive and straightforward person. I learned that she played scrabble and pool sometime and the way she said it was just drop-dead sweet. We talked for hours just about everything in life, from simple things to complex subjects, and then some gender discrimination, until the topic of sex emerged. She leaned towards me.

“You know, I wouldn’t say the Turkish men are very great at that stuff!” she whispered

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah! They talk their way through, use their charms and everything, and then at the end when it comes down to doing stuff, it is nothing impressive!”

“Hmm”

“Yeah! You lay there, and then you kinda wanna go like — is this all you’ve got? — Not knowing what to do with it!”

We tried to find some hidden relations between patriarchy and sex skills, and then somehow changed the subject. After it was really late, I walked her to her hotel but discovered on the way that I had left my phone at the cafe. We exchanged contacts and parted there, then I went and found my phone, and back in my hotel an email was waiting for me in my inbox. Here is the full text, names abbreviated, published with the permission of A.

From: A.

Subject: Turkish penises

Areg, before you start blogging about my romantic experiences (or lack thereof) here in Turkey, I want to clarify: penis size was not an issue! In fact, my liason in K. had a very nice cock (as big as these here in Cappadocia. lol) but was quite mechanical and lacking in passion. Chalk it up to the fact that he was a Virgo or, perhaps just a lack of chemistry. Nevertheless, that was what I meant by “not knowing what to do with it.” I would hate for you to put it out there in the blogosphere that Turkish men have small penises. Quite a dangerous proposition for an Armenian on a motorcyle tooling around the Turkish countryside! 😉

Hope you retrieved your phone!

A.

And so ended the day that shall always remain a day of cocks to me. Amen!

Oh, and you did not read this if you are under 18, did you?

Day 13-14: Ankara

Hopefully this will be my only post where I cover two days with a single entry. Afterall, initially I had planned to stay in Ankara for only one day before going to Nevşehir.

Ankara is Turkey’s capital and one of its largest cities. Some people I met in Istanbul referred to it as the “Workers’ City”.

It does look, in some ways, more solid than Istanbul.

People definitely drive better than they do in Istanbul. In fact the traffic here is more or less bearable, although you do occasionally stumble across drivers entering one-way streets from the wrong end, and jumping the red light is of course a usual sight. The streets here are the nicest of all the other places I’ve seen in Turkey.

There’s a handful of large business buildings and the business life looks really active.

Besides that, there seem to be a lot more young crowd in Ankara than in Istanbul. This might in fact be bullshit, but I did come across a lot more young people in Ankara. Another good thing is, I also met much more people who spoke God’s language — English. People were a lot more sociable and open than elsewhere in Turkey. I asked some lady in a bus to let me know where to get off for Kızılay, and she did. After I got off and we parted to different directions, several minutes down the road I suddenly saw her running towards me.

“Hey, hey, I am really sorry!” she caught her breath

“What happened?”

“I forgot to ask!! Do you need any more help?”

That was super sweet.

Although the city has a very strong Soviet feel about itself,

You do come across some nice architecture here

Finished with beautiful modern oriental touches

And some crowd with a good taste as well!

The policemen look and act professional as everywhere else in Turkey

Honda Ankara keeps getting new motorcycles for their huge salon

Yes, there is a motorcycle in that box!

Albeit the “Servis” is uncomparable to Alaattin’s Mototal

And there is a lot of junk around

I had to stay for two days, not because any problems delayed me, and not because I loved Ankara so much.

But because I wanted to understand — what was wrong with it? Why was it so incomparable to Istanbul?

And in two days I still failed to grasp it.

Perhaps it was just not as spicy, not as juicy and it did not smell so amazingly sweet and horrible on a range of one foot?

Or perhaps it lacked something much more important?

Day 12: Eskişehir

If I were a little boy, I would love living in Eskişehir.

And because I really am, I really loved it!

Why?

Because it is a nice town with a lot of flowers, plants and trees.

It would give me a strong sense of belonging,

With weird statues with fountains that hint at female sexuality!

Sometimes a little too explicitly!

