Into Iran

The day I arrived at the Turkey-Iran border was the day after the UK expelled the Iranian diplomats from their London embassy, and a couple of days after the UK's embassy in Tehran was torn apart by marauding Iranians (acting entirely independently and without any official sanction at all). They even threw a picture of the Queen (gawbless'er) off the balcony. All British diplomats left Iran, so there would be no consular support in the country, I had e-mails from home warning that there would be an ugly, anti-British mood in the country, and the Foreign Office advised against all but essential travel to Iran.

Fuck it. I came anyway.

I gave brief thought to turning back and seeing how the situation developed, but you have to be pretty single-minded and stubborn to dump everything and ride across the world on a bike, and I hadn't come so far just to turn back when I was so nearly there. I was a bit nervous when I approached the border, but I can recommend the Kapikóy-Razi border crossing for all your Iran/Turkey needs. It went a long way towards allaying my fears - sitting in a warm office with a bunch of soldiers, being fed satsumas and taught Farsi, while assault rifles lean unattended beneath the desk, can have that effect.

The Turkish side of the border is barren and bleak and has a real end-of-the-world feel about it. It's a high crossing and a big climb to get up to it - I stopped for a rest above Saray, looked around and noticed the silence. No other traffic, no birds or animals. It was even too cold for the ice in the stream to start cracking.

The descent was a joy, too. I whooshed down to the border post, pleased to have chance to collect myself so that I wouldn't be arriving all sweaty and zoned out from the effort.

All the cars and vans that had overtaken me today were still queuing at the border when I arrived. I looked for a way past, and had my encounter with the "passport inspector". He was dressed as a standard Turkish bloke - black trousers, leather jacket - so when he asked for my passport I gave him my best old-fashioned look and asked if he worked there. He said he did, but when I asked for ID he rather lost interest. He did, however, suggest that I could take my bike around the other side of the cars, so it turned out to be a fairly helpful encounter.

I was waved through every check and past every queue, the only exception being when the Iranians were stamping my passport. Part of the issue seemed to be establishing my nationality, as they looked at my passport and asked me if I was Irish. They'd heard of Ireland, and they know about England, but Britain was a new one for them. It did give the Grinning Black Market Money Man chance to insinuate himself next to me, take away my lira and make me a near-millionaire with 930,000 rials. That's about 80 quid, at a guess.

It still took ages to get through the border: I took tea with the Turks, and everyone wanted to chat or say hello. It was wonderful, and I was flying with delight when I left and carried on descending. I had meant to pick up some food, but exhilaration gave me energy. The road is an unfinished dirt road for the first 10 or 15 miles from the border, but that hardly slowed me at all. I had to hold myself back from overtaking the slow wagons as they carefully negotiated the potholes.



Immediately, the world felt different. There was a marked change from Turkey. The first thing I noticed was the trees, which Turkey didn't have. The roads and field margins are lined with tall cypresses, which still have leaves on despite the lateness of the year. Iranian buildings around here are the squat, square mud and brick affairs I associate with the Middle East, and the landscape is crags, rocks, scrub grass. I took advantage of this to camp up a narrow gully, though I had entertained thoughts of carrying on to Khoy.



In the morning I was pleased I hadn't, as the descent through that rocky gorge was a marvel. Epic views around every bend, and the first sight of the huge arch railway bridge across the gorge may have caused me to utter a swearword in awe.

[photograph deleted by Iranian police, sadly]

Welcome to Iran.

When I Get to the Border: Dogubayezit, Van, Iran

These three days have been amazing. I've ridden over the Tendürek Pass from Dogubayezit to Van Lake (2644 metres ASL) despite warnings from drivers about snow drifts and impassable conditions. Those warnings were greatly exaggerated, but the summit was so cold, sterile and beautiful. The landscape on the other side was a white wasteland, until I descended to Muradiye Waterfall, an incredible cascade where I stood on the bridge and felt the spray crystallise on my face. Arhan, the Kurdish restaurant proprietor at the falls, made me breakfast and insisted that I should return to Dogubayezit to get to Iran rather than going through Van. I gave this serious thought when I visited Seytan Koprusu (Devil's Bridge), but once again I ignored sincere advice. I was keen to see Lake Van and I hate doubling back. Also, I want to cross the border at Kapiköy, as I found this interesting Wikileaks cable about the Kapiköy crossing:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/wikileaks-files/nuclear-wikileaks/8297090/TURKEY-IRAN-BORDER-A-TALE-OF-TWO-CUSTOMS-POSTS.html

