Arrival in Turkey – Thrace

The Arrival:
It was only 5 km. from our camping spot at the small church high in the mountains to the Turkish border, but it seemed like 50. It was extremely steep and very, very hot. Reminded me of the heat wave we had in France last year.

As before, we passed vineyards, mountains, forests, tall, green trees. And then we passed miles of barbed wire fences on both sides of the road. The border was approaching. Two weeks exactly along the eastern seaboard in Bulgaria, and now we were going to say hello to Turkey. I was excited. We passed customs easily enough, and then we were saying “Merhaba” instead of “Dobar den.” (Hello).

The mountains on the Turkish side were initially just as steep as in Bulgaria, but gradually the hills became more moderate. The forests were much the same as in Bulgaria. We were in the country for less than an hour when we pulled off the side of the road to wait out a quick, but heavy, rainstorm. We waited under a copse of trees, and just as we were thinking about spreading out our blanket for a picnic, a family pulled up noisily in two cars, music and people spilling out. They saw us and immediately brought over some of their feast for us: grape leaves stuffed with rice and meat, a seasoned vegetable pastry, large sugar cookies. It was very flavorful – delicious. What a welcome to Turkey! We had heard of the legendary Turkish hospitality. I was so happy to be here!

We saw a lot of families picnicking in the parks and in the woods, feasts spread out before them on the ground, music playing on the car stereos. The people seemed very friendly. Greetings were shouted from all directions. Young men playing soccer stopped playing to wave hello. Men on motorbikes waved, people honked their horns in greeting as they drove by, children shouted to us from the side of the road, “Hello! Hello!”

We camped at the top of a mountain in a labyrinth of trees. Just as we were falling asleep, we were startled by the call for prayer, which we could hear across the hillsides from the nearest town. Turkey is over 99% Muslim; the chant calling the faithful to prayer is sung out five times a day from the mosque: at sunrise, at mid-day, during the afternoon, at sundown, and at nightfall. We had, of course, noticed the mosques with their tall, thin minarets, which had replaced the accustomed churches with their steeples. But it was the chant, clear across the hillsides, which came as somewhat of a shock. It was clear, loud, deep, and moving. It broke the still silence of the mountains.

“God is great! There is no other god than Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.”

Spoken in Arab, every prayer began with this formula. We heard it at sundown, one hour after sundown, and again at sun up the next morning. It was that type of chant which stopped you still in your tracks – made you think of things spiritual, made you think of where you were, made you reflect on the differences of life here and back home. Made you wonder what exactly it all meant.

Towards Istanbul:
Our first day of biking was still in the mountains. But the forests from Bulgaria were thinning out. The trees gradually turned into bushes, then farmland. The mountains turned into hills, but the wind blew stronger and stronger. No luck. The wind had been against us every day for seven weeks now, and my legs were feeling the strain. It took a lot of effort to keep the bikes in a straight line against the wind.

The traffic didn’t help, either. The roads heading east towards Istanbul were the worst we had thus far encountered. Not because of potholes, but because of the heavy traffic – the concentration of buses and large trucks – and the general lack of a shoulder, which meant that the trucks passed by uncomfortably close. When there was a shoulder, it was usually not paved, but made of a mixture of stone and gravel. The heavy traffic and strong wind made it a nightmare. We were anxious to get off this road.

The upside was that we were becoming more familiar with that famous Turkish hospitality. The first night after we left our campsite in the woods, as the sun was beginning to set, we were waved over by a man holding a fistful of cucumbers. At first, I thought he just wanted to share his cucumbers or to ask us where we were from. But he asked us if we wanted to sleep there that night. His name was Saban. Saban’s “place” wasn’t his house. He was a farmer who worked at a gas station during the night shift, and slept overnight there in a room behind the front offices. We were to sleep in the restaurant upstairs, which wasn’t yet opened for the season. Saban invited us in for a dinner of spicy potato soup, tomatoes, garlic, and cucumbers, followed by several cups of Turkish tea, the national drink. He told us how he had met two French cyclists in 1988, and how they had stayed in the exact same place with him for three days!

The remarkable thing about Saban’s gas station was that on three of the four walls was a photo of Ataturk, the “father of Turkey,” who ruled the nation during the 1920’s and 1930’s. I knew that he was considered a national hero, but I was surprised that his image was so present, even seven decades after his death.

When we left Saban the next morning, I told Stephane that I wished for only one thing that day – a shower. And what do you know? Half an hour and 6 km. later, a man on a motorbike waves to us and tells us to follow him. He is the gardener at a hotel, on his way to work. He invites us in for a cup of tea. We had already had so much tea, but how do you say no? We finish our first cup, and despite our polite “no’s,” he insists on a second cup. Then out comes the Director, who immediately invites us into the restaurant for breakfast: bread, honey, jam, olives, cheese, tomatoes, and cucumbers, along with another cup of tea. And we had just breakfasted half an hour before! The waiter tried to bring us yet more tea, until we made it clear that we really didn’t want any more. I wished for a glass of juice instead. Stephane said I was ungrateful, but really, I had had enough tea in the last 24 hours to last for an entire month! It’s not so easy for women bikers to drink that much.

And what do you know? The Director comes out again, and with a wave of his magic wand, he granted both of my wishes: juice and a shower! Without our even having to ask! I was thrilled! And it was just that kind of fancy hotel that has grand spiral staircases, chandeliers, and royal red carpeting. The Director was very welcoming. He took us on a tour of the grounds, and told us that he learned to speak English during the first Gulf War, when American soldiers stayed at his hotel before moving on to Istanbul. He was 43, had worked 19 years at the hotel, and would be retiring in 3 months. Forty-three apparently was the retirement age in Turkey until just recently, when it was moved to between 60 and 65 years of age to comply with EU regulations. 43!

After our shower, we were preparing to leave when he asked us to stay for just one more cup of tea. No, no, we really couldn’t. Not more tea. We had to be moving on. “Okay, then,” he agreed, “but only after I pick some roses for you from my rose garden….”

We left, and I cursed the wind and the scary traffic. And then, we were invited for tea again at another gas station. And that night, dinner and a bed in the office of yet another gas station. More pictures of Ataturk.

The next morning, I thought my legs could go no farther. Istanbul seemed farther away every day, as the wind became stronger and my legs became weaker. And then….