Also because it is a town with many motorcycles of completely unknown brands that look like they belong to cartoon superheroes.

Ever heard of a motorcycle named “Discovery”?

What about “Tiger”?

But most importantly, I would love it because it is a town where pilots are revered!

And where the fighter jets fly really low

…Every fifteen minutes.

Day 11: Magic

Istanbul is enchanted. It is a magical city, and the magic is so intense that you can almost hear it in the air. This cannot be explained, as it is a completely different dimension, but it is not any less real. Every stone, every trash can (there isn’t many of those) and every bench, every dirty beggar, every tree, every wave of Marmara, every train, bridge and the bolts on them, every boy selling water, every Vespa and every roof are magical, filled with strange energy — not negative or positive, not like anything that can be described. It is a very strange kind of extraordinarily attractive energy — it fills you and wraps you and floats you away, in this amazingly sweet slumber, chanting soothing melodies to your ear, touching the most special strings in your soul, and going so deep that it cracks your very essence open to you and the city. It is a city that makes you surrender instantly — and completely. Surrender to being happy, for you are real.

I am forever in love, and I need not pretend. I desperately, hopelessly and endlessly love Istanbul.

Pathetically sentimental and poetic? I am one of the more cynical people out there, but one has to be a shallow douchebag to not feel the immense sorcery that this city is filled with!

When the night comes, the stars gently swim down from the sky into the Bosphorus and become mermaids, whispering tales of the great unknown and stealing your heart as you stand there, seduced, speechless, like a statue, your spirit floating above the dreaming city, caressed by the seas.

Tomorrow, I am going to hop on my motorcycle and head to Eskişehir. A piece of my heart, however, is forever going to stay here in Istanbul, between Europe and Asia, Marmara and Black Sea, somewhere along these curvy streets and wrapped around the heels of the gorgeous Turkish ladies. I have to come back, or I shall always be heartbroken. Thank you, Istanbul, for enriching me so much that I feel like I need a bigger body to host myself comfortably. Thank you for changing me forever, for making me so endlessly self–sufficient, and yet thank you for reminding me that I still know how to love.

I needed you so much.

Day 10: Hagia Sophia

Hagia Sophia is a sad monument. It is powerful and magnificent, of course, but it had me drowned in tears when I stepped in and walked around.

It is, without doubt, one the most impressive monuments erected by men. Inside, every square inch tells a story.

After being conquered by the Ottoman Turks sometime in the 15th century. the church was turned into a mosque. In fact it became the main mosque of the Ottomans’ new empire. They have, of course, immediately modified the interior.

Most of the artwork on the walls was covered. Some of it is irreversibly lost. I personally found Hagia Sophia to be simply defaced. I couldn’t help but ask myself a question — where are the people who built this? How did they fail to protect it? Why would you want to take something and change it into something else? In the oriental, Islamic setting it just does not look right!

But then I realize that the monument has been under the Turkish rule for over 600 years — only a little less than it actually existed as a Byzantium temple, and that the Muslim art in the interior is also centuries old, and it makes me even more confused, raising even more questions and making things more complicated.

I am truly grateful to Atatürk for turning Hagia Sophia from a mosque into a museum. I think it was the wisest decision for this place, for the century being.

And so it stands, a beautiful and sorrowful monument that was admired by kings and their slaves, by messengers from the lands far away, by knights and templars and sultans and their viziers, by archaeologists and by the retired American couples, and by me in my Converse chucks. It tells you — you, too, will pass.

Yet even more brazenly, it stands as a vivid reminder to all, about the painfully simple importance of the army before the culture, the soldier before the architect, and the sword before the pencil.

But then you can’t help feeling the presence of the Old Gods under the earth beneath the temple, and that’s when you get them goosebumps. The swords and the missiles and the numbers are useless before them. It makes you want to tread lightly. Who knows what great plans they weave for the millenniums ahead about the temple and the peoples who are involved? You walk out, carefully, not to disturb the cosmic forces under the floor and the dome and the arcs. The Old Gods — you don’t wanna fuck with them!

