The tough bit begins

6 September: Turkey – Cappadocia and Sanliurfa

From Antalya we went to Cappadocia via Konya. Konya is supposed to be a very pretty city and on a pilgrimage route – what that really means is that the otels are over priced. All of a sudden we are out of secular Turkey and into conservative Muslim mode. Women scuttled along in their very large, hot looking clothing but worse, teenage boys didn’t seem to know how to behave around a foreigner. While I waited for Paul the porter did a very good job of shooing off crowds of boys. This annoyed me a lot more than I thought it would. I knew I’d have to face this on the trip but it really angered me. I’m not used to having to tolerate disrespect from anyone.

On to Goreme, the touristy bit of the very famous rock cities. We had climbed up through the mountains near the coast and crossed a vast plane that is flat from horizon to horizon, and then it seemed to be rather sudden that we turned a corner and the “fairy towers” were every where. The rocks are often conical in shape and at times coloured in stripes of white, pink and yellow – due to the layers of volcanic eruption. The rocks are made of soft volcanic tufta and over the years have been eroded by weather and humans. During the Byzantine period people lived in these odd rock formations and you can see hundreds of little windows, engravings and paintings of this time. Many of the buildings, or rather holes, are churches as they were used by Christians to escape Roman persecution. Later the rock dwellings were used as pigeon houses and the pigeons were used for food and shit (according to the local chap who has a teashop called “Flintstones” in the middle of no where). During the Ottoman period the cities were not needed and started to fall down because of earthquakes and floods. They were only discovered again in the 1900s.

South of Goreme there are underground cities. These housed thousands of people for a few months at time. They were used mainly to escape from attack. These are really strange places and must have been really unpleasant to live in – as there were animals there too. I have no idea where the word troglodyte comes from and as a child I thought it described something like a green monster rather than someone who lives in the earth. In any case, it is a good word to describe the troglodyte city – it is peculiar, warren-like and you have to hunch over and squeeze through in most of the passages. The passages deliberately force one to crouch so that the enemy would enter in one at a time, exposing their necks, making killing them easy. It is interesting though that they managed to ventilate and light the place sufficiently to live there at all.

Turkey is such a big country that we’d ended up spending an extra week there already. We were supposed to take it easy and enjoy it as it’s the last of the holiday type countries until we reach Kenya. Getting all the way to the East of Turkey took quite a bit of mountain driving. The roads had also deteriorated and there were large stretches of road works too that meant driving through thick, loose gravel. I did worry that we’d changed tyres to knobblies too soon, but definitely not! I would have been struggling like mad with road tyres on some of the stretches.

So we finally got to the touristy spot of Mount Nemrut. The mountains are huge and barren with surprisingly blue lakes every now and then.

Paul and I had spoken to a chap who is undoubtedly the most hardened traveller I’ve ever met. He always slept rough and hardly spent money on anything except his motorbike. He seemed to be doing okay for himself. So Paul and I thought we should try to be more adventurous about the whole thing. We tend to go from one Lonely Planet recommendation to the next. In this instance, we thought we would be wild. We reached the tiny village of Kahdrad and a young man suggested we camp in a field on the side of the road. Lack of language skills and all… we ended up camping in what is actually the parking lot for restaurant that is actually a very shabby dirty place. To cut a long story short, these guys tried to charge us for food and accommodation that cost about three times what we would pay for clean, air conditioned hotel and proper, hygienically prepared food. Fortunately, we’d discussed the possibility of this being a big load of bull already and so the bikes were packed. When the argument and stymied faces of “I don’t understand why you think I’m screwing you over” started we just gave him the maximum amount we were prepared to pay, got on the bikes and left. I don’t like this approach to dealing with arguments as I like to reach agreements. I just think in this instance, there would be no way of getting this fool to understand that for all the “welcome” in the world – we were just not idiots.