I camped by Lake Van, being unwilling to stay indoors in an earthquake zone, even if there was a hotel to be had in Van. It was mild, I pitched my tent to catch the morning sun and had a late start, taking in the warmth while looking at the blue water. After a week of sub-zero daytime temperatures, it was getting above freezing, and the sun was strong. I set off with only a couple of layers on for the first time since Cappadocia.





Rolling down to Van, I had my first press interview! A couple of guys in a van waved me down and made me ride up and down the road a few times so they could get some photos, and though our grasp of one another's language was basic, I told them how long I'd been travelling and gave them an outline of my route.



They warned me not to go into Van, and rightly so - I saw enough in the outskirts. Some of the buildings were showing signs of earthquake damage such as exposed brickwork and gaping cracks; tents and shanties were dotted about the streets and waste ground, a few people had set up roadside stalls to sell their possessions, and gangs of kids crawled across rubble heaps, searching for valuables. Feeling like an interloper, I only stayed long enough to get some food and beer - especially beer, as this is my last night in Turkey, and my last chance to have a drink.

The road surface from Van has been quite poor, and I don't expect it to improve, but tomorrow I'll cross the border at Kapiköy. That'll be one more country coloured in on my map of the world.

In the Cold, Cold Night: Horason to Ağri

Last night was the coldest night yet, and today has been the coldest day. The most optimistic weather report I saw for last night was -10 Celsius. You don't want to know about the pessimistic reports. Everything froze. I had the foresight to pour some water into a pan to melt for my morning coffee, but the water bottle inside my tent froze solid, as did the milk and Coke and juice. My last hunk of bread was like iron.

Inside the tent, condensation from my breath formed frost on the inside of the tent and when I spilled a bit of my water (OK, beer) it froze into a thin film, but I was warm enough, albeit wearing a lot of my clothes inside my silk liner, sleeping bag and bivvy bag. The main problem was that I use a stuffsack of clothes as a pillow, and as I was wearing most of those, my pillow was a poor place to rest my head. I had a bit of a restless night. I awoke and had to go out to fix one of the tent pegs which had come out of the loose soil, and the stars were astonishing. Familiar constellations were lost in the light from stars which were usually drowned out by the lights of towns and cities, and the Milky Way was a huge daub across the sky. It was far too cold for more than a glimpse, though; I could feel the warmth being sucked out of me as I scurried back into my tent.

Starting again in the morning was tough. Stupidly I'd put my shoes in the porch so my feet were instantly cold. The tent pegs had frozen into the ground. I'm sure I left a layer or two of skin on my fuel bottle when I picked it up wşthout my gloves on. It took me much longer than usual to strike camp, though at least I had some coffee and porridge in me.

I rode a mile and a half to a petrol station just outside Horasan, where I went into the office and sat down to warm myself. The owner gave me tea, and once he'd established that I was the nutter camping down the road, he gave me a huge dressing-down.

Turkish body language can be confusing, but it seems that tapping one's index finger to one's temple is universal sign for "stark staring stone bonkers". He said I could have slept at the petrol station, and that loads of truckers had told him about the madman camping up the road, and they'd tried to tell me I could stay there. Since I don't speak much Turkish, this is a guess, but a pretty accurate summary, I suspect. I explained in turn that the truckers had ignored me and I'd ignored them, and that I didn't know the petrol station was there. I shrugged - done was done, and I was more concerned with the pain from my toes as the warmth took effect. Aaaah.

It saps your strength, being cold, and I was much more cheerful after warming up indoors with tea. The cycling was easy after that - another huge climb over Sac Gecidi/Sac Pass seemed to go on forever, but I was more concerned with my lack of water. The ice I had with me wasn't thawing, and when I stopped to fill the other bottle at a mountain stream, it began to form into ice on the descent. Ice was also forming in my beard, and my toes were getting cold again on the descent. At least on the climb I was working, and staying warm.