And when you are finally out, you take an eclair and some coffee. It is always good.

Day 9: Ortaköy

“Make him look like Tarkan!”
—Owner of Ayasofya hotel

Istanbul has quite a few beautiful mosques. I mean, mosques are everywhere, and most of them are gorgeous — much better than they look in places like Erzurum or Ardahan!

I always thought that a mosque should have an Arabic feel about itself. But the mosques in Istanbul look surprisingly… Byzantine!! What? Byzantium was a christian civilization! Hell yeah, and I still have no idea how that works! Most mosques here look like they were built by Byzantium architects, although the interior decoration does look very traditionally Arabic.

My favorite part of the mosques is always the minaret. In my opinion, the slim and tall minarets pointed at the sky are perhaps the most stylish religious structures that have been designed by the human civilization. You look at the cityscape during day, dusk or dawn, and they stand there — proud, elegant, profound. They are not humble. They never appear weak. In their essence, they resemble weapons. Laces. Bullets. Rockets. If spirituality was something functional, the minarets would probably be the most practical structures for worshiping God — elegantly minimalistic, pointed right where the Creator metaphorically resides, perhaps even right at God Himself, as if saying — “You, there!” And saying it in a way that He cannot neglect. I love that.

After some sightseeing, towards the evening I wanted to go to Ortaköy to meet some Armenians from Armenia and Istanbul, and then go club at Reina. However, I didn’t think my hair looked “cool enough” for a club like Reina (I wasn’t sure I’d pass the face control), so I went out to look for some hair products to style myself. After a while of looking, I couldn’t see any store that would sell any gels or mousse, and so I asked some hotel’s receptionist where to find those. A woman sitting at a corner in the hotel overheard my question and stood up.

“What are you looking for?”

“Some hair products to style myself for clubbing!”

“All the stores that could sell something like that are already closed, including the supermarkets”

“OK ma’am, but I absolutely need to style my hair!”

“I think your hair look great!” she shrugged

“I wanna go to Reina!”

“Aaaaa… Reina! OK follow me!”

She led me out of the hotel through narrow streets. As we walked, I asked her some questions.

“Are you staying in that hotel?”

“No, I am the owner of that place”

“Cool, where are you from?”

“Australia, yourself?”

“I’m from Armenia”

“Aaaaa… Quite a few Armenians here in Istanbul! I know many Armenian people here!”

She brought me to some young barber whose shop was still open, greeted him very warmly and exclaimed:

“Make him look like Tarkan!”

After 10 minutes and 10 liras, I did look like Tarkan, and a pretty handsome one, too! In fact I couldn’t remember if I had ever been more satisfied with a barber. So I walked to Ortaköy.

Ortaköy is a beautiful place under the Bosphorus where people go to eat, club, see oriental bijoux, play backgammon and socialize. Everyone is out, late in the night, having fun together, and there is great atmosphere. Meeting new people is extremely easy.

In Ortaköy I met a cool (really cool!) Armenian woman who currently lives in Istanbul. I asked her how safe it is to be an Armenian in Istanbul.

“Is Istanbul safe for an Armenian?”

“Extremely!”

“What about the bozkurt?”

“They are fucking sons of bitches! But they have left Istanbul. They have surrendered Istanbul!”

“What shall I do if I have a problem with a bozkurt?”

“You will not!”

“But if I do, anyway?”

“Run to any police and say you are Armenian!”

“…eh?”

“You are Armenian, and it means everyone will do everything to make sure that nothing happens to you here! The Police will protect you with their own bodies if they have to!”

That was kinda reassuring to hear. The woman then took us to club around the corner. “It is too late for Reina!”

I was really disappointed about not being able to use my awesome haircut. But guess what!

It is way cooler to go to a local club with a Reina haircut than to go to Reina itself!

The music at the club was very good and so was the crowd — very easy going guys and a lively conversation always started whenever I just smiled and said “Hi!” So I clubbed until 4am, then took a cab back to the Asian side, exhausted.

The cab cost 55 liras. Of course, I shall go back to Reina someday.