Rip off aside: pretty much all the women about are dressed in either peasant floral baggy pants or skirts with a scarf or a variation of Muslim-style outfits. When I arrived on my bike there was quite a commotion and little girls appearing out of no where to have a look at me. The curiosity continued and I was under scrutiny all of the time I was camped up in the parking lot. A woman, who I would guess is in her late twenties, called me over to go to the fields with her. The first thing we did was climb up a fig tree. I haven’t done this kind of thing for years and quickly found myself at my limit. At which point she, long skirt and all, climbed past me to the very tiny branches and plucked off figs and handed them to me. We walked through fields as she explained about the fields and I smiled at her, not understanding a thing. She then sat down to have a sneaky fag. We did manage to communicate that I was married with no kids and she is divorced. I could see that there was some heartbreak that had made her rebellious and as a result, curious about me, or rather, the life a “non-Muslim” woman has. We walked back slowly and I fell deep into thought.

I wished she could tell me about her life and I could tell her about mine. I wanted to know what it is like to be hidden from public view and if she is able to make choices about her life. I have enjoyed so much freedom and done what I want to do with my life – often to my parent’s horror. It hasn’t always been easy and my choices have at times resulted in me struggling and at times being extremely unhappy. I have also been lonely and had to face many tough battles on my own but I have had dreams and the freedom to at least try to live them. I would not swap this freedom for all the cloistering and security in the world.

East Turkey was proving to be very different from the West.

When we reached Sanliurfa, close to the Syrian border, the differences continued to become more apparent. There were very few women dressed in Western clothing and the friendly attitude of Western Turkey was all gone. We met a young Kurdish guy who I’m sure was trying to convince us of their plight but all he did with his pushy bad attitude was make me really not give a monkey’s about their cause. I normally do care about minorities but I come from a country that has a lot to be proud of and being tolerant of diversity IS possible and in the modern world essential. Finding solutions it so much more important that setting off bombs in tourist destinations. We had by a day here or there, managed to miss all three bombs that had gone off in Turkey during the three weeks we were there.

I’d also by now picked up the good old tummy bug, having just barely recovered from the cold, and was feeling very weak and feeble. Paul’s tummy was slowly getting better but had suffered from really bad headaches for a few days. We were both loosing weight and energy. I looked at Paul weakly and said, “So this is it. We are heading off into the toughest part of the trip and we are as sick as dogs. Not good babe, not good.”

12 September: Syria – Ar-Raqqa to Aleppo

We crossed the border at Akcakale and the plan was to head straight to Palmyra. The only problem was that Paul and I had not anticipated the kind of response we would have travelling on motorbikes and even more so – having a woman drive her own bike. Ironically, the border guys were brilliant, helpful and friendly but that has been the last of it. We had heard a lot of very positive feedback from people travelling through Syria but on reflection, they were all men. On the road it is unlikely that any body would realise I’m a woman and so that is fine but the moment my visor comes up, in a few minutes there is a crowd. Mostly I’ve had curiosity which is not welcome when Paul and I are merely trying to talk. However, when we arrived in Raqqa I couldn’t stop without attracting a horde of teenage boys. They blatantly harassed me and tried to grab at things on the bike, including the keys. I even had them hanging off the bike as I rode off but fortunately the 650 is a whole lot more feisty than the pestering boys. We didn’t think it was worth trying to find a hotel in these circumstances and so changed plans and went to Aleppo.

The landscape had changed to flat, dry and dusty. There were small whirlwinds flying across the horizons. I’d like to be romantic about how beautiful it is, but its just litter everywhere. The fields of black and white plastic fluttering in the wind are a pretty interesting illusion all the same. The roads were bad, as expected. The traffic was insane. We are in the world of biggest has right of way. At one point I had a massive truck about one meter off my rear wheel and I was doing the speed limit of 80km per hour. Its times like those that I have to just avoid looking back and hope the arse realises I’m not about to swerve onto gravel at that speed so that they can overtake without turning their steering wheel. Goddamit, my nerves were shot.