I decided to find a hotel at Agri to get warm and thaw out. I rode through the hick town of Eleskirt just as the schools were kicking out, and felt like the main act at a circus. I was happily waving and shouting greetings, but I was a bit annoyed by the little git who deliberately dived in front of me, not to mention the other little sod who clouted me on the back just as I was setting off again. This probably counts as entertainment out here.

It was dark before I arrived in Agri, and I was cold, apart from my toes, which were frozen. I stopped to grab a few beers from a shop, and gratefully accepted the invitation to warm myself by the fire. I cracked a beer and explained my trip in the mix of bits of Turkish and gestures which I've become used to using, and we discussed the possible punishments for being caught with alcohol by the Iranian authorities in quite gruesome mime. The beer went down well, and my toes became satisfyingly warm again. Aaaaah.

Erzurum Doings

Everyone I spoke to in Turkey told me not to come to Erzurum. They said it was too high and too cold. Eddie in Ankara said that in winter the snow is higher than the street, two guys who'd grown up there said they'd left cos it was shite, and whenever I told a Turkish person my destination, they shivered to warn me how cold it would be. Mr Turhan, the Honorary German Consulate in Sivas, very subtly and gently tried to dissuade me from going.

I had little choice about going to Erzurum, as I'd arranged to collect my Iranian visa there, but the uniformly negative reaction made me more determined to go and see if it was true.

There's no denying it was cold: from Erzincan where I camped in relatively balmy conditions there was a gradual height gain, and the water was freezing in my bottles as I rode into Erzurum. But what a ride! I was lucky enough to have good weather on the passes (and there are lots of mountain passes) and the views were awesome. The clouds had vanished, so it was all blue skies, pure white snow and crisp air. It was painfully bright.



Erzurum itself is quite a pleasant little city: small enough to be big enough. It's compact and easy to walk around, but the facilities are good so I stocked up on food and supplies and talked myself out of getting more camping equipment at the outdoor shop. I checked into a fleabag hotel which was cheap and central and where they weren't bothered about me cooking in my room.



There's not a great deal for tourists. I did see the sight, the famous citadel which is the symbol of the city, but it was closed for renovation and covered in scaffolding. I was surprised at how small it was. It was far less impressive than Hasankale Castle in nearby Pasinler, a crag-top edifice which I passed under when I left Erzurum.

It had a relaxed atmosphere, and I imagine it would be a great place to come during the summer to escape the heat at lower altitudes and explore the surrounding area. I was going to visit Tortum waterfall at the north of the city, but it was difficult to get to and one of the locals told me that it was not very impressive at this time of year. He was the only person I met who spoke much English and most people spoke none, except maybe a phrase or two.

I suppose it's a difference in perspective. I saw Erzurum as a pause on my route and not the ultimate destination. As a destination there are better places, but as a calling-point on a journey, and somewhere to take stock on that journey, and for the quite special mountain roads which surround it, Erzurum is in the right place.

I left Erzurum the day after I'd arranged my visa, and when I was leaving, a guy in a shop asked me where I was going next. To save a long explanation I simply named the next town, Agri. His face dropped and he shivered to warn me how cold it would be. Plus ça change.

Watersheds

Today I rode alongside the River Euphrates, or Firat, as it's known in Turkey. Actually it was the western branch of the river, Karasu or Blackwater. it's a light flow at this time of year, it chuckles delightfully over the rocks and flows tamely along its bed, but the dry channels and rocky canyons and deep embankments, and the gaping remains of bridges and houses, hint at the power it must have in the springtime, when the meltwater runs off the mountains.



Yesterday I rode over Sakaltutan Pass (2160 metres ASL) and crossed the watershed between the Atlantic and Indian Oceans. Yesterday I was riding alongside rivers which flowed into the Black Sea or the Meditteranean and west into the Atlantic, today I'm beside the Euphrates, water which is flowing towards the Persian Gulf. Crossing boundaries is always a great moment, especially when the change is accompanied by great drama. The narrow, remote valleys and hunkering mountains gave way to a huge flat valley along which the Euphrates runs as it picks up its tributaries. It took me four hours to ride the 22 miles from Refahiye to the top of the pass and about an hour and a half to ride the thirty miles into Erzincan, freewheeling most of the way.

Not all watersheds are geological: in September I'd been looking forward to crossing into the old Eastern Bloc in Europe. In a reversal of the stereotype, I rode from staid, insular Austria on a Sunday into lively, happening Bratislava. If it wasn't for the endless concrete in Bratislava (like it's been poured from the sky, as someone commented to me), I'd have thought Bratislava and Slovenia belonged in the West and unfriendly Austria in the East.

I had also been looking forward to leaving the Rhine's catchment area. When I was riding down the Tauber with Felix, we crossed over to the Altmuhl Valley. There was a small hill, on which we passed two German cyclists pushing their bikes. "why don't you push?" one of them asked. "Because it's easier to ride than to push," we cheerily replied.

It was a small moment but a big change. This marked the watershed between the North Sea and the Black Sea, between western and eastern Europe.

I have been ticking these off mentally as I've travelled east: first, leaving the island of Britain, crossing into Asia, then personal checkpoints such as the furthest east I'd travelled (somewhere in Hungary, I reckoned), the highest I'd been on a bike, the highest altitude at which I'd camped...

It's part of what drove me to do this trip, the desire to keep moving and see the landscape change. I like stopping at places to meet people and explore in depth, but more often I enjoy the sense of movement and change, and I become frustrated when I don't feel as though I'm getting anywhere. I'm always looking for the next watershed, the next dramatic shift, the next horizon to kiss.

Sivas

I'd arranged on the website Warmshowers (a site for cycle tourists to share accommodation) to meet Ercan in Sivas, which proved to be a blessing, as the ride from Cappadocia was tough. It snowed the night I camped near Kayseri, and the next two days was all about slogging east into an easterly wind. I did find a still-sealed bottle of vodka at the roadside, which I mixed with milk into White Russians, but the nights were cold and I was slow. I try to avoid riding at night (I'm nervous of the driving, and when I'm camping I like to use some of the daylight to make camp), but I was so slow into that wind that I had an hour's dark riding into Sivas, along a dirt road through a narrow canyon. My lights are better than some of the cars on the road, so I had plenty of room and I found myself enjoying it. Still, the driving is too erratic for me to want to do that frequently. With the nights drawing in, I was covering about 60 miles a day at most and often less, rather than 70-80 miles a day in Europe.

Ercan was waiting most patiently for me, and once I'd had some food and dumped my bike and established the reason for all the windows being open in his flat despite the sub-zero temperatures (he'd been struck down with paranoia about the cleanliness of the place, so he'd doused it in bleach, and when he became light-headed he realised that he'd overdone it a tad), I felt relaxed, and welcomed, and decided to stay for a couple of days.

Ercan showed me around Sivas - as much as he could. Although it's comparatively affluent and a fair size, Sivas doesn't have many famous sites. It is, however, comfortable and I enjoyed the relaxed vibe. Being with someone who spoke the language and knew lots of folk around town was such a change: we sat in Ercan's boss's chamber where he gently quizzed me on UK foreign policy, and I spent an afternoon in the company of Mr Turcan, the Honorary German Consulate for the Sivas region. We also visited a Nargile Cafe, and I dragged teetotal Ercan to the only pub in Sivas.



All of that was great. However, touring cyclists are all about the food. I'd been on a quest to find porridge since I got to Turkey; It's called yulaf esmesi here, but could I find it? Everyone knew what it was, but nowhere stocked it. Ercan and Sivas changed all that, and I bought a kilo just to be sure. I'd been having semolina for breakfast, which was OK, but it ain't porridge. Ercan also introduced me to halva, and he cooks a mean fish.

It was a leisurely few days off the bike, which I would have loved to have extended, except that I could feel winter dogging my heels, and I wanted to get south of the mountains before the cold weather really set in. Ercan and Mr Turcan tried to talk me out of going east into the winter, and when I looked out on the morning's sleet, it was hard to push myself out that door. Leaving warmth and companionship for solitary pursuits along bleak dual carriageways? But the snow had stopped, and I had to heed the call of the road.