Aleppo is a massive city and as always, driving in a city is hell. This was the worst we’d experienced by a long measure. Manic. People drive here like complete lunatics and all in such a huge hurry that there is almost no regard for traffic lights, lanes or road signs. People hoot. They hoot because you are in the way, because they are cutting you up, they are jumping a light, they are illegally overtaking and sometimes just to wave at you. At times they are just hooting because they have a hooter. It is noisy and unbelievably stressful.

We arrived at Aleppo and whipped the good old faithful LP out. I had my helmet on with visor down, sunglasses on and daren’t remove even my gloves for fear of being discovered as a woman. Paul went off in search of a hotel. It took what felt like ages and I managed to completely ignore most gawpers until a little boy kept pulling his father back again and again to look at the bike. The father eventually came back and asked how much the bike cost? My cover was blown. I replied, “About 5000 pounds.” and offered no further conversation. So the guys in the barber shop saw I was a girl and Paul was gone so I had a mild panic. A guy came out with a chair for me. They were clearly concerned about me (I did look pretty sick). I sat very quietly and tried to avoid conversations, melting under my bike gear.

Finally Paul returned with the not so good news that he had found a dodgy place but that was the only place with rooms available and we could park in the lobby. I wanted to cry out of feeling sick, miserable and the prospect of a night of running to a shared squat loo was more that I felt capable of coping with. Fortunately I know that in these situations the correct thing to do is: chin up. We managed to get through the horrendous traffic to the flea pit and with much hassle got the bikes into the lobby we were instructed to park in. At which point some older men stuck their noses in, asked if we had papers to prove that we were married and said we shouldn’t stay there. I didn’t understand all of what was going on but it was a really bad vibe and, “You are not welcome.” doesn’t need much more explanation. So there was the huge hassle of getting the bikes out again and lots of people hanging about with big bulging eyes. I don’t intimidate easily but given my feeble state – I felt pretty intimidated.

Paul spotted a woman in Western clothing and shoved me, “Go and talk to her.” I approached her tentatively. She smiled. Yes, she spoke English and would help me find a hotel. I said we were having a pretty bad time so far at which point she pointed out that the area we were in was a prostitute zone with many Russian prostitutes working the streets. That explained the hostility (to an extent). Thanks Lonely Planet! One very important little bit of information that makes a big difference for Western women travelling. A guy wrote the guide so I guess didn’t consider what it would be like for a woman to arrive in this red light zone given these muppets can’t tell the difference between biker chick and prostitute.

I knew Paul wouldn’t argue about cost of hotels by this stage so, with help, I managed to get a room at the Baron’s Hotel for 55 US Dollars and we’d stay for a few days to get better again. This would blow our whole budget and meant cutting our time here down by half. I was delighted by that fact as I had already decided we were riding through as quickly as possible.

The Baron’s Hotel is a rather famous one and I think, so far, the only thing I like about Syria. We are in the very room that Laurence of Arabia used. I like the thought that I’m lying on the very bed he lay on, probably under the same sheets too.

And it is at the Baron’s Hotel that my girlie locks found a resting place. I took my pocket knife out and chopped my hair short enough that it barely sticks out under my helmet now. With a bit of luck and covering my nose and mouth with a mask, I should be able to at least travel safely on the bike – so long as I don’t talk!

There is a massive gulf between European and Arab here. Every now and then it is possible to find a tiny spot, probably dating back to the early colonial days in which we can escape the hustle, bustle and hooting. I don’t know if I could do this country on the cheap. Instead we will do it really fast.

Syria has now won the place of worst place we visited and Italy moves up a large notch. Actually, South Italy is now appearing to be quite civil by comparison.

It is at these times that I do my little reality check: Would I rather be here, facing mad traffic, gravel roads and the possibility of shitting myself at any moment, or would I rather be back at the desk job in London? And the answer so far is: I would still rather be here soiling my only pair of trousers than playing it safe doing a